Eventually, he reached the abandoned zoo. In a long-disused tiger cage, the stranger found an old sleeping bag, but nothing else. He couldn’t even smell anything. All the familiar scents were masked by the smog, the musk of long-gone animals, and the sweat of everyone else who, over the years, had used the zoo as an open-air squat. The stranger took out the guidebook and scanned the park map looking for other likely sites.

As he trudged up a long trail that wound higher into the park, a young couple strolled past him coming the other way. They were radiant. The woman was in a light summer dress and the man was in a blue polo shirt and white designer slacks. L.A. elites. Graceful and glowing in their beauty and privilege. The stranger barely glanced at them. His mind was somewhere else, rearranging buildings. That’s why he started a little when the couple approached him.

“Hi. I’m Darla and this is my husband, Christopher,” said the woman. “I was wondering, do you know the way to the Hollywood Wax Museum?”

The stranger shook his head. “I’m afraid not. I’m not from around here.”

“Oh. I saw you had a guidebook and thought you might know,” said Darla.

The stranger held the book out to her. “You’re welcome to look if you like.”

“That’s the problem,” said Christopher. “We lost our bags and both of our sets of reading glasses were in them. If it’s not too much trouble, could you look it up for us? Thanks.”

“I’m sorry to hear about your bags. Of course I can help. There’s a wax museum around here? I might have to visit there myself before I’m done.”

Darla gave him a sunny smile. “Oh. Are you here on business?”

The stranger thumbed through the guidebook. “Very much,” he said.

“What kind?” said Christopher.

Darla leaned in. “The reason my husband asks is that you don’t look much like a businessman. More like a fucking bum.”

The stranger looked up. “Do I really?”

“In that filthy coat and shitty shoes? What are you? A junkie? A dealer? Both?” said Christopher.

“I didn’t think my coat was that dirty.”

“Filthy,” said Darla. She cocked her head and looked at him. “Nothing at all like what an actual businessman would wear.”

“Thank you. I’ll have to do something about that,” said the stranger. He flipped to the guidebook’s index. “Now, it was the wax museum you wanted . . .”

Christopher pulled a switchblade from his pocket, snicked it open, and took a step toward him. “Fuck the museum. I know a dirty dealer when I see one. How much are you carrying? Empty your pockets. I want all of it.”