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Rob

Rob walks Albie Street, his shoes clattering softly together.

“They call those crack tennies,” says Maya.

“Who calls anything ‘tennies?'” says Rob.

“You know what I mean,” says Maya. “I used to try and pull them down.”

“They’re boundary markers. Wards. Protection.”

“Do you think I need protection?” He doesn’t say anything; she tilts her head.

They turn down Twenty-Ninth. Rob leans back and sends the next pair whirling upward, where it catches by the laces on the catenary line.

“So,” she says, “do you carve magic runes on the soles or something?”

“I just use a Sharpie,” he says.

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