The rain sluices down Hennepin Avenue and the bus to Utopia is nowhere in sight. On the other end of that bus line, a crescent-shaped harbor looks out upon a blue sea, all the layers of color from sand-filtered emerald in the shallows to aquamarine out from shore, to the ultramarine depths and the indigo abysses at the horizon. Ships sail into that harbor from the twelve points of the Compass Rose, archaic ships with billowing white sails and high poopdecks surmounted by castles, the ships of the time of Elizabeth and of Shakespeare, the ships of the Spanish Main.
Two teenaged boys listen to rap on their headphones, nodding along to the tinny words that Vera can hear from six feet away, their baggy pants damp with the rain. The Number Six arrives and they pick up the folds of denim like nineteenth-century skirts and run for it, splashing through the puddles.
Human beings will invent costumes that hobble and trip them.