When they met at the culvert the next day, Sofia was dressed in black again. Her fingernails were also painted black. She led him south, down a gently curving street of assertive mansions, her black boots gliding over the sidewalk with steps that felt like flowing water to Nathan. Sofia was carrying a new map covered with topographical lines, and she studied it as they turned west and passed a buffet of overdone tributes to assorted architectural styles:________.
A mini Monticello here, a bloated Tudor cottage* there.
"This street follows the old streambed," Sofia said.
"The city buried it, like, a hundred years ago.
But the water’s still flowing down there. In a big drainpipe."