166

Wyatt

Bri had us pull over once we got into the older part of New Orleans. She pulled her hair through the back of a baseball cap and pulled her hood up on Beau’s hoodie. We all followed suit. We followed her as she led us down dark alleyways that stank of piss and cheap liquor. She had steered clear of the garden district where she said the house was. We were on the outskirts of the historic quarter. All manner of shops and living quarters were tangled here like a puzzle of mismatched pieces.

Mardi Gras was in full swing even at its end, which was the peak of tourist season. Music and jubilant glee, mingled with drunken chanting and tipsy stumbling on the main street. Bri stopped at a gate at the back alley of one of the row’s rear gardens down the backside of a row of Creole townhouses and approached the rear door after ensuring Beau closed the gate behind him. She gave the backdoor a peculiar knock like it was some sort of code. Lights flickered within. A knock returned, Bri murmu