At first there is just the white line, like a boundary at the edge of office buildings or the city zoo. The lines down the Ben Franklin Parkway change weekly, daily. Walter wakes up, bent over, on all fours. When at work, it is a dream, and I don't know where I am, or where I have been, but there is paint all over his hands and they are white. The line comes from around a corner, and the boys follow it until they find him.
Someone carries a can.
Look for someplace to hide, stand behind the cart, rummage through for something to throw. Newspaper clippings flutter in the air. They don't go far. They are on top of you. Grab one of the torches.