have

Hutchen forward; during a break in traffic, he turned left onto King’s Road, staying alert to the simple fact that traffic here ran on the wrong sides of the road. It felt like he was sixteen again, with a freshly minted driver’s license, trying to keep all the rules in mind at the same time.
Harris stuck his hand out the window and signaled, bicycle-style, the way the other motorists did it, for his right turn from King’s Road onto Damablanca. He passed the glowing green-and-gold sign over Banwite’s and threw a salute his one-time benefactor couldn’t see.
There was no parking space open in front of Brannach’s. Harris sighed and drove on past. Parking was better in Neckerdam than in New York, but he might have to go around the block once or twice before he found a spot for the Hutchen.
Still scanning for a place to park, he continued a block, then turned left onto the two-lane northbound-only ­avenue labelled Attorcoppe.
A horn blared behind him

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