Tweaked by Katherine Holubitsky Page A

beginning to drizzle. I set the windshield wipers on intermittent. The headlights of oncoming cars dart off the shimmery surface as we cross the bridge. It’s dark and gloomy outside, but the mood inside the car is even gloomier as Jack and I discuss how to track down Chase.
    â€œWhere are we going?” asks Jack.
    There is no point in going back to Burnaby. Chase won’t return to that drug house for some time, not now that I know where it is. “Downtown.”
    â€œAt this time of night? You’re crazy. I’ll tell you right now these doors are staying locked. And I’m not getting out of this car either. Which means I’m not coming to look for you if—I mean
when
you get rolled.”
    â€œYou don’t have to get out. I just want to drive around. Maybe we’ll spot him.”
    â€œJust walking down the street?”
    â€œLook, have you got any better ideas? I don’t know what else to do.”
    The rain is no deterrent to the number of bums, junkies and hustlers hanging around the rundown hotels and barred pawnshops along East Hastings. Women and girls, some probably not even as old as us, stroll next to the curb. Life on the street has been brutal, leaving them with missing teeth and skin covered in sores. When we stop at the intersection along Hastings near Main, one of them knocks on the window.
    Jack squirms in his seat. “This is really creeping me out. Let’s face it, you’re not going to find him like this. Come on, Gordie, let’s get out of here.”
    â€œIgnore her. Just keep your eyes open for Chase.” The light turns and I continue driving while scanning the people on either side of the street.
    â€œWhat are you going to do if you see him? He’ll recognize the car. He’ll take off before you have a chance to pull over.”
    I know this. I also know how useless it is to search for him this way. I just don’t know what else to do. “I don’t know. I just know I can’t go home without him. It will kill them and they’ll hate me.”
    â€œHate you? You were trying to help. If you don’t mind my saying, this whole thing doesn’t make any sense.”
    â€œNothing makes sense in my house anymore, but that’s what will happen.”
    We are stopped at another traffic light. In the doorway of a boarded-up building an addict is shooting up. He fumbles with his sleeve, but he can’t get it up fast enough. Finally he hits his mark and the drug rushes through him. As he leans back against the building, the needle slips from his hand to the sidewalk. “God, what a life,” mumbles Jack.
    The light turns and we have just started moving again when I am sure I see him, standing on the corner with two other guys. “There he is!” I hit the brakes and swerve sharply to the curb.
    Jack looks back to where I’m pointing, to the three guys standing together, hands stuffed in their pockets, hair dripping, no jackets. Their shirts are soaked through and clinging to their chests. “Where? I don’t see him.”
    â€œHe’s behind the guy with his back facing us. He’s in the shadows—the skinny guy with the dark T-shirt.”
    â€œIt’s not him.”
    At that moment, the guy with his back to us turns to shout at someone on the other side of the street.
    â€œSee?” says Jack.
    He’s right. The one in the shadows isn’t Chase.But the guy who is shouting comes closer to our car. He seems to be saying something to us. I get Jack to roll down the window to hear what he’s saying, maybe he knows something that could help us find Chase. But before either of us has a chance to react, his head is suddenly inside the car; his oversized pupils peer wildly out of a waxy ghoulish face.
    It takes Jack a few seconds to find the words, but when he does he sounds as disgusted as he does terrified. “Get out of here!”
    The guy begins fumbling with the