Ryan Carriere lived in my neighbourhood. When he wasn’t working on his art, he was a postman out of the Queen Street station on the other side of the underpass. He had two daughters who still go to Nola’s school, a little older I think; and a wife, Megan, who practically runs our local toy store. I didn’t know Ryan at all, but remember him well whenever I approach that crazy intersection at Gladstone and Queen, the corner where the truck cut him off, cut short that life while he was cycling home to get his girls ready for Hallowe’en.
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