In his research, he had learned that the Andean ancestors had erected pillars on the mountain peaks and hills to create a huge sun clock. They had laid out their whole built environment to mirror their map of the cosmos. Each time the sun aligned with one of the pillars, the ancient animals knew it was time to plant or harvest, sacrifice or dance. They embedded symbols of the astral plane into their buildings. Midway across the bridge, he turned to look back to Manhattan. The skyline was dotted with gargoyles, cupolas, signs, water towers, and sheer cliffs of glass. The setting sun turned everything gold and shadowy.

Strolling reminded Alfonzo of how much school had taken from him, how much work had been done at the expense of living life.

The water moved beneath. He looked down, then onward to Dumbo. He threaded his way into Brooklyn Heights. The streetlights were on, illuminating parents and their young meandering toward dinner. He passed a horse carrying both her work bag and her foal’s fish-shaped backpack. The child clipped along, chattering joyfully.

Alfonzo passed finally into what he considered the boundaries of his own neighborhood of Gowanus. Like most of Brooklyn, it was mutating, or experiencing a kind of trauma. Every week an old store closed and a more expensive version replaced it. A popular no-frills Siamese cat restaurant had disappeared, and in its place came a fine-dining street-food spot with dim lights and rope-decorated walls. Across the street, an old-fashioned grooming parlor called You Have Nails had been supplanted by a barber shop run by rugged bandana-wearing dogs. It was a process of repetition and replacement with difference, where the main difference was always price.

Animals who’d been forced out of their dens in other neighborhoods came to a new area. The locals grumbled, and the arrivistes felt wounded. They’d only moved out to Brooklyn because they could no longer afford Manhattan. Furious creatures organized meetings. Aggrieved animals wrote op-eds and occasionally attacked one another. The mayor said the lack of affordable apartments was actually a good thing. Residents without millions asked, “But where the hell are we supposed to dwell?”

The song played on repeat. Samples found their way into joints that played on Hot 97. These songs were sung in every language of New York. The din was so constant it felt redundant to mention it. Or rather, everyone discussed these issues so constantly that outrage and criticism became just an undertone of the general hum. The whole city danced to the sounds of disappearing habitat.