A few blocks from the Glades, I came upon another, even larger expanse being upturned by backhoes, the red clay exposed. A massive sign said COMING SOON: BOUGAINVILLEA RAVINE. A similar sign for the Glades had been just a board on stilts, but this one came with bougainvillea shrubs planted around an ornamental pond, the whole apparatus plugged into a generator.

I parked the car and went into the showroom in an air-conditioned trailer. A woman got up from behind the desk and we shook hands. I told her I was visiting from out of state, only looking.

I examined the model for the development. They were actually digging a ravine, alongside which the houses would be built. It wasn’t entirely clear, but I was pretty sure that Tori’s grandma’s place used to stand where the ravine would empty into a reservoir. On the wall above the model, you could track the progress of the construction. There was a photo of Mayor Klausmeyer in a yellow hard hat at the ground-breaking.

“The Glades went up in a hurry,” I observed.

The saleswoman responded with that strange corporate pride adopted by employees on the bottom. “The Ravine is going to make the Glades look quaint,” she said. “Not to be disrespectful. They were first, after all, pioneers. But from a landscape-architectural perspective, the Glades was a missed opportunity. They just leveled the ground and hammered things together. There’s no sense of wilderness, no dynamism.”

“No ravine.”

“No ravine, you got it.”

I asked if she remembered the people who used to live around here.

“Around here? I don’t think anyone lived around here.”

“There were houses,” I said, “and encampments.”

“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.