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“More than five?”
“Yes.”
“More than fifty?”
I consider. The Beltline regulars. The foodie meetup. The coffee shop circle. The flower stand woman. Jordan and her staff. Claire and Bagel’s dog-walking network.
“I think more than fifty, yes.”
“More than FIFTY?” Marchetti grabs the back of his own neck. “We’ve been on the same team for nine months. I’ve sat next to you on planes. I have NEVER seen anyone recognize you outside a rink. And you’re telling me you have fifty friends in this city?”
“They are not all friends. Some are acquaintances. Some are people who follow my Instagram account.”
“You have an Instagram account?”
“Most people have an Instagram account, Marchetti.”
“I follow you on Instagram. I’ve never seen any of this.”
“It is a different account. A personal one. For the city.”
“A SECRET Instagram?”
“It is not a secret. It is simply separate. I post photographs of my walks and the food and the dogs. People seem to enjoy it.”
Davis has his phone up again. “I’m finding this account. What’s the handle?”
“I would prefer not to share the handle at this time.”
“At this TIME? Hájek, you’re a celebrity. In ATLANTA. And none of us knew.”
We pass through the gate. Two women wave from a concession line.
“Beltline regular!” one of them calls. “Tell your friend with the golden retriever we miss her!”
“I will tell Claire,” I say. “She will be very pleased.”
I wave. They wave back. Marchetti stops walking entirely.
“Thompson.”
“Yeah.”
“I’m having a crisis.”
“I can see that.”
“We live with this man. We KNOW this man. And he’s out here being the mayor of Atlanta.”
“I am not the mayor. The mayor is a different person. I have not met the mayor.”
“YET,” Davis says, pointing at me. “You haven’t met the mayor YET.”
Thompson puts his sunglasses back on. He’s smiling, though. The small one he does when you’ve genuinely surprised him, which is rare.
“Hájek. You are full of mysteries.”
“I do not have mysteries. I have a morning walk.”
