In Kreutzberg, on a street of hip shops and Indian restaurants and postcard stands, a young boy with wavy brown hair hurries down the street. In winter, the sidewalks are littered with gravel, meant to provide traction in snow. Yet when the streets are dry the rocks make every pedestrian unintentionally declarative, the crackling under each footstep means no one easily escapes notice. The boy cuts in and out of a line of distracted window shoppers. Tourists hear his approaching gait and clutch at their travel wallets and purses as he passes. A black Pomeranian dog and his middle-aged owner stare out of their street-level living room window, blankly watching the boy run by, not bothering to bark or growl.
Minutes later, the boy crunches a slow return, something small and clean in his hands. He wanders dreamily away from the comic book shop. The boy’s pace was dilatory, joyously content, as commuters powerwalking home weaved left and right to hustle around him.