Spadina Station

Asian male, 40s, with short black hair, wearing pink polo shirt, baggy blue jeans, and baby blue Crocs.

Angels & Demons, Dan Brown (Pocket Books)

Page 193:

At first glance the room appeared to be a darkened airline hangar in which someone had built a dozen free-standing racquetball courts. Langdon knew of course what the glass-walled enclosures were. He was not surprised to see them; humidity and heat eroded ancient vellums and parchments, and proper preservation required hermetic vaults like these-airtight cubicles that kept out humidity and natural acids in the air. Langdon had been inside hermetic vaults many times, but it was always an unsettling experience . . . something about entering an airtight container where the oxygen was regulated by a reference librarian. 

In school, his roommate’s girlfriend sat him in the kitchen and took his hands, palms up, in hers. She asked him to close his eyes and focus on the moment of his death. When he opened his eyes, she confirmed the worst. Not because drowning would be a bad way to go, but because it was done. He would die. And that was that.

Rose-coloured

(Originally published October 31, 2007)

Starbucks, Spadina and Richmond

Caucasian male, early 40s, settled deep into an easy chair, legs crossed wide, staking his claim in the early morning rush of bar drinks and lingering line-ups.

The Communist’s Daughter, Dennis Bock (HarperCollins)

About page 177:

We found room in a railcar loaded with an irreplaceable cargo of government-issue rice, perhaps four hundred bags in all, stacked right to the ceiling. Approximately three hours into our journey, however, in the middle of the night, I was awakened by an all-encompassing silence. We were no longer moving.

He’s a young boy, about ten, moving his tray along the rails, considering the desserts. J-ello, red and green, in a glass sundae dish, topped with a hardening dollop of piped whipped cream. Milk chocolate pudding in a glass dish, topped, again, with a hardening dollop of piped whipped cream. A glass bowl of creamy rice pudding with raisins. Something layered and spongy, kind of creamy with a dusting of chocolate slivers. He lifts it and smells. Strong. Alcohol. The clock strikes the hour and he turns to scan the dark wood panel wall. The bird slides in and out, followed by the lederhosen couple chasing each other through the shell, two times. He looks toward the long hall leading to the women’s washroom, back to his table and his grandmother’s beige purse, tan overcoat. She has trouble swallowing and she’s been gone a long time.

Bloor Line, eastbound, concealing the cover

Caucasian woman, mid 50s, with trim grey hair, wearing black-rimmed glasses, grey shirt, black slacks, and sensible shoes.

Straight into Darkness, Faye Kellerman (Vision)

Page 199:

Ten beds on each side, all of them were occupied. Above the headboards hung wooden crucifixes; nuns in black habits and nurses in starched white uniforms scurried about—a life-size chessboard. As the grogginess lifted from his brain, he became aware of sounds . . . moans . . . groans . . . the soft sighs of weeping. Whispers crackled through the air like radio static.

She doesn’t wish he was dead, but when she bumps into him in the street it’s hard to accept that he still walks among the earth. She thought he was gone. And he stands in front of her, waves without speaking, as if he, too, can’t bring himself to say hello, that the sight of his mouth forming salutation would look, from a distance, as if he’s attempting to converse with an empty void. Such is the first encounter between ex lovers.

University Line, headphones on, head down

Caucasian male, mid 20s, with short brown hair, goatee, and glasses, wearing red T-shirt, black nylon pants, and white sneakers, his wheelchair snug inside the doors.

Halo Contact Harvest, Joseph Staten (Tor Books)

Page 62:

His figure on the screen has started out a little boy. For a while it had changed into a bear. Now it was a large mouse, with long and delicate hands. He ran his figure under a lot of large items of furniture depicted on the screen. He had played with the cat a lot, but now it was boring—too easy to dodge, he knew all the furniture.

Not through the mouse hole this time, he told himself. I’m sick of the Giant. It’s a dumb game and I can’t ever win. Whatever I choose is wrong.

Patches of fresh gravel have been laid on the road, yellow signs warning of low wires and pebble spray. He’s driven these bends most of his life it seems. You’d think he’d know by now he won’t get reception. He fiddles the dial and the opening strains of The Hip’s “Blowin’ High Dough” break through as his wheel catches the shoulder’s edge. He sees it coming. He knows this dip.