The Out of PlaceBy Brett Rex Bruton
Now
I SIT against the wall in the shade of a mulberry tree and watch the red glove lying in the intersection of Drew and Milner streets. It’s just past midday and the sun is hanging hot in a cloudless sky. Ripples of heat rise off the tarmac, causing the small spot of colour to waver. I crawl forward on my hands and knees and touch the warm street warily with my fingertips, then place my ear against the concrete curb. Beneath the sounds of distant traffic lies a hungry silence.
I shade my eyes and check the position of the sun, then move back to the welcome pool of shade. A Clive Cussler novel, worn, torn and stained, sits on top of my equally weathered kitbag. I scoop it up as I settle back into a crook of the garden wall. There’s a diving bi-plane o
