We'll figure it out. We're spookily
good at it."
"Spookily?"
"Trying to be more poetic." He grinned and twisted the fuzzy split ends
of his newly blue mohawk around his fingers. "Got a new girlfriend, she
says there's not enough poetry in my views on garbage."
#
They found one of Davey's old nests in March, on a day when you could
almost believe that the spring would really come and the winter would go
and the days would lengthen out to more than a few hours of sour
greyness huddled around noon. The reference design for the access point
had gone through four more iterations, and if you knew where to look in
the Market's second-story apartments, rooftops, and lampposts, you could
trace the evolution of the design from the clunky PC-shaped boxen in
Alan's attic on Wales Avenue to the environment-hardened milspec surplus
boxes that Kurt had rigged from old circuit boxes he'd found in Bell
Canada's Willowdale switching station dumpster.
Alan steadied the ladder while Kurt tightened the wing nuts on the
antenna mounting atop the synagogue's roof. It had taken three meetings
with the old rabbi before Alan hit on the idea of going to the temple's
youth caucus and getting *them* to explain it to the old cleric. The
synagogue was one of the oldest buildings in the Market, a
brick-and-stone beauty from 1930.
They'd worried about the fight they'd have over drilling through the
roof to punch down a wire, but they needn't have: The wood up there was
soft as cottage cheese, and showed gaps wide enough to slip the power
cable down.
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