Edward circumnavigated the little cement
wading pool, tracing the political runes left behind by the Market's
cheerful anarchist taggers, painfully bent almost double at his enormous
waist.
"What are we looking for, Alan?"
"Footprints. Finger bones. Clues."
Edward puffed back to the bench and sat down, tears streaming down his
face. "I'm so *hungry*," he said.
Alan, crawling around the torn sod left when someone had dragged one of
the picnic tables, contained his frustration. "If we can find Daniel, we
can get Frederick and George back, okay?"
"All right," Edward snuffled.
The next time Alan looked up, Edward had taken off his scuffed shoes and
grimy-gray socks, rolled up the cuffs of his tent-sized pants, and was
wading through the little pool, piggy eyes cast downward.
"Good idea," Alan called, and turned to the sandbox.
A moment later, there was a booming yelp, almost lost in the roll of
thunder, and when Alan turned about, Edward was gone.
Alan kicked off his Birks and splashed up to the hems of his shorts in
the wading pool. In the pool's center, the round fountainhead was a
twisted wreck, the concrete crumbled and the dry steel and brass
fixtures contorted and ruptured. They had long streaks of abraded skin,
torn shirt, and blood on them, leading down into the guts of the
fountain.
Cautiously, Alan leaned over, looking well down the dark tunnel that had
been scraped out of the concrete centerpiece.
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