The humid air stung his eyes. He hated how the steaminess assaulted his throat and made it hard to breathe. He rarely walked, but Dr. Ford said his body needed the exercise if he wanted to get better. The backside of the park was a good place to begin. No one needed to see him huff and puff and sweat like an old steam engine. That’s why he kept inside the woodsy area. Plus, it was cooler here.
He was resting against the backside of a tree after urinating in the bushes there when two little darlings wearing short skirts caught his eye. He watched unseen as they passed within arm’s reach, giggling the way girls their age often do. He let them get several yards past him before he followed. Despite his poor condition, he was able to keep up with the little darlings—they weren’t hurrying.
On the other side of the grove, he kept his distance and pretended to stare down at the sidewalk along Seneca Street. No need making eye contact with anyone passing by. Traffic was sparse, even on Maple Drive where the girls entered Rockwood Terrace, and then an expensive looking tan and white ranch house.
1249, he read from the front door. Above it hung a wooden sign from the portico. The Garrs. He passed by the long house built low to the ground and its three car garage attached to the left. More houses like it lined the circular street active with children playing.
He turned around and retraced his steps back to the park and his car. He sat behind the wheel and decided to visit the Garrs soon … very soon.