“I was probably still in Orlando,” she told me, “but my impression is no one’s lived here for a long, long time.”

“It was only a few months ago.”

She frowned and reached for a promotional brochure, and pointed out the Historical Overview paragraph. It talked about the Tocobaga and the Calusa. There was an illustration of Native Americans sitting cross-legged on a beach, seagulls alighting on their fingertips.

2.

I drove out from the Ravine in concentric circles, trying to spot Zeke’s leather jacket, but couldn’t find traces of the camps. Soon I was on the southernmost edge. Was this even Retreat anymore? About to turn back, I suddenly saw a boy cut across the road on a BMX. It was painted black, Zeke’s handiwork.

The boy stood on the pedals, T-shirt billowing. When he made a turn, I followed. He cast a glance over his shoulder. I tried not to get too close, but didn’t want him zipping out of sight. He stole another look at me and pedaled faster, wrenching the frame side to side.

After a couple minutes, he looked back one last time then veered off the road and sped across a swampy field. I braked and watched black mud flicking off his back wheel. He was making for the trees, and that’s when I saw a dim blue spot in the brush.

The men heard me coming. I’d set the tape recorder running in my bag and, later, listened to the loud squishing as I struggled to cross the muddy field to the tents. When I finally pushed through the trees, mud splashed across my shins, I found the boy sitting with two older men around a grimy Igloo cooler. Jars of piss stood by a tree, blackflies zooming through the air. One landed on the back of my neck and chomped. If I’d been told, months ago, that the living conditions of the south-siders would worsen, I wouldn’t have believed it.

They were two middle-aged men, the boy maybe sixteen, all fly-eaten, exhausted. The larger man wouldn’t even look at me. He held a bag of hot dog buns and just kept chewing.

The other guy, in a sweat-stained Gators cap, said, “You followed him?”

I said yes, and introduced myself as a journalist from the Bystander.

“You from Miami?” asked the Gators man.

“No, New York.”

The big one snorted.

“I’m sorry if I alarmed you,” I said, “but I have some questions that I think you can answer.”

I asked if they used to live in the camps north of here, near where the Glades now stood.

“I’ve lived in the south side my whole life, miss.”

“I’m looking for someone who used to live there,” I said. “His name’s Zeke. I think he sold you that bike, do you remember? He used to wear all leather, then one day he got taken away in one of the purple trucks.”

The big guy shook his head slowly.