Its midnight, and from Yonge Street Hoggs Hollow is hidden from view.

Somet
The neighbourhood sits at the bottom of the Don River Valley. At this
hour it is empty and silent, and its bending roads are perplexing in the
dark.
Standing on a short bridge we hear the sputter of the river. Its waters
are the loudest thing weve come across in this village of towering
mansionsthe homes of some of Torontos most affluent residents
and the trees that loom above them.
Theres a park in Hogs Hollow where we stop for pull-ups. David does
ten on the monkey bars, followed by ten more. A fondling couple sits
on a bench nearby. Soon after our arrival they stand up and walk up
the path, where they wobble and grope one another. Theyre gone. A
group of three young men are also in the park, but they make no noise,
and disappear over a hill.
Stuck in the ground at the base of each of the young trees scattered in
the park are rocky headstones. Each stone bears a good wish engraved
onto a metal plate. There is little point in squatting in the dark to read
them: Park tree headstones are not known for the quality of their
sentimental inscriptions.
But one of Hoggs Hollows greatest secrets is its stone garden of
lonely well-written epitaphs. These pithy statements glow in the dark.
Entrepreneur, rooted by family, EMPOWERED BY GOD, reads one.
Another, .
One stone bears the name Patrick Deagle, man born in and lost in --.
In an inexplicable fit of rage, Big Land editor David stomps on its face,
desecrating it with a smudge of poo stuck to the edge of his shoe.
The settlement of poo is located just beside Patrick Deagles
headstone. In the dark it is impossible to see, but its smell reveals its
presence. To make amends for his disrespect, David agrees to a blood
offering to appease Deagles spirit. He kneels on the grass. I hand him
my pocketknife.
The blood does not flow. Some time goes by, and David searches for
another tool with which to make the incision. He finds a sharp twig in
the grass. He bares his teeth and sets to work on his gums. The blood
comes, and a smear appears on the Patrick Deagles stone. The deed is
done.

PART TWO: THE RAVINE

We carry our bikes down the flat concrete slopes straddling the river.
Ahead is a weir, where the water comes to a sudden drop and spins
and foams. The water wants us to fall in.
A crayfish appears as if from nowhere. It crawls on the concrete ground
at a slow and listless pace. Its body is small and delicate, and its lanky
limbs carry its round body towards the weir several feet away. We do
not know why the crayfish is here, and wonder if there are others
nearby. If the crayfish is supposed to be here or not, we do not know.
David shines a light on the insignificant creature. Its shell and limbs
appear grey and dry, but its eyes are wet pea-sized melancholic balls
of tapioca. They were filled with sadness.
Its beautiful, says David.
The crayfish follows the light with zeal. David turns off the light, and
the crayfish comes to a rest. As it sits in the dark we wait to see what it
will do.
The crayfish lifts itself and moves closer to the edge of the concrete.
We ask ourselves if we should intervene, if we should prevent the
crayfish from falling into the roiling water. The crayfish comes closer to
the edge.
It reaches the edge and stumbles onto the incline. For a moment it
gains traction. But the incline is too steep and it loses its hold. It slides
down the smooth concrete and plops into the sloshing water. We do not
see the crayfish anymore.