“Don’t be an ass, Brandon,” says Curtis. “They didn’t change the West End. They’d never be allowed to do that.” “I think he might be right, Dad,” I say. He waves us both away, two stupid kids, but it doesn’t matter. Once a troop of marching academics and writers has its orders, there’s no turning back, even as those of us in the front see the bright orange awning growing closer and closer. No one wants to say anything when we actually get there. “What in the holy shit?” asks Curtis. “See, Pulitzer, what I’d tell you?”