Chapter 47

"Darwinism is a lie." I stomped my foot in lieu of throwing someone.

Hey, humanity. A piece of free advice: when there was a thirty-something dudebro with black shadows slithering over his skin, how about not lining up to take selfies with him? This gene pool needed some damn lifeguards.

He stood in the middle of Robson Square, a multi-level, pedestrian-only area a few blocks away from House Pacifica that backed onto the Vancouver Art Gallery, or as we locals called it, the VAG.

Hard "g."

It featured a tiny ice rink that turned into an outdoor dance venue in summertime and was a busy hub of activity during Jazz Fest, special events like when we'd hosted the Olympics, or today when the gawkers were out in full force. Didn't these people have jobs?