Once there, Striker turned onto Penzance Drive and drove down the steep decline until the gravel road became dirt and river mud. The lower road fronted the Burrard Inlet, where gusts of mill steam clouded the view of Mount Seymour Provincial Park. Felicia pointed to a row of smokestacks and enormous conveyor belts in the distance. Each one stood six or seven storeys high, and spewed out a flow of whiteness. ‘Is that the pulp mill?’ she asked. Striker nodded. He pointed to one smokestack that stood separate from the rest. It was thicker, higher, enormous. ‘That’s where we’re going – the incinerator . . . I think that’s where Sleeves and this Chipotle guy he was talking about did all their so-called burning for Harry and Koda.’ ‘But burning what?’ Striker smiled. ‘That’s the twenty-four-thousand-dollar question, ain’t it?’ Up ahead was a tall billboard sign: Montreaux Waste-to-Energy Station.
