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As they walked past a sixth, seventh, and eighth block, Sofia told him about the river and its history. She’d spent many hours in the Central Library, she said, immersed in the accounts of California amateur geologists and naturalists of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, looking for references to streams and groundwater. In Sofia’s universe, natural history was never erased, and water could still flow underneath the six lanes of Olympic Boulevard, and listening to her Nathan felt ashamed of the modern-day thoroughfare and the way he’d enjoyed its straightness, speeding toward the glass ghosts of downtown towers on the smoggy horizon. All these years in LA, he’d been unaware that he was riding over a stream whose old Spanish name Sofia had just revealed to him. “ El Arroyo del Jardín de las Flores,” Nathan repeated. “ Correct.” He wanted to walk alon
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