The bead of sweat making its way down his back reminds Paul that it’s his warmest autumn in California so far. His mother had called him that morning to prophesise at least 100 degrees by noon, but it already feels hotter. He’s walking toward the Chouinard building from the wrong side, having taken a detour through Westlake Park because he thought that it might ease his nerves to see a body of water. He notices the corner of Chouinard’s heavy, blockish structure looming out from way down the road, and he wonders whether the water didn’t work because it’s an artificial lake. The closer he gets to the building, the closer the building seems to get to the sidewalk, and he imagines that he can hear the sound of concrete scraping against concrete, drowning his footsteps out. The front door comes to a stop standing face to face with him, and he realises that he'd remembered wrong: the sign next to the lake had said that it was fed by natural springs. Head bowed slightly, he sees the reflection of his shoes in the glass: they’re his smarter pair, but still dirty, and the dirt is old, from winter, and is a darker colour than the sandy grit left over on the paving slabs from the dry Los Angeles summer.
There’s a strange illusion of collage, like he’s been cut out from somewhere specific and then glued without much thought into a different world.