But then it left the French Quarter behind and the streets slowly became wider and more desolate. Soon they were passing boarded-up shops and whole blocks that seemed abandoned. Maggie leaned forward to speak to the cab driver, an African-American whose hair was tipped with grey. ‘Where are we going?’ ‘Just where you told me to go.’ ‘Is it far?’ ‘’Bout ten minutes. Maybe less. You don’t want to go?’ ‘No, I want to go. I just thought it was closer, that’s all.’ ‘Not many tourists come round here. I’m taking you the scenic route. This is the Ninth Ward.’ ‘I see.’ Everyone in America knew of the Lower Ninth Ward of New Orleans, the part of the city where Katrina had packed her hardest punch. Maggie had seen the footage on the news a hundred times, but still it was a shock to see a house that had clearly been swept clean off its pilings wedged against a tree some three yards away. It was a shock to see it was still there – and that so much of the area looked as if the hurricane had just struck.
