A Nose for Adventure by Richard Scrimger

catch her just in time. “Sorry,” I say.
    “Uh-huh,” she says.
    “Caught my foot in your cuff. I’m afraid your pantsuit is going to need to go to the cleaners.”
    “Uh-huh,” she says.
    Strangely enough, I think she looks better now. More real, somehow, in her wrecked pantsuit, without her sunglasses and cell phone and with her hair all messed.
    “Imagine Veronica working with Slouchy,” I say.
    “I know. She was so helpful before the flight, with the chair and all. It makes me mad.”
    –
Aren’t you done playing with that, yet?
says Norbert.
Put it down, Sally It stinks
.
    I look over. Sally is carrying the piece of brown wrapping paper in her mouth. I reach down, awkwardly, take the paper away from the dog, and stick it in my pocket. An automatic gesture.
    We keep walking. I never realized laneways were so long. I can see the street up ahead, but it’s not moving closer.
    We’re approaching an intersection – another laneway cuts across ours. Frieda tightens her grip on my shoulder. “How’re you doing?” I ask her. Norbert answers.
    –
Fine, thanks. I’m having a little trouble keeping up to you guys. I think I’ll put in a phone call to the Olympic committee. See if there’s an opening for the fifty-foot hobble
.
    “How about you?” I ask Frieda.
    “Fine,” she says in a little voice. “Thirsty, maybe.”
    “Boy, do I wish you hadn’t said that,” I say.
    “You too, huh?”
    “Well,” I say, “I’m not unthirsty.”
    “You’re getting the hang of this,” she says. “Not bad for you.”
    Sally stops dead. Her big bat ears are perked forward.
    “What’s that noise?” asks Frieda. Wheels rolling unevenly towards us, with a squeak every second or two. One of the axles needs some oil. Sally dashes ahead to the intersection, then comes trotting back to report.
    –
A wagon full of junky
says Norbert.
    The sound of the wheels gets louder. We wait. Around the corner of the laneway comes a teenager, pulling a wagon. He’s a bit bigger and older than I am. He has baggy pants like the kids uptown, but his pants are ripped and there’s no sportswear logo anywhere. His sunglasses wrap around his head. His cap is flat and square with no brim, like an upside-down sandwich container, only it’s not made of plastic. His T-shirt has lightning bolts on it. He’s smiling.
    “How you doing?” he says.
    “Fine,” I say. I recognize the voice. “You were here a while ago. We were in the truck.”
    “Shew-ah,” he says. He doesn’t mention Slouchy warning him off.
    I introduce us. “And Sally,” I say, pointing at the dog.
    He tells us his name: Boyd. He doesn’t say if it is his first name or last name. He nods to each of us, including Sally. Acts completely unsurprised to see us.
    “Hi, Boyd,” I say.
    “Hi, Bird,” says Frieda.
    Bird, not Boyd. He just pronounces it
Boyd
. I blush.
    –
Hi
, says Norbert.
    Bird doesn’t blink. He nods. “Talkin’ dog,” he says.
    “Nice wagon,” I say.
    “Shew-ah,” he says. “Found it round a corner from here. like I found my shoes.” He’s wearing a pair of nearly new trainers. He gazes off into the distance as he talks, like he sees things that aren’t there.
    “Um, Bird,” I say. “We need your help. Frieda can’t walk. She used to have a wheelchair, but she lost it.”
    He looks at her. “Red-haired guy with the truck?” he asks. She nods.
    –
And the cologne
, says Norbert.
Don’t forget the cologne
Bird smiles. “Funny talkin’ dog,” he says.
    “Could Frieda ride in your wagon?” I say. “Not for very long. Just until …” and then I stop. I was going to say, “Until we get a cab.” But I realize we don’t have enough money for a cab. We don’t have enough money for a phone call. We have just about enough for a drink of water at a fountain. Of course, there’s no fountain around here. I swallow. “Not for long,” I say.
    Bird shoves some small metal pieces – of what: engine? radio? skateboard? –