Foote’s Hole (a serial)
Housed inconspicuously in the basement of an off-white brownstone beset on both sides by other equally off-white brownstones, the chiropractor’s office was easy to miss if you weren’t careful. From a metal post (as if a semaphore, with one short metal arm perpendicular to a longer one) hung a small white sign with swift black letters reading ‘Lowry Heath, Chiropractor’ but, obscured by the trees and shrubbery surrounding it, seemed from the sidewalk to introduce, ominously, ‘ ow y , Chiropractor.’
Into the brownstone’s off-white stone, just to the right of the door, a yellow buzzer had been drilled with masonic indifference. A small tag read simply ‘Dr Heath’ and was fixed (very conveniently) at eye level with any adult wishing admittance. As Anson willed his finger toward the buzzer, a small seagull, perched on the metal pole, gave an ungodly squawk; he wheeled around absently, instinctively searching for the horrible sound thereby tweaking the pain in his back such that he uncontrollably squawked right back at the gull, who started, squawked again, and bolted with all the dispatch of a wild thing come suddenly face-to-face with a much larger and wilder thing. Anson followed the bird’s path with pained and squinting eyes, noting how hard it seemed to be working, as if against an undertow, until it disappeared over a slightly more off-white brownstone across the street.
