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when he had the tools to fix the flitter. He wanted to leave the engine compartment open, but he couldn’t. He felt as if he was leaving a job undone. After he closed the compartment, he put the cushions back in place, sliding the toolkit and the emergency flashlight in their place under the front passenger seat.
    He slipped Grandpa’s shotgun into his small bag of personal items and extra clothes and pulled the GPS from the flitter console. He’d need the GPS to find his uncle’s place. He struggled with himself to not slam the door closed in irritation, but he knew the machine wasn’t at fault. He coded the locks on the flitter door and began walking, following the GPS directions.
    The day was pleasant and clear. He slipped his arms through the straps on his bag, eased it around to his back, and shifted it a couple of times until the shotgun stopped poking him in the ribs. He smiled without humor and picked up the pace. Thinking that the day was tailor-made for a long walk, he decided it would be nice to bump into the Lamonts right about now. Meeting them would burn off more energy than any ambling stroll.
    He whistled tunelessly in time with his swinging arms. Grandpa always told him to ‘cut it out’ when he started whistling. He almost looked around, but realized Grandpa wouldn’t be there. He whistled louder and walked on, occasionally glancing at the GPS to ensure he was moving in the right direction.
    He was amazed at his speed as he was moving at a little over eight kilometers per hour. Of course, back home he would have been going round rocks, over ravines, uphill and down, and generally struggling to keep to a straight course. A quick mental time-calculation told him he should be at the address by mid-afternoon.
    “3:15,” he said with a laugh, estimating his arrival time, if he didn’t delay along the way or slow down much. He punched the ETA query button on the GPS. It read 4:34. “Ha! We’ll see about that.” He picked up his pace a bit more.
    The industrial area gave way to row after row of rundown houses, neglected cottages, and dilapidated shacks. The nice concrete sidewalk abruptly ended, followed by cracked rock paths with huge gaps of dirt. Tasso liked the dirt gaps. Something about walking on good dirt felt more right than smooth, clean concrete.
    Everyone he saw on the street watched him, but no one smiled or waved. No one questioned his right to be where he was or where he was going. Many of the people were sitting or lounging in front of their houses. Tasso couldn’t imagine why they were just sitting when there was still enough light to work. Most of the homes had small patches of dirt requiring maintenance. He wanted to shout at them to get busy, go get a job, or plant a garden in the dirt instead of sitting on it. He held his tongue and walked on. Grandpa always said his place was to tell Tasso what to do, Tasso’s job wasn’t to tell anyone else what to do.
    A couple of boys his age interrupted his hike and his grief-laden thoughts about his grandfather. They were standing arm-in-arm, completely blocking the path. He nodded politely and started to walk around them, but they moved in a practiced slide-step sideways that continued to block his way. The two boys grinned at him, but said nothing. The boy on the right held out his hand, palm up.
    Tasso decided he didn’t like town any more than he liked Lamont’s Landing Day celebration. Someone damaging his flitter made him angry. His conversation with Dougall Lamont made him angrier. His meeting with the Lamont parents made him even angrier. Security chasing him out of the processing plant when he hadn’t done anything wrong made him ready to chew screws.
    “What?” He spat at the two.
    The boy on the right said, “Well, look at the upcountry tuechter .”
    Tasso figured the boy was Bog-Irish. He didn’t know what a Bog-Irish was, but Grandpa always said they were more trouble than they were worth. He also didn’t know what a