It’s a wide flat street with wide flat buildings separated by acres of lawn. There’s no church or anything that looks the least bit like a church. ‘End of the ride, lady,’ the driver says. Dodie pays him, fumbling with the unfamiliar dollar bills. ‘Have a good day.’ It’s mid-afternoon. He screeches his car into a three-point turn and swerves away. The sun is warm with an autumnal edge. Fall, she thinks, a fall edge – but that doesn’t sound right. Sounds dangerous. Some things just don’t translate. Once the engine noise has evaporated, there’s silence. A black squirrel scrambles up the fence and leaps onto the branch of a tree. Blazing maple leaves. The gate is made of the same toughened wire mesh as the fence. On the gatepost the small mask logo with SOUL-LIFE in its mouth. OK. That’s something. No handle on the gate, no way of opening it, but there’s a button with a speaker. She presses and waits. Nothing. No one comes. No one passes in the street. The other buildings all look flat and closed and far away.
