I quickly see that asking you for directions is the wrong choice. It is raining and I am late and you turn your body as you turn the map in your hands. You tell me I’m not far. Your beagle has the look of an impatient child, sniffing, barking, pecking at my feet. Something about Golders Hill Park makes you happy. You say the words over and over, using you teeth to smile, as though the path I need to take will become clearer with each mention. I ask about gold. You flick your wrist from me to the path.
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