Doctor’s office, masked and waiting.

Caucasian woman, mid 30s, with shoulder length blond hair, wearing blue T-shirt, khaki capris, and leather sandals. She coughs nonstop, mask tied, hands free.

The Final Detail, Harlan Coben (Island Books)

Page 77:

Again she didn’t answer. No need. Myron tried to put on his attorney skin for a moment. Clu’s having an affair was a very good thing for Esperanza’s defense. The more motives you can find, the more reasonable doubt you can create. Did the girlfriend kill him because he still wanted to be with his wife? Did Bonnie do it out of jealousy? And then there was the missing money. Wouldn’t the girlfriend and/or Bonnie have known about it? Couldn’t that be an added motive for murder? Yep, Hester Crimstein would like this. Throw enough possibilities into a trial, muddy the waters enough, and an acquittal is almost inevitable. It was a simple equation: Confusion equals reasonable doubt equals a not-guilty verdict.

The story was never told firsthand, just an urban family tale come to light every few years when she and her mother drove out of town to pick raspberries. This stretch of road always freaks me out, she’d say. It was paved now, but some twenty years ago it would have been soft gravel, her grandmother a new driver like many women who only learned after their husbands left or died. It would have been dark, real dark, and if it was customary to hit at least one deer in a lifetime, why should a man be any different?

Bloor Line, en route to High Park

Caucasian male, late 30s, with short brown hair, wearing glasses, blue and pink striped shirt, jeans, and white sneakers, carrying a folded over black plastic bag under his arm.

No One Belongs Here More Than You, Miranda July (Scribner)

Page 91:

I imagined them out there doing virtuous things, solving crimes and teaching their children how to do cartwheels. It was the last hour of my eight-hour shift, and I have not given a single show. It was almost eerie. I watched the clock and door and began to place bets between them. If no customers came for me in the next fifteen minutes, I would yell Allen’s name.

Fifteen minutes passed.

Allen!

What.

Nothing.

The Health Hustle. A line of young boys doing somersaults along a blue runway pad. One after the other, crouching and tucking. Standing, and crouching, and tucking. That’s how he was graded in Phys. Ed, the ability to scale a rope to the top knot, or hold a chin up for a minute an indication of his well-rounded potential. Watching the girls lunge towards the pummel horse, which of us, he might have wondered, will sprout the first pit hair, get into the other change room, or deal the sting of a dodge ball against those tender thighs?

Spadina streetcar, eating dried mango

Caucasian woman, mid 20s, with brown hair loosely pulled into a breezy ponytail, wearing jade earrings, pink racer back tank top, black yoga capris, thick wool socks, hiking shoes, and nose ring.

The Gabriel Hounds, Mary Stewart (HarperTorch)

Page 68:

The bed was made up of Irish linen, yellowish and not very well ironed, and the red honeycomb quilt covered what looked like the hardest and healthiest mattress in the world.

When she came to a homeless man was standing over her, the offer of a loonie extended from his dirty fingers. She’d fallen from her bike; a bad fall. The damn tracks grabbed her tire. Gonna have monsters in the bones for a good long time. But you take this, he said, letting the coin drop awkwardly on to her chest. The coffee shop will let you stay for an hour if you buy a cup.

(Originally published March 28, 2007.)

Bloor Line; jacket shed, draped across her lap.

Caucasian woman, early 40s, wearing grey dress pants, black sweater, and purple headband.

A Short History of Tractors in Ukrainian, Marina Lewycka (Penguin)

Page 113:

Valentina relents. They will go to a different doctor instead. Valentina and Mrs. Zadchuk bundle my father into Crap car. They are in such a hurry to get to the surgery before he changes his mind that his coat is buttoned up out of kilter and his shoes are on the wrong feet.

Her mother was always good about picking us up. From the movies, a school dance, a Halloween party. We typically waited a block from where we’d started, looking down the street for one headlight, followed by the sound of a knocking muffler. Her approach was slow enough that she didn’t need to stop, we could have stepped in without missing a beat. But stop she did, and hard, the tires farting a sharp squeak. We held our laughter and got in back. The station wagon smelled sticky and stale. We lurched forward, rumbling home fifteen clicks below the speed limit. We cracked the window and held our noses to the night air, sending out a collective moan as we approached a stop light. It was green. We stopped. Cars piled up behind us and the honking began. We rolled up the window and sank down making more contact with the seats than we’d like. It was a green light and we were stopped. Because she knew it had to turn red sometime.