Harbord Street seemed to have turned into a loop. It used to be a straight line, I swear. I walked around and around it about three times before I figured out what must have happened to it. I took an alleyway. At the end of it was a small side street, the usual Toronto street with tall trees on either side, and those old houses with the big front porches. It looked normal, if you ignored the downed power lines and the occasional broken window. A little boy was on his tippy toes on the sidewalk outside his house. He was about five years old. He was reaching into the mailbox. He was probably Japanese, wearing a striped navy and white baseball cap with jeans and a green T-shirt. He pulled out a wad of mail and yelled, “Ba-chan!” He held the mail out to show it to an old lady who was sitting on the front porch of the house. Her hair was pulled up into a bun. She and the little boy looked alike; same shape to the head, same mouth. Maybe she was his grandma. The little boy thumped up the short set of stairs to the house.
