This is the second installment, even though you can read it on its own. Below is the first installment.
As a reminder, Florence is a boy, not a girl.
The crack-head and Florence walked side-by-side through the residential neighborhood.
The crack-head had his head on swivel, seemingly searching for something.
“Are you scared?” Florence said.
The crack-head took note of everything around him—the old, redone, quaint houses, the bright colored apartments on the corners. Kids came in and out of the homes, by themselves—jump ropes, hula hoops, scooters, skateboards, and assorted balls in hand. The area was crammed with children, apparently none of teen age. Not a single car on the streets, presumably because nobody drove. Where bus stops would have been in the real world, there were canopies to help with the shade, not that the streets lacked trees to produce it.
This place was meant for kids.
When they left the adoption center earlier, the crack-head noticed bikes lying everywhere out front, as if they had fallen from the sky. There weren’t fast-food joints, or strip malls to be found. Not a bunch of advertisements. No drug dealers on corners, no homeless begging. It seemed like a playground on steroids, partitioned by homes and a few small hills.