From the ages of nine to eleven, I worked as a spy. No one paid me, nor did I report my findings to any higher-ups. I discussed my cases with my partner, who went by code name Mountain Chicken Mother of the Buddha.
Stella’s hair is so wet from sweat that it doesn’t look blonde anymore, and the humidity has frizzed the tendrils out around her face. In the mirror across from the bed, we look like three sisters. The mirror has a glamour-shot effect, like all the mirrors in the house.
The book is a collection of essays, authored by local and outside artists, geographers, cartographers, bakers, horticulturists, and one criminal defense lawyer, that describe the city of New Orleans—not only the physical, but also the invisible and the transient.