The stream burbles like a newborn. I pick my steps quickly but carefully over the softly draining floodwater. I don't really need to look "respectable", but why ruin Ultimate 81s? Feeling the path is only slowing me down, I run through the trees in an effort to buy a few more seconds. I feel a sigh through my hair. I am splashed with the odiferous warmth of summer.
At the apex of the hill I move swiftly between Grecian columns into a wide open courtyard. Stopping to gather my breath, I venture a 360 around my new environment. Rolls of green are punctuated by blotches of orange tile and pink stone. Majesties of stone and marble intersperse with those of wood and leaf all the way down the hill into the bay. I chuckle to myself. The Glade on the Grade. I propel myself out of the yard and pass a verdant field, incandescent with the collective exuberance of rich minds.
Almost there. With only a few yards left, I make a dash through what must be the last bit of genuine swampland west of the Bayou. As my socks soak up the warm liquid that is pooling around my feet, it feels as if they're also absorbing my dignity. The wet stain now coagulating on the spongey surface of my Onitsuka Tigers looks up at me accusingly.
Reviving what is left of my mortified pride, I swing open the door to the stone building closest to me. Accompanied by a friendly squelch, I wade through the hallway and into the room. Without making eye contact with anyone, I slam a stapled stack of paper onto a round desk.
I walk slowly down the steps that lead up to McCone and the whole world is laid out in front of me. My work is done. I take a step toward the path but stop. I look out past the streets laced with buildings and cars and onto the bay, which ripples in the May zephyr. A breeze plays around my already wet feet.
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