WEDNESDAY

Everything in Dunbridge was dead by October. The backyard gardens that had scaled old mop handles and broken hockey sticks throughout the summer, spreading up and out in a green lurch for the sky, now fell back in a withered heap. Leaves left a print of themselves on the sidewalk, looking trapped under ice. Colours everywhere were fading, as if the whole town were painted onto cement.

About a week before winter really hit, a woman walked her dog through a grey morning to the park at the end of her street. Her dog, a German shepherd with a puckered scar over its right hind leg, moved forward with its tongue out, looking like it didn’t expect ever to return to the warm house and the warm blanket it had just left. Damp leaves brushed against its side, and it cheered up a little, thinking it was about to be let free to pursue the smells invading its nose — not as vividly as they used to, but still strong enough to start its tail wagging in anticipation. The woman stopped at the park entrance and tightened her grip on the leash. The air was cold and sharp; she would go no further. “Just go, sweetie,” she said. “It’s freezing; mummy’s cold.” The jacket she was wearing wouldn’t close around her chest. It was her son’s — she hadn’t yet dug her own out from the basement. She looked at the trees and tried not to think about cigarettes.

“Come on, Diamond, just fucking go.”

The time of parks was nearly up — there hadn’t been any kids in this one since school started. For weeks she’d seen only other dog owners; they would stamp impatiently and look around as if worried about snipers. Locks were appearing on the doors of the public washrooms. All of a sudden no one believed in summer anymore.

A man appeared without a dog on the arched bridge spanning the creek. He wore a heavy, blue parka with the hood up and was walking fast, sending billows of agitated white breath ahead of him. The woman stepped back and pulled Diamond — who was already going into a squat — between herself and the man. He was wearing wool mittens like a little boy. He stopped when he saw her, then turned around and went quickly back over the bridge and across to the far side of the park. Wind came through after him and got under the woman’s jacket. By the time they got home she’d already decided Diamond was going to have to make do with the backyard from now on.

“Watch the park,” she told her son later, “there’s some freaks hanging around in there.”

“Oh yeah?” her son asked.

“Some big retarded guy.”

“Oh,” he said, disappointed.

The man in the parka sat and rested on a bench covered over in brown leaves, feeling their dampness coming through the seat of his pants. He’d walked nearly the entire length of Dunbridge that morning, tramping through every cold park like Jack Frost in mittens. Now he was feeling hungry, the side of his face was throbbing, and he still had to get ready for work in a few hours. He decided to give himself exactly two more minutes of rest before starting again, and even checked his broad-faced watch to mark the time. Squirrels ran up and sniffed at the shrunken-head apples on the ground all around him. He took off one mitt and got to work on the inside of his nose. More wind came through, bringing the last of the leaves down. The park was naked and waiting. Though it looked like it could, Ken decided it wasn’t going to snow that day.