offer of a quite enormously fat contract to do the 5D chat show and lecture circuit back in our own dimensional neck of the woods, and we're very much inclined to take it." "I would, wouldn't you Ford?" said Zaphod promptingly. "Oh yes," said Ford, "jump at it, like a shot." Arthur glanced at them, wondering what all this was leading up to. "But we've got to have a product you see," said Frankie, "I mean ideally we still need the Ultimate Question in some form or other." Zaphod leaned forward to Arthur. "You see," he said, "if they're just sitting there in the studio looking very relaxed and, you know, just mentioning that they happen to know the Answer to Life, the Universe and Everything, and then eventually have to admit that in fact it's Forty-two, then the show's probably quite short. No follow-up, you see." "We have to have something that sounds good," said Benji. "Something that sounds good?" exclaimed Arthur. "An Ultimate Question that sounds good? From a couple of mice?" The mice bristled. "Well, I mean, yes idealism, yes the dignity of pure research, yes the pursuit of truth in all its forms, but there comes a point I'm afraid where you begin to suspect that if there's any real truth, it's that the entire multi-dimensional infinity of the Universe is almost certainly being run by a bunch of maniacs. And if it comes to a choice between spending yet another ten million years finding that out, and on the other hand just taking the money and running, then I for one could do with the exercise," said Frankie. "But ..." started Arthur, hopelessly. "Hey, will you get this, Earthman," interrupted Zaphod. "You are a last generation product of that computer matrix, right, and you were there right up to the moment your planet got the finger, yeah?" "Er ..." "So your brain was an organic part of the penultimate configuration of the computer programme," said Ford, rather lucidly he thought. "Right?" said Zaphod. "Well," said Arthur doubtfully. He wasn't aware of ever having felt an organic part of anything. He had always seen this as one of his problems. "In other words," said Benji, steering his curious little vehicle right over to Arthur, "there's a good chance that the structure of the question is encoded in the structure of your brain - so we want to buy it off you." "What, the question?" said Arthur. "Yes," said Ford and Trillian. "For lots of money," said Zaphod. "No, no," said Frankie, "it's the brain we want to buy." "What!" "I thought you said you could just read his brain electronically," protested Ford. "Oh yes," said Frankie, "but we'd have to get it out first. It's got to be prepared." "Treated," said Benji. "Diced." "Thank you," shouted Arthur, tipping up his chair and backing away from the table in horror. "It could always be replaced," said Benji reasonably, "if you think it's important." "Yes, an electronic brain," said Frankie, "a simple one would suffice." "A simple one!" wailed Arthur.


those crowds…’ ‘Normally we don’t make it out of Tadderly,’ Josie agreed. Minnie leaned forward. ‘Then we should visit somewhere exciting. Paris, Edinburgh. Anywhere.’ ‘That’s not a bad idea,’ Josie agreed. ‘It certainly took me out of myself for a while, going on the cruise. That reminds me, I must email David Ellis.’ ‘Who’s he?’ Minnie was interested. ‘A new friend she met on the cruise…’ Lin explained. ‘He’d just lost his partner, so we teamed up for company.’ Josie caught Minnie’s expression. ‘Don’t worry, he won’t become obsessed with me as your Felix is with you.’ ‘He’s not my Felix…’ ‘I promised David I’d message him. I want to ask how he was getting on with the novel he’s writing in memory of his partner.’ Odile was at the table, arms folded. ‘So, can I get you lunching ladies a nice dessert? Florence is taking a break and I said I’d pop out front.’ Lin patted her stomach. ‘Do you have anything low in calories?’ ‘Let’s push the boat out. I love puddings.’ Minnie was as slim as a wand. Odile said, ‘I have sticky toffee pudding, carrot cake or I have a bit of pineapple and ginger upside-down cake.’ ‘I’ll have some of the sticky toffee pudding when you’re ready,’ Dangerous Dave called out loudly. Linval waved a hand. ‘I’ll have the pineapple upside-down cake, Odile. It’s so good.’ ‘Absolutely,’ Rita agreed. ‘For me too.’ ‘Odile’s carrot cake is delicious, to die for.’ Jimmy slapped Kenny’s arm. ‘I recommend it, mate.’ ‘You’re joking, ent you?’ Kenny looked alarmed. ‘Cake with carrots in it? Sounds like summat a rabbit would eat.’ ‘Looks like everyone’s ready for one of your famous desserts, Odile,’ Minnie grinned. At that moment, the door clanged open, the little bell tinkling, and a woman in a faux-fur coat leaned against the door jamb, surveying the café. Kenny shouted out, ‘Shut that door up, missus – the wind’s howling around my legs and I’m bloody cold.’ The woman took a step forward, allowing the door to close behind her. She removed her hat, revealing neatly coiled silver hair, her face lined like the contours of a map. All eyes were on her, completely self-contained, elegant, surrounded by the scent of floral perfume, her lips a film-star red colour as she smiled sweetly. ‘Kenny Hooper, you know better than to be so rude. You used to be so well mannered…’ Kenny stared at her and then the penny dropped. The voice had given it away, the smooth cultured tones the class had listened to so many years ago, telling them about the adventures of Moley and Ratty on the river. He hung his head. ‘I’m s-sorry, Miss Hamilton.’ Minnie gasped. ‘Miss Hamilton! How nice to see you.’ Lin’s eyes were wide. ‘Miss Hamilton? Oh, it’s really you.’ ‘It was you on the scooter, of course…’ Josie added. ‘I saw you last week.’ She decided it might be better not to mention to her teacher that she had almost bowled her over. Miss Hamilton looked at each of them in


did not understand him," said Obierika. "He seemed to speak through his nose." "One of the men told me," said Obierika's other companion, "that he repeated over and over again a word that resembled Mbaino. Perhaps he had been going to Mbaino and had lost his way." "Anyway," resumed Obierika, "they killed him and tied up his iron horse. This was before the planting season began. For a long time nothing happened. The rains had come and yams had been sown. The iron horse was still tied to the sacred silk-cotton tree. And then one morning three white men led by a band of ordinary men like us came to the clan. They saw the iron horse and went away again. Most of the men and women of Abame had gone to their farms. Only a few of them saw these white men and their followers. For many market weeks nothing else happened. They have a big market in Abame on every other Afo day and, as you know, the whole clan gathers there. That was the day it happened. The three white men and a very large number of other men surrounded the market. They must have used a powerful medicine to make themselves invisible until the market was full. And they began to shoot. Everybody was killed, except the old and the sick who were at home and a handful of men and women whose chi were wide awake and brought them out of that market." He paused. "Their clan is now completely empty. Even the sacred fish in their mysterious lake have fled and the lake has turned the colour of blood. A great evil has come upon their land as the Oracle had warned." There was a long silence. Uchendu ground his teeth together audibly. Then he burst out: "Never kill a man who says nothing. Those men of Abame were fools. What did they know about the man?" He ground his teeth again and told a story to illustrate his point. "Mother Kite once sent her daughter to bring food. She went, and brought back a duckling. 'You have done very well,' said Mother Kite to her daughter, 'but tell me, what did the mother of this duckling say when you swooped and carried its child away?' 'It said nothing,' replied the young kite. 'It just walked away.' 'You must return the duckling,' said Mother Kite. 'There is something ominous behind the silence.' And so Daughter Kite returned the duckling and took a chick instead. 'What did the mother of this chick do?' asked the old kite. 'It cried and raved and cursed me,' said the young kite. 'Then we can eat the chick,' said her mother. 'There is nothing to fear from someone who shouts.' Those men of Abame were fools." "They were fools," said Okonkwo after a pause. "They had been warned that danger was ahead. They should have armed themselves with their guns and their machetes even when they went to market." "They have paid for their foolishness," said Obierika, "But I am greatly


like the rumble of distant artillery: "There's a land beyond the river." Miraculously on pitch, a hundred voices sang out Zeebo's words. The last syllable, held to a husky hum, was followed by Zeebo saying, "That we call the sweet forever." Music again swelled around us; the last note lingered and Zeebo met it with the next line: "And we only reach that shore by faith's decree." The congregation hesitated, Zeebo repeated the line carefully, and it was sung. At the chorus Zeebo closed the book, a signal for the congregation to proceed without his help. On the dying notes of "Jubilee," Zeebo said, "In that far-off sweet forever, just beyond the shining river." Line for line, voices followed in simple harmony until the hymn ended in a melancholy murmur. I looked at Jem, who was looking at Zeebo from the corners of his eyes. I didn't believe it either, but we had both heard it. Reverend Sykes then called on the Lord to bless the sick and the suffering, a procedure no different from our church practice, except Reverend Sykes directed the Deity's attention to several specific cases. His sermon was a forthright denunciation of sin, an austere declaration of the motto on the wall behind him: he warned his flock against the evils of heady brews, gambling, and strange women. Bootleggers caused enough trouble in the Quarters, but women were worse. Again, as I had often met it in my own church, I was confronted with the Impurity of Women doctrine that seemed to preoccupy all clergymen. Jem and I had heard the same sermon Sunday after Sunday, with only one exception. Reverend Sykes used his pulpit more freely to express his views on individual lapses from grace: Jim Hardy had been absent from church for five Sundays and he wasn't sick; Constance Jackson had better watch her ways- she was in grave danger for quarreling with her neighbors; she had erected the only spite fence in the history of the Quarters. Reverend Sykes closed his sermon. He stood beside a table in front of the pulpit and requested the morning offering, a proceeding that was strange to Jem and me. One by one, the congregation came forward and dropped nickels and dimes into a black enameled coffee can. Jem and I followed suit, and received a soft, "Thank you, thank you," as our dimes clinked. To our amazement, Reverend Sykes emptied the can onto the table and raked the coins into his hand. He straightened up and said, "This is not enough, we must have ten dollars." The congregation stirred. "You all know what it's for- Helen can't leave those children to work while Tom's in jail. If everybody gives one more dime, we'll have it-" Reverend Sykes waved his hand and called to someone in the back of the church. "Alec, shut the doors. Nobody leaves here till we have ten dollars." Calpurnia scratched in her handbag and brought forth a battered leather coin purse. "Naw Cal," Jem whispered, when she handed him a shiny quarter, "we can


say, “With you or someone else?” but what if he thought I was serious? Instead, I said, “I don’t know for certain, but I’m not sitting around waiting for either one. And I bet not settling down when you were thirty has made you a better musician. And continuing to feel confusion has, too, probably. I just can’t see how anyone who thinks they have everything sorted out and have come out on top could write very good songs. Or, for that matter, very good comedy sketches or very good screenplays.” “Maybe you should be a therapist.” He lifted his glass from the bar, took a sip, swallowed, and said, “By the way, I don’t believe in the Danny Horst Rule. I thought your sketch was funny and I’m sorry it got cut, but the rule itself—personally, I’ve definitely dated—you know—” I didn’t try to conceal my amusement. “Women less attractive than you?” I suggested. “That’s not what I was going to say. But non-celebrities.” “You’ve dated them in a serious way?” “Of course. It’s not like the only relationships I’ve been in are the ones that have been reported in gossip columns. But you’re damned if you do and damned if you don’t. If you go out with another celebrity, it’s like Danny and Annabel, where you’re under this distorting microscope. You have the advantage of understanding each other’s worlds firsthand, but the disadvantage of both having really complicated schedules. Whereas if you date someone who isn’t another celebrity, you feel like you’re always asking them to accommodate you. Plus, it’s easy for them to feel insecure. You’re looking at me with a very mocking expression right now. I realize these are privileged problems.” “I think you think I’m looking at you with a mocking expression because I’m a writer for TNO.” “I guess that might be an occupational hazard.” And then something happened that later was hard for me to explain to myself, hard to understand. As when he’d cupped my chin in my office, it might have been nothing. His expression became both very tender and very amused, as if there were an excellent inside joke between us, and he tilted his head to the right and looked at me with a focused kind of sweetness and warmth. Then he again set his glass on the bar and leaned forward incrementally, and I thought, Oh my God, is he going to kiss me? Because Noah Brewster cannot kiss me here, in front of my co-workers, in a setting that isn’t really private because nowhere is private in the age of cellphones, in a world in which he is him and I am me. And because if he kisses me, what will happen next? Also incrementally, I took a step back. “All your insights about love and romance,” I said. “Did you get them from dating twenty-two-year-old models?” He squinted with what appeared to be genuine confusion. “What’s that supposed to mean?” My heart was beating more quickly, and not in a swoony way. In a pre-combat way, like in


person you thought I was.’ Found neatly folded in the pocket of her uniform. The paper sustained heavy water damage, but it was still readable. Now, give me one reason not to hang up right now.” “Lenora didn’t kill her family,” I say, more out of desperation than anything else. I certainly have no plan. But I hope dropping a bombshell like that will keep Detective Vick listening. “At least, I don’t think she did. We haven’t gotten that far yet.” “We?” “Me and Lenora. I told you, we’re typing her story, just like she did with Mary. But there was a worker here. Ricardo Mayhew.” “I know,” Detective Vick says. “I used to work there, remember?” “Did you also know Lenora was in love with him? And that it’s possible he’s the one who killed her parents and sister? I’m pretty sure Lenora knew he did it and covered for him. Now I think she wants to come clean, maybe in the hopes that he’ll be caught, even though he vanished the night of the murders.” When I finally give Detective Vick a chance to speak, his voice wavers between intrigue and wariness. “Are you sure about this?” “You have access to the police report from that night,” I say. “Look at it and see. You’ll also see that there’s a whole lot of unanswered questions from that night. Mary had those answers. Now she’s dead. That’s not a coincidence. And it’s sure as hell not suicide.” I hang up before Detective Vick can poke another hole in my theory, tell me I’m wrong, and then smugly trot out some other bit of evidence to prove it. I know I’m on to something here. And it terrifies me. Because Lenora’s also telling me her story, I could be next. Yet that’s not the scariest part of all this. The truly chilling, scarier-than-Stephen-King part is that Mary wasn’t killed by some random stranger. In a twisted way, that would put me more at ease. But whoever pushed her off the terrace knew what she was up to. They knew her. Which means it was likely someone at Hope’s End. Other than me and Lenora, only four people fit that description—Mrs. Baker, Archie, Carter, and Jessie. Why one of them would feel the need to kill Mary over something Lenora typed is beyond me. I reach for the phone again, itching to call Detective Vick back. He needs to hear this, even if it’s doubtful he’ll believe me. He hasn’t yet. About anything. I’m about to dial when I hear a noise behind me. Footsteps. Moving from the darkened dining room into the kitchen. I whirl around to see Carter halt in the doorway. Hands raised in innocence, he says, “I didn’t mean to startle you.” Yet he did. My heart pounds so loud I suspect he can hear it. Adding to the pounding is this: Carter is one of the four people who could have shoved Mary off the terrace. He sways slightly as he steps fully into the kitchen. He’s been


I’m surprised my skull hasn’t fractured yet, forming a crack as big as the one now running across the terrace at Hope’s End. “Since they couldn’t prove—or disprove—that Ricardo did it, and since they couldn’t do the same with Lenora, the case just stalled?” “Correct,” Detective Vick says. “Sound familiar?” Anger flashes through me like lightning. Electric. Searing. “Fuck you,” I tell Detective Vick, which might be illegal. I’m not up to date on laws against swearing at police detectives. If it is a crime, Detective Vick makes no move to do anything about it as I yank open the door to my Escort and slide behind the wheel. “I don’t blame you, you know,” he says before I can slam the door shut. “Your mother was suffering. I understand that. My own parents suffered when their time came. But I didn’t break the law to try to end it.” “Neither did I.” I’m on the verge of tears, and I don’t know if it’s from rage or grief or the fact that everything about the past six months has been too damn much. When I got to Hope’s End, I threw myself into learning Lenora’s story because I was desperate to change my own pathetic existence by focusing on someone else’s. But then I found Mary dead, and things have only spiraled since then. “I didn’t make my mother take those pills,” I say, swiping at a tear before it can fall because I’ll be damned if I cry in front of Detective Vick. “She killed herself. Mary didn’t. And someone smarter than you would understand that.” The detective’s nostrils flare. The only sign I’ve gotten to him. Unlike me, he knows how to keep his emotions in check. “Kit, for the last time, Mary Milton wasn’t murdered.” “How can you be so sure of that?” Detective Vick removes a piece of paper from inside his jacket. A photocopy of a page made ragged and faint from water damage. Thrusting it at me, he says, “Because of this.” My hands go numb as I read the single sentence typed across the page. “What is this?” “A copy of Mary Milton’s suicide note,” Detective Vick says. “I told you we found it with her body.” I scan the page a second, third, fourth time, hoping each pass will produce a different meaning. But it all reads the same every damn time. im sorry im not the person you thought i was “Mary—” I stop, unnerved by the way my voice sounds. Like I’m underwater. Like I’m a thousand miles away. “Mary didn’t write this.” “Of course she did,” Detective Vick says. “Who else could it be?” Rather than answer, I struggle to jam the key into the ignition and struggle even more to pull out of the parking spot. Then I drive off, leaving Detective Vick standing in exhaust fumes, still ignorant to the fact that what he found with Mary’s body wasn’t a suicide note. It’s something else. Typed by someone else. And I think I know exactly what it means.


and a taste of cheese, that's all."     "And the sago?"     "Never mind it at present. I shall be coming down before tea-time. I'll make it myself."     The cook here turned to me, saying that Mrs. Fairfax was waiting for me; so I departed.     I hardly heard Mrs. Fairfax's account of the curtain conflagration during dinner, so much was I occupied in puzzling my brains over the enigmatical character of Grace Poole, and still more in pondering the problem of her position at Thornfield; in questioning why she had not been given into custody that morning, or, at the very least, dismissed from her master's service. He had almost as much as declared his conviction of her criminality last night. What mysterious cause withheld him from accusing her? Why had he enjoined me, too, to secrecy? It was strange a bold, vindictive and haughty gentleman seemed somehow in the power of one of the meanest of his dependants so much in her power, that even when she lifted her hand against his life, he dared not openly charge her with the attempt, much less punish her for it.     Had Grace been young and handsome, I should have been tempted to think that tenderer feelings than prudence or fear influenced Mr. Rochester in her behalf; but, hard-favored and matronly as she was, the idea could not be admitted. "Yet," I reflected, "she has been young once; her youth would be contemporary with her master's. Mrs. Fairfax told me once she had lived here many years. I don't think she can ever have been pretty; but, for aught I know, she may possess originality and strength of character to compensate for the want of personal advantages. Mr. Rochester is an amateur of the decided and eccentric Grace is eccentric at least. What if a former caprice (a freak very possible to a nature so sudden and headstrong as his) has delivered him into her power, and she now exercises over his actions a secret influence, the result of his own indiscretion, which he cannot shake off, and dare not disregard?" But, having reached this point of conjecture, Mrs. Poole's square, flat figure, and uncomely, dry, even coarse face, recurred so distinctly to my mind's eye, that I thought: "No; impossible! my supposition cannot be correct, Yet," suggested the secret voice which talks to us in our own hearts, "youare not beautiful either, and perhaps Mr. Rochester approves you at any rate, you have often felt as if he did; and last night remember his words; remember his look; remember his voice!"     I well remembered all language, glance and tone seemed at the moment vividly renewed. I was now in the school-room. Adle was drawing. I bent over her and directed her pencil. She looked up with a sort of start.     "Qu'avez-vous, mademoiselle?" said she; "Vos doigts tremblent comme le feuille, et vos joues sont rouges; mais, rouges


years, I will be content to pass to the next summer ---the summer of 1778; that is nearly twenty-three years ago." CHAPTER VIII. On the morning of a fine June day my first bonny little nursling, and the last of the ancient Earn- shaw stock, was born. We were busy with the hay in a far-away field when the girl that usually brought our breakfasts came running an hour too soon, across the meadow and up the lane, calling me as she ran. "Oh, such a grand bairn!" she panted out. "The finest lad that ever breathed! But the doctor says missis must go. He says she's been in a consumption these many months. I heard him tell Mr. Hindley; and now she has nothing to keep her, and she'll be dead before winter. You must come home directly. You're to nurse it, Nelly---to feed it with sugar and milk, and take care of it day and night. I wish I were you, because it will be all yours when there is no missis!" "But is she very ill?" I asked, flinging down my rake and tying my bonnet. "I guess she is; yet she looks bravely," replied the girl, "and she talks as if she thought of living to see it grow a man. She's out of her head for joy, it's such a beauty! If I were her, I'm certain I should not die; I should get better at the bare sight of it, in spite of Ken- neth. I was fairly mad at him. Dame Archer brought the cherub down to master, in the house, and his face just began to light up, when the old croaker steps for- ward, and says he, 'Earnshaw, it's a blessing your wife has been spared to leave you this son. When she came, I felt convinced we shouldn't keep her long; and now, I must tell you, the winter will probably finish her. Don't take on and fret about it too much. It can't be helped. And besides, you should have known better than to choose such a rush of a lass!' " "And what did the master answer?" I inquired. "I think he swore; but I didn't mind him---I was straining to see the bairn." And she began again to de- scribe it rapturously. I, as zealous as herself, hurried eagerly home to admire, on my part, though I was very sad for Hindley's sake. He had room in his heart only for two idols---his wife and himself. He doted on both, and adored one, and I couldn't conceive how he would bear the loss. When we got to Wuthering Heights, there he stood at the front door; and, as I passed in, I asked, "How was the baby?" "Nearly ready to run about, Nell!" he replied, put- ting on a cheerful smile. "And the mistress?" I ventured to inquire; "the doc- tor says she's------" "Damn the doctor!" he interrupted, reddening. "Frances is quite right; she'll be perfectly well by this time next week. Are you going upstairs? Will you tell


over my shoulder at her. “We can tie you up with rope or fabric restraints. No handcuffs and we can’t cover your mouth or nose. We can blindfold you, though. So keep that in mind.” She doesn’t ask any other questions as her friends laugh behind their hands. A younger guy in a black T-shirt chuckles to himself. “This is so stupid. I don’t know why I let y’all talk me into this.” “This camp was established to celebrate the 1983 cult horror classic The Curse of Camp Mirror Lake,” I say, taking full offense. “They shot the movie on these very grounds, and we do our best to re-create the key events from the film.” “So if we’ve seen the movie, we should be all right?” one of the other guys asks. “We’ll already know what’s gonna happen?” “No,” I answer. “We change things up a little.” We change things up a lot, actually. But it’s always fun when the players think watching the movie will give them a leg up. We approach the Crow’s Nest lodging area, and I point out Cabin #2, a log structure with a green metal roof and a brick chimney. “Meet your fellow players in the Western Lodge at eight to start the game.” I hand the brunette the key to Cabin #2. “Hope you all survive the night.” As I leave them to settle in, I make an executive decision. Tonight, there will be no survivors. • • • The guests from Cabin #2, alongside Porter and Tasha posing as other real players, file into the Western Lodge a little before seven. I’m already there. I say hi to them, keeping my head down, making myself as small and invisible as possible. The wig helps. So does the makeup. The brunette doesn’t even recognize that I’m the same girl who checked her in and took her to her cabin. Normally, Felix would do that, and I wouldn’t meet the guests until we all get together in the main lodge. I’m still pissed about that, but I set it aside and focus on the task in front of me. I gently touch the back of my sweater, making sure the battery pack for my earpiece is concealed. I tell the guests my name is Jade and that I’m so excited to be here at Camp Mirror Lake in a southern accent I borrow from my late grandmother. They latch on to my enthusiasm. I watch their eyes brighten, their mouths draw up. The excitement builds like water behind a dam. Everyone is buzzing around the big fireplace as I steal a quick glance at the clock on the wall. It’s 7:59. There’s a rustle of static across the line as my earpiece clicks on. “It’s go time,” Kyle’s voice says. “Remember, Charity says tonight is a no-survivors scenario. Everybody goes down.” He laughs into the mic. “This is my favorite type of game.” Normally, we let a few guests slip through. We let them see the carnage, give them a few near-misses with Kyle, but


the easy intimacy of two sisters who can’t fathom what the other finds attractive about their lifestyle, and have long given up trying to convert them. Rory thinks I’m itinerant, badly prepared for the future, wasting an Ivy League degree, and getting a little too old to keep chasing the publishing pipe dream instead of a stable career with benefits and a retirement plan. And I think Rory, who studied accounting at UT Austin and now does precisely that, has such a boring, cookie-cutter, picket-fence life that I’d rather claw out my eyeballs than live it. Rory is married to her college sweetheart, Tom, an IT technician who has always struck me as having the appearance and personality of wet dough. Neither of them knows a thing about publishing. They aren’t, as Rory puts it, “bookish people.” They like browsing the airport store for the latest John Grisham paperbacks, and Rory takes out the occasional Jodi Picoult title from their local library over the holidays, but otherwise they haven’t a clue about the vicissitudes of my world, nor are they dying to learn. I don’t think Rory even has a Twitter account. Tonight, that’s a blessing. Rory and Tom live far enough out in the suburbs that they can afford a spacious backyard with a deck, where they host family grills the last Saturday of every month. The weather tonight is perfect: humid and hot, but breezy enough that it’s not a bother. Rory is making corn bread, and it smells so good, I think this might be the first meal I stomach this week that doesn’t come roiling back up from anxiety. They’re bickering on the patio when I arrive. The argument, I gather, is whether it was fair of HR to reprimand Rory’s desk mate for telling a colleague that her hair looked gorgeous that day. “I just don’t think you should touch people without their permission,” says Tom. “Like, that’s an etiquette thing, not a race thing.” “Oh, come on, it wasn’t like she was, like, assaulting her,” says Rory. “It was a compliment. And it’s so crazy to call Chelsea a racist—I mean, she’s a Democrat. She voted for Obama—oh, hey, honey.” Rory squeezes me from the side as I walk up. Usually I cringe from Rory’s big-sisterly affectations—it’s always struck me as a bit fake, overcompensating for her distance when we were younger—but tonight I lean into her touch. “Have a beer. I’m going to go check on the oven.” “How’s tricks?” Tom gestures to the picnic table, and I sit down across from him. He’s been growing his beard out. It’s nearly two inches long now, and it emphasizes his solid, unbothered lumberjack’s aesthetic. Every time I see Tom, I wonder what it would be like to go through life with the easy contentment of a rock. “Just the usual,” I say, accepting a Corona Light. “Could be better.” “Rory told me you published another book, right? Congrats!” I wince. I hope they haven’t Googled me recently. “Well, thanks.” “What’s it about?” “Oh, uh, World War


lightning. The conversation at once centred on him, and everybody agreed that he was as sharp as a razor. "I sometimes think he is too sharp," said Obierika, somewhat indulgently. "He hardly ever walks. He is always in a hurry. If you are sending him on an errand he flies away before he has heard half of the message." "You were very much like that yourself," said his eldest brother. "As our people say, 'When mother-cow is chewing grass its young ones watch its mouth.' Maduka has been watching your mouth." As he was speaking the boy returned, followed by Akueke, his half-sister, carrying a wooden dish with three kola nuts and alligator pepper. She gave the dish to her father's eldest brother and then shook hands, very shyly, with her suitor and his relatives. She was about sixteen and just ripe for marriage. Her suitor and his relatives surveyed her young body with expert eyes as if to assure themselves that she was beautiful and ripe. She wore a coiffure which was done up into a crest in the middle of the head. Cam wood was rubbed lightly into her skin, and all over her body were black patterns drawn with uli. She wore a black necklace which hung down in three coils just above her full, succulent breasts. On her arms were red and yellow bangles, and on her waist four or five rows of jigida, or waist beads. When she had shaken hands, or rather held out her hand to be shaken, she returned to her mother's hut to help with the cooking. "Remove your jigida first," her mother warned as she moved near the fireplace to bring the pestle resting against the wall. "Every day I tell you that jigida and fire are not friends. But you will never hear. You grew your ears for decoration, not for hearing. One of these days your jigida will catch fire on your waist, and then you will know." Akueke moved to the other end of the hut and began to remove the waist-beads. It had to be done slowly and carefully, taking each string separately, else it would break and the thousand tiny rings would have to be strung together again. She rubbed each string downwards with her palms until it passed the buttocks and slipped down to the floor around her feet. The men in the obi had already begun to drink the palm-wine which Akueke's suitor had brought. It was a very good wine and powerful, for in spite of the palm fruit hung across the mouth of the pot to restrain the lively liquor, white foam rose and spilled over. "That wine is the work of a good tapper," said Okonkwo. The young suitor, whose name was Ibe, smiled broadly and said to his father: "Do you hear that?" He then said to the others: "He will never admit that I am a good tapper." "He tapped three of my best palm trees to death," said his father, Ukegbu. "That was about five years ago," said Ibe,


on him. Mother’s strict about things like this. We don’t want any taint on the family, no suggestion we’re covering anything up.” He gave her a fast look. “We’ve all heard rumors about your father’s funny business. Somebody should go to the police.” Miss de Vries turned, clutching the side of the carriage. “Why on earth,” she said, “would you want to do that?” “It’s my duty,” he said smoothly, “as a Christian.” He arrowed the carriage into the park, hurtling over rough ground. “I expect Lockwood’ll come and tell you the rest himself. We’ve torn up the contract. With you, that is.” He braked, hard, and Miss de Vries felt her stomach jolting. He turned, expression as flat as she could make her own. “Thought I’d do the decent thing and tell you myself.” * * * Lockwood was waiting for her in the front hall. He hadn’t removed his gloves. “Miss de Vries, I regret to tell you, I think I must withdraw my counsel.” She wanted to press her thumbs into his throat, stop him from breathing. She knew she could do it. “You’ll survive,” she said, “won’t you? You loathsome little cockroach.” Lockwood grimaced and raised a hand, silencing her. “Ah, Shepherd.” A door had opened. Mr. Shepherd lumbered slowly in. He glanced at Lockwood, then his mistress. “Keys,” he said. The air chilled. “What?” said Miss de Vries. Shepherd’s mouth was working furiously, eyes ablaze. “Keys, miss. I’ll need to take your keys, for safekeeping. While the police are looking into everything.” To her credit, she told herself later, she didn’t act as though the wind had just been knocked out of her sails. She put her hand in her pocket. “I only have this one,” she said, plucking her single key, the one that was for the garden door. “As well you know.” She bent her knees a little, and then she threw it across the hall. It hit the marble with a gentle clang, skidding past Shepherd’s feet. “Fetch,” she said, with disdain. This wasn’t over, she promised herself, hands shaking. This wasn’t the end. 40 The day after the ball That night the women had a feast. Not in Tilney Street, but in the docks, in Mrs. Bone’s inventions room, cuckoo clocks hooting at them every hour. There was a queer energy to the air. The first proceeds were already coming in, rushing like dark water through underground tunnels. They came faster than Mrs. Bone could tally them, orders running like wildfire back and forth across the wires, steamer routes, trains, the express—to Paris, Marseille, Kristiania, Venice, Prague. Mrs. Bone had ordered game pie, and boned capon, and cutlets and peas, and chicken in aspic. She gave them melon and green figs, and ribbon jelly, and an amber-colored sponge cake at least a foot high. There were candied oranges and a dish with ices, and a basket of greengages and meringues. “Too much,” said Hephzibah, clutching her stomach. “I thought you were a skinflint, Mrs. Bone.” “I can get more,” said Mrs. Bone, eyes


the boards of Contents land, and sail away as he had at first intended, laden with several packing-cases strewn around. On one of these boards I crimes and riches. saw, branded with a hot iron, the name WALRUS—the name Robert Louis Stevenson. Treasure Island. 274 275 of Flint’s ship. All was clear to probation. The CACHE had been found and rifled; the seven hundred thousand pounds were gone! Chapter 33. The Fall of a Chieftain. THERE never was such an overturn in this world. Each of these six men was as though he had been struck. But with Silver the blow passed almost instantly. Every thought of his soul had been set full-stretch, like a racer, on that money; well, he was brought up, in a single second, dead; and he kept his head, found his temper, and changed his plan before the others had had time to realize the disappointment. “Jim,” he whispered, “take that, and stand by for trouble.” And he passed me a double-barrelled pistol. At the same time, he began quietly moving northward, Contents and in a few steps had put the hollow between us two and the other five. Then he looked at me and nodded, as much as to say, “Here is a narrow corner,” as, indeed, I thought it was. Robert Louis Stevenson. Treasure Island. 276 277 His looks were not quite friendly, and I was so revolted at the pit between us, and nobody screwed up high enough to these constant changes that I could not forbear whispering, offer the first blow. Silver never moved; he watched them, “So you’ve changed sides again.” very upright on his crutch, and looked as cool as ever I saw There was no time left for him to answer in. The bucca- him. He was brave, and no mistake. neers, with oaths and cries, began to leap, one after another, At last Merry seemed to think a speech might help mat- into the pit and to dig with their fingers, throwing the boards ters. aside as they did so. Morgan found a piece of gold. He held “Mates,” says he, “there’s two of them alone there; one’s it up with a perfect spout of oaths. It was a two-guinea piece, the old cripple that brought us all here and blundered us and it went from hand to hand among them for a quarter of down to this; the other’s that cub that I mean to have the a minute. heart of. Now, mates—” “Two guineas!” roared Merry, shaking it at Silver. “That’s He was raising his arm and his voice, and plainly meant to your seven hundred thousand pounds, is it? You’re the man lead a charge. But just then—crack! crack! crack!— three for bargains, ain’t you? You’re him that never bungled noth- musket-shots flashed out of the thicket. Merry tumbled head ing, you wooden-headed lubber!” foremost into the excavation; the man with the bandage spun “Dig away, boys,” said Silver with the coolest insolence; round like a teetotum and fell all his length upon his side, “you’ll


effortless as being alone, if considerably more fun. I felt more like myself in his company, which was of course partly why I had been seeking it out so often. Still, I was surprised when a mutual friend told me that he had feelings for me. No, we were just good friends, I insisted—friends who hung out several days a week, who, okay, had maybe held hands once or twice, but in a totally friendly, casual way? “Dating would ruin our friendship,” I said. “I’m happy, I’m busy, and I don’t need any drama.” “Okay,” she said. “So you’d be fine with him dating someone else then.” Like who? What had she heard? My mother laughed loud and long when I told her that we were “serious” after a month or so of dating, probably because I’d spent the entire year before insisting that college was no time to be looking for commitment. It did feel early for him to meet my parents when they flew out from Oregon a month later, but it was the one and only time they had managed to visit me on campus, and I had no idea when I’d have another chance to introduce him. The four of us went out to dinner, and the next day we all worked on putting my new dresser and bookshelves together. Watching him with my parents, I found myself thinking that the immediate ease he’d established with them had to be a good sign—also the fact that he had watched us interact and tease and annoy each other for two days, and none of it appeared to scare him off. I recalled a day in tenth grade when some friends and I had taken turns making predictions for each other, trying to imagine our lives after high school. Maria was going to be a marine biologist, Kristie was going to be a teacher or a park ranger, I’d be a journalist, and we’d have a couple of kids each. You’ll definitely be the last of us to get married, another friend told me, if you get married at all. She thought my standards would be too high and I’d probably be focused on my career. I remember laughing, wondering if I was being complimented, feeling warm because my friends and I knew each other well enough to dream on one another’s behalf. But even then, I’d told them that I hoped to have a partner and children someday. The possibility of creating a different kind of family, one I would not have to question my place in, had long been appealing to me as an adoptee, and I knew that I might never have the experience of seeing a face like mine unless I had a child of my own. Though my parents were traditionalists at heart, they were not the sort to pressure me into a certain kind of life. My mother told me that she didn’t care when or whether I got married. Just remember, she would always say, you’re not allowed to get married without me


evading the Taliban but finding them. In the four

years since my first tour, they’d got much better at escaping. Humans are

adaptable, but never more so than in war. The Taliban had worked out

exactly how many minutes they had from first contact with our troops until

the cavalry came over the horizon, and their internal clocks were finely

calibrated: they’d shoot at as many guys as possible, then bolt.

They’d got better at hiding too. They could effortlessly melt into a

village, blend into the civilian population, or vaporize into their network of

tunnels. They didn’t run away—it was far more diffuse than that, more

mystical.

We didn’t give up the search easily. We’d circle, sweep back and forth,

sometimes for two hours. (The Apache ran out of fuel after two hours.)

Sometimes, at the end of two hours, we’d still be unwilling to give up. So

we'd refuel.

One day we refueled three times, spending a total of eight hours in the

air.

When we finally returned to base the situation was dire: I’d run out of

piss bags.

53.

I WAS THE FIRST in my squadron to pull the trigger in anger.

I remember the night as well as any in my life. We were in the VHR

tent, the red phone rang, we all sprinted to the aircraft. Dave and I raced

through preflight checks, I gathered the mission details: One of the control

225

https://m.facebook.com/groups/182281287 1297698 https://t.:me/Afghansalarlibrary

points closest to Bastion had come under small arms fire. We needed to get

there, ASAP, and find out where the fire was coming from. We took off,

swept over the wall, went vertical, climbed to fifteen hundred feet. Moments

later I swung the night sight onto the target area. There!

Eight hot spots, eight kilometers away. Thermal smudges—walking from

where the contact had been.

Dave said: That’ got to be them!

Yeah—there’s no friendly forces out here on patrol! Especially not at this
 <p


despoil him, from dread of the spirit of Glaurung and his very memory. But now one had come, and stood upon the threshold; and Mm came forth, and demanded to know his purpose. But Hrin said: 'Who are you, that would hinder me from entering the house of Finrod Felagund?' Then the Dwarf answered: 'I am Mm; and before the proud ones came from over the Sea, Dwarves delved the halls of Nulukkizdn. I have but returned to take what is mine; for I am the last of my people.' 'Then you shall enjoy your inheritance no longer,' said Hrin; 'for I am Hrin son of Galdor, returned out of Angband, and my son was Trin Turambar, whom you have not forgotten; and he it was that slew Glaurung the Dragon, who wasted these halls where now you sit; and not unknown is it to me by whom the Dragon-helm of Dor-lmin was betrayed.' Then Mm in great fear besought Hrin to take what he would, but to spare his life; but Hrin gave no heed to his prayer, and slew him there before the doors of Nargothrond. Then he entered in, and stayed a while in that dreadful place, where the treasures of Valinor lay strewn upon the floors in darkness and decay; but it is told that when Hrin came forth from the wreck of Nargothrond and stood again beneath the sky he bore with him out of all that great hoard but one thing only. Now Hrin journeyed eastward, and he came to the Meres of Twilight above the Falls of Sirion; and there he was taken by the Elves that guarded the western marches of Doriath, and brought before King Thingol in the Thousand Caves. Then Thingol was filled with wonder and grief when he looked on him, and knew that grim and aged man for Hrin Thalion, the captive of Morgoth; but he greeted him fairly and showed him honour. Hrin made no answer to the King, but drew forth from beneath his cloak that one thing which he had taken with him out of Nargothrond; and that was no lesser treasure than the Nauglamr, the Necklace of the Dwarves, that was made for Finrod Felagund long years before by the craftsmen of Nogrod and Belegost, most famed of all their works in the Elder Days, and prized by Finrod while he lived above all the treasures of Nargothrond. And Hrin cast it at the feet of Thingol with wild and bitter words. 'Receive thou thy fee,' he cried, 'for thy fair keeping of my children and my wife! For this is the Nauglamr, whose name is known to many among Elves and Men; and I bring it to thee out of the darkness of Nargothrond, where Finrod thy kinsman left it behind him when he set forth with Beren son of Barahir to fulfil the errand of Thingol of Doriath!' Then Thingol looked upon the great treasure, and knew it for the Nauglamr, and well did he understand Hrin's intent; but being filled with pity he


glowed; all his rudeness and all his surly harshness had deserted him. He could not summon courage at first to utter a syllable in reply to her questioning look and her murmured petition,--- "Say you forgive me, Hareton, do. You can make me so happy by speaking that little word." He muttered something inaudible. "And you'll be my friend?" added Catherine inter- rogatively. "Nay, you'll be ashamed of me every day of your life," he answered, "and the more ashamed the more you know me; and I cannot bide it." "So you won't be my friend?" she said, smiling as sweet as honey, and creeping close up. I overheard no further distinguishable talk, but, on looking round again, I perceived two such radiant countenances bent over the page of the accepted book that I did not doubt the treaty had been ratified on both sides, and the enemies were thenceforth sworn allies. The work they studied was full of costly pictures, and those and their position had charm enough to keep them unmoved till Joseph came home. He, poor man, was perfectly aghast at the spectacle of Catherine seated on the same bench with Hareton Earnshaw, leaning her hand on his shoulder, and confounded at his favourite's endurance of her proximity; it affected him too deeply to allow an observation on the subject that night. His emotion was only revealed by the immense sighs he drew as he solemnly spread his large Bible on the table, and overlaid it with dirty bank-notes from his pocket- book, the produce of the day's transactions. At length he summoned Hareton from his seat. "Tak' these in to t' maister, lad," he said, "and bide there. I's gang up to my own rahm. This hoile's neither mensful nor seemly for us; we mun side out and seearch another." "Come, Catherine," I said, "we must 'side out' too. I've done my ironing. Are you ready to go?" "It is not eight o'clock," she answered, rising un- willingly---"Hareton, I'll leave this book upon the chimney-piece, and I'll bring some more to-morrow." "Ony books that yah leave I shall tak' into th' hahse," said Joseph, "and it'll be mitch if yah find 'em agean. Soa yah may plase yerseln." Cathy threatened that his library should pay for hers, and smiling as she passed Hareton, went singing up- stairs, lighter of heart, I venture to say, than ever she had been under that roof before, except, perhaps, dur- ing her earliest visits to Linton. The intimacy thus commenced grew rapidly, though it encountered temporary interruptions. Earnshaw was not to be civilized with a wish, and my young lady was no philosopher and no paragon of patience; but both their minds tending to the same point---one loving and desiring to esteem, and the other loving and de- siring to be esteemed---they contrived in the end to reach it. You see, Mr. Lockwood, it was easy enough to win Mrs. Heathcliff's heart.--- But now I'm glad you did not try. The crown of all my wishes will be the union of those


knotted fingers. Am I? “Ana, she’s a sexual predator. Not my type at all. How can you be jealous of her? Of anyone? Nothing about her interests me.” When I glance up, he’s gaping at me as if I’ve grown an additional limb. He runs a hand through his hair. “It’s only you, Ana,” he says quietly. “It will only ever be you.” Oh my. Abandoning the plans once more, Christian moves toward me and clasps my chin between his thumb and forefinger. “How can you think otherwise? Have I ever given you any indication that I could be remotely interested in anyone else?” His eyes blaze as he stares into mine. “No,” I whisper. “I’m being silly. It’s just today . . . you . . .” All my conflict- ing emotions from earlier resurfaces. How can I tell him how confused I am? I’ve 164/551 been confounded and frustrated by his behavior this afternoon in my office. One minute he wants me to stay at home, the next he’s gifting me a company. How am I supposed to keep up? “What about me?” “Oh, Christian”—my bottom lip trembles—“I’m trying to adapt to this new life that I had never imagined for myself. Everything is being handed to me on a plate—the job, you, my beautiful husband, who I never . . . I never knew I’d love this way, this hard, this fast, this . . . indelibly.” I take a deep steadying breath, as his mouth drops open. “But you’re like a freight train, and I don’t want to get railroaded because the girl you fell in love with will be crushed. And what’ll be left? All that would be left is a vacuous social x-ray, flitting from charity function to charity function.” I pause once more, struggling to find the words to convey how I feel. “And now you want me to be a company CEO, which has never even been on my radar. I’m bouncing between all these ideas, struggling. You want me at home. You want me to run a company. It’s so confusing.” I stop, tears threatening, and I force back a sob. “You’ve got to let me make my own decisions, take my own risks, and make my own mistakes, and let me learn from them. I need to walk before I can run, Christian, don’t you see. I want some independence. That’s what my name means to me.” There, that’s what I wanted to say this afternoon. “You feel railroaded?” he whispers. I nod. He closes his eyes and runs his hand through his hair in agitation. “I just want to give you the world, Ana, everything and anything you want. And save you from it, too. Keep you safe. But I also want everyone to know you’re mine. I pan- icked today when I got your e-mail. Why didn’t you tell me about your name?” I flush. He has a point. “I only thought about it while we were on our honeymoon, and well, I didn’t want to burst the bubble, and


skiing holiday before you dismantle them," said Frankie, acidly. "Skiing holiday!" cried the old man. "Those glaciers are works of art! Elegantly sculptured contours, soaring pinnacles of ice, deep majestic ravines! It would be sacrilege to go skiing on high art!" "Thank you Slartibartfast," said Benji firmly. "That will be all." "Yes sir," said the old man coldly, "thank you very much. Well, goodbye Earthman," he said to Arthur, "hope the lifestyle comes together." With a brief nod to the rest of the company he turned and walked sadly out of the room. Arthur stared after him not knowing what to say. "Now," said Benji mouse, "to business." Ford and Zaphod clinked their glasses together. "To business!" they said. "I beg your pardon?" said Benji. Ford looked round. "Sorry, I thought you were proposing a toast," he said. The two mice scuttled impatiently around in their glass transports. Finally they composed themselves, and Benji moved forward to address Arthur. "Now, Earth creature," he said, "the situation we have in effect is this. We have, as you know, been more or less running your planet for the last ten million years in order to find this wretched thing called the Ultimate Question." "Why?" said Arthur, sharply. "No - we already thought of that one," said Frankie interrupting, "but it doesn't fit the answer. Why? - Forty-Two ... you see, it doesn't work." "No," said Arthur, "I mean why have you been doing it?" "Oh, I see," said Frankie. "Well, eventually just habit I think, to be brutally honest. And this is more or less the point - we're sick to the teeth with the whole thing, and the prospect of doing it all over again on account of those whinnet-ridden Vogons quite frankly gives me the screaming heeby jeebies, you know what I mean? It was by the merest lucky chance that Benji and I finished our particular job and left the planet early for a quick holiday, and have since manipulated our way back to Magrathea by the good offices of your friends." "Magrathea is a gateway back to our own dimension," put in Benji. "Since when," continued his murine colleague, "we have had an offer of a quite enormously fat contract to do the 5D chat show and lecture circuit back in our own dimensional neck of the woods, and we're very much inclined to take it." "I would, wouldn't you Ford?" said Zaphod promptingly. "Oh yes," said Ford, "jump at it, like a shot." Arthur glanced at them, wondering what all this was leading up to. "But we've got to have a product you see," said Frankie, "I mean ideally we still need the Ultimate Question in some form or other." Zaphod leaned forward to Arthur. "You see," he said, "if they're just sitting there in the studio looking very relaxed and, you know, just mentioning that they happen to know the Answer to Life, the Universe and Everything, and then eventually have to admit that in fact it's Forty-two, then the show's probably quite short. No follow-up, you see."


right out and he said he'd think of it. But Mr. Russell told him yesterday that the bank was all right." Anne had her good day in the companionship of the outdoor world. She never forgot that day; it was so bright and golden and fair, so free from shadow and so lavish of blossom. Anne spent some of its rich hours in the orchard; she went to the Dryad's Bubble and Willowmere and Violet Vale; she called at the manse and had a satisfying talk with Mrs. Allan; and finally in the evening she went with Matthew for the cows, through Lovers' Lane to the back pasture. The woods were all gloried through with sunset and the warm splendor of it streamed down through the hill gaps in the west. Matthew walked slowly with bent head; Anne, tall and erect, suited her springing step to his. "You've been working too hard today, Matthew," she said reproachfully. "Why won't you take things easier?" "Well now, I can't seem to," said Matthew, as he opened the yard gate to let the cows through. "It's only that I'm getting old, Anne, and keep forgetting it. Well, well, I've always worked pretty hard and I'd rather drop in harness." "If I had been the boy you sent for," said Anne wistfully, "I'd be able to help you so much now and spare you in a hundred ways. I could find it in my heart to wish I had been, just for that." "Well now, I'd rather have you than a dozen boys, Anne," said Matthew patting her hand. "Just mind you thatrather than a dozen boys. Well now, I guess it wasn't a boy that took the Avery scholarship, was it? It was a girl-my girl-my girl that I'm proud of." He smiled his shy smile at her as he went into the yard. Anne took the memory of it with her when she went to her room that night and sat for a long while at her open window, thinking of the past and dreaming of the future. Outside the Snow Queen was mistily white in the moonshine; the frogs were singing in the marsh beyond Orchard Slope. Anne always remembered the silvery, peaceful beauty and fragrant calm of that night. It was the last night before sorrow touched her life; and no life is ever quite the same again when once that cold, sanctifying touch has been laid upon it. 37. The Reaper Whose Name Is Death "Matthew-Matthew-what is the matter? Matthew, are you sick?" It was Marilla who spoke, alarm in every jerky word. Anne came through the hall, her hands full of white narcissus,-it was long before Anne could love the sight or odor of white narcissus again,-in time to hear her and to see Matthew standing in the porch doorway, a folded paper in his hand, and his face strangely drawn and gray. Anne dropped her flowers and sprang across the kitchen to him at the same moment as Marilla. They were both too late; before they could reach him


athletic, able to trek across the snow regardless of their occupation. Liza’s duties required her to be at the hospital throughout the winter and since there were no vehicles for personal use, her walk to work alone was often a perilous expedition. Gone was the softness about her body that she’d once tried to lose with gyms and spin classes, replaced with a far deeper and more complete physical strength she’d only known in the rowers and track athletes at her college. Her features were sharper, her auburn hair longer than before for no reason other than it kept her neck warm. If her parents had been alive, they’d barely have recognized her from the young woman they’d said goodbye to. A nurse ran into the staff office, calling out for help: ‘Hypothermia. It’s a child. He’s going into cardiac arrest.’ Liza took the call for help, hurrying towards the emergency response unit. Staffing in Hospital One operated by a grid of expertise, but with perpetual staffing shortages anyone could be called upon for any emergency. No matter their medical background, cosmetic surgery or dentistry, every member of staff was an expert on hypothermia – the most common cause of death on the continent. When the body’s temperature dropped from ninety-eight, the hypothalamus slowed the blood flow to the heart and liver because those organs used the most heat, the human body’s desperate attempt to keep the brain alive. ‘Core temperature?’ ‘Eighty-three.’ At this temperature consciousness would be impaired, vital signs hard to detect. Entering the emergency room, Liza saw a young boy on the operating table. His skin was red, his eyes were closed – his chest wasn’t moving. From countless encounters with hypothermia, she could judge in an instant the child’s chances, and in this case she knew that she’d struggle to save this boy. Skipping over the initial-response treatments, she opted for the most extreme measures – a peritoneal lavage, a mechanism to directly warm the abdominal cavity. As she readied the procedure she spoke to the boy as though he were alive and well: ‘Hey there, young man, I need you to open your eyes and tell me your name.’ He didn’t reply, didn’t open his eyes. With the peritoneal lavage complete, using warm saline, and still no sign of him waking, the nurse began to shake her head, indicating the child was lost. Refusing to accept this, Liza placed her warm hands firmly on his cold cheeks and whispered into his ear: ‘Young man, listen to me very carefully, your mother is waiting outside to see you. I need you to open your eyes.’ To everyone’s surprise the little boy’s eyes opened. He didn’t know his name. He didn’t know where he was. He claimed to be hot and wanted to cool down. A common trait among people suffering severe hypothermia was to strip naked, as their brains became confused. He was one of the lucky ones, brought back from the brink, and Liza’s reputation as one of the most skilful doctors in town was confirmed. She


for Gilbert Blythe, she would not even look at him. She would NEVER look at him again! She would never speak to him!! When school was dismissed Anne marched out with her red head held high. Gilbert Blythe tried to intercept her at the porch door. "I'm awfully sorry I made fun of your hair, Anne," he whispered contritely. "Honest I am. Don't be mad for keeps, now" Anne swept by disdainfully, without look or sign of hearing. "Oh how could you, Anne?" breathed Diana as they went down the road half reproachfully, half admiringly. Diana felt that SHE could never have resisted Gilbert's plea. "I shall never forgive Gilbert Blythe," said Anne firmly. "And Mr. Phillips spelled my name without an e, too. The iron has entered into my soul, Diana." Diana hadn't the least idea what Anne meant but she understood it was something terrible. "You mustn't mind Gilbert making fun of your hair," she said soothingly. "Why, he makes fun of all the girls. He laughs at mine because it's so black. He's called me a crow a dozen times; and I never heard him apologize for anything before, either." "There's a great deal of difference between being called a crow and being called carrots," said Anne with dignity. "Gilbert Blythe has hurt my feelings EXCRUCIATINGLY, Diana." It is possible the matter might have blown over without more excruciation if nothing else had happened. But when things begin to happen they are apt to keep on. Avonlea scholars often spent noon hour picking gum in Mr. Bell's spruce grove over the hill and across his big pasture field. From there they could keep an eye on Eben Wright's house, where the master boarded. When they saw Mr. Phillips emerging therefrom they ran for the schoolhouse; but the distance being about three times longer than Mr. Wright's lane they were very apt to arrive there, breathless and gasping, some three minutes too late. On the following day Mr. Phillips was seized with one of his spasmodic fits of reform and announced before going home to dinner, that he should expect to find all the scholars in their seats when he returned. Anyone who came in late would be punished. All the boys and some of the girls went to Mr. Bell's spruce grove as usual, fully intending to stay only long enough to "pick a chew." But spruce groves are seductive and yellow nuts of gum beguiling; they picked and loitered and strayed; and as usual the first thing that recalled them to a sense of the flight of time was Jimmy Glover shouting from the top of a patriarchal old spruce "Master's coming." The girls who were on the ground, started first and managed to reach the schoolhouse in time but without a second to spare. The boys, who had to wriggle hastily down from the trees, were later; and Anne, who had not been picking gum at all but was wandering happily in the far end of the grove, waist deep among the bracken, singing softly to herself,


Let’s get up to the bridge.” Akari was waiting for us at the entrance into the bridge. “We have a problem, Captain.” “If I had a dollar for every time I heard those five words …” I mumbled. “What is it?” “Two things. First, Wrath and Portent are on the move, making their way through the asteroid field toward us.” “I thought it was too dangerous … asteroid fragments and all.” “That brings up the second thing. Captain Loggins has informed us that those red ships all lined up along the fringe of the field … Well, they’ve deployed more frigates. They’re entering the asteroid field as we speak.” I looked to Hardy. “Four good-sized frigates. They’re taking a beating but making good headway, close on the heels of Wrath and Portent.” “There’s something else, Captain,” Akari said. But I was already staring past her to the halo display at the front of the bridge. That faint yellow nanite cloud had drifted and was now virtually on top of two of the three conjoining spaceways. “Dammit, why didn’t you hail me!” I said, hurrying toward the captain’s mount, Akari and Hardy right behind. “I did, multiple times. You didn’t hear Sir Calvin over the PA?” Sir Calvin’s blaring overhead voice had been a constant assault upon my ears ever since I’d arrived back on Adams. Crew directives, reminders on the limitations of personal items, which groups of crew members were to use which spaceway … I must have tuned him out after a while. With a quick glance down at my Jadoo ring, I saw I had multiple messages waiting. “Sorry …” I took a seat and tried to think. “Where’s Polk?” Hardy said, “Tinkling … Zone D, Deck 26, Head 34, Stall 3.” Both Akari and I looked up to Hardy. “Way, way, way too much information, Hardy!” Akari balked. “Oop, she’s washing her hands now,” Hardy added. “Woman’s got excellent hygiene.” “I need to know the overall progress of the move. Can you tell me that, Hardy, in between spying on crew members’ bathroom habits?” “Progress has been slow but steady. I’d venture a guess that 85.7 percent of Adams’ crew have completed the transfer over to Lincoln. Coogong is busy quansporting heavy equipment, while Sonya, now up on the Symbio Decks—” “Wait, are you saying Sonya is back on Adams?” I abruptly asked. Hardy’s faceplate display suddenly changed to fluttering butterflies in that same pastoral meadow I saw earlier. “She better not have quansported over.” “Wait. The quansporter is working?” Akari said. Hardy did one of his awkward shrug things. “I refuse to answer on the grounds it may incriminate me.” “Knock it off. Where is Sonya now?” “Deck 37. She’s helping Ensign Plorinne with the quansporting of Symbio sleeping pods. Not an insubstantial task, I might add.” “At least she’s not quansporting humans,” I said. Hardy’s faceplate went black. He said nothing. “What are you not telling me?” “It’s understandable; the girl has deep-seated loyalties.” “Spill it, Hardy.” “The Pylors … Sloppy Joe, Little Vince, and the thirty


Christina Lauren - The True Love Experiment.txt

Aiden R.?” she continues. I nod, because there are, like, four Aidens in her class. “He likes Stevie, and they always sit together at lunch, but today Stevie was assigned to Indonesia for World Cultures Day with Eric, and Aiden was quiet-sad the same way Mr. Prince was tonight.” “Oh yeah? How’s that?” She points to her face. “You know how boys clench their jaw like this?” She does a pretty solid impression. “He was doing that and just, like, ignoring her at lunch. But it wasn’t like Stevie had a choice about who she does World Cultures Day with. It’s assigned.” “Right,” I agree sympathetically. Ugh, this metaphor is pretty great. I redirect: “Who did you get assigned to work with?” “Kyle Pyun,” she says, and gives a vague grimace. “He’s really hyper but at least he gets good grades.” “Totally.” I lean in, grinning. “Is he cute?” Juno looks genuinely disgusted. “Auntie Fizzy, we’re in fifth grade.” “I’m not asking if you’re engaged, Junebug, just whether he’s got potential.” “Mom says boys are dumb until high school.” “Wow, that’s generous.” “So if Isaac wins,” Juno says, doing her own redirection, “does he get money or something?” “In theory he gets me.” She laughs like this is funny. “Yeah but… you know. Like a real prize.” Pressing my lips together, I give her a flat “I get to choose who I’m taking to Fiji, and there’s a cash prize for the Hero who wins the most votes, if that’s what you mean.” Her eyes are planets. “A trip together?” I nod. “Sleeping in the same room?” “We can have separate rooms if we want.” Juno’s lip curls a little. “Would you want to share a room with him?” “I’m not averse to sharing a room, but I’m not sure I want to share it with him yet. It will be our decision once we get there.” She nods, looking to the side, thinking. I look down at my phone. It’s almost nine. Time for River to come get her and save me from this laser interrogation. “What if Lucas Ayad was one of the contestants?” she asks. I playfully scowl at the mention of my favorite Wonderland member. “I mean obviously if Lucas was a contestant and he didn’t win fairly, I’d invent a time machine to go back and rig the results.” “We should start a petition to write him in,” she says. “Tell everyone to start tagging Lucas Ayad in the votes.” “You just want that so I don’t marry Suchin and steal him from you.” Juno beams. “Suchin belongs to me, he just doesn’t know it yet.” This kid cracks me up. “How can you talk about Suchin like this but can’t even tell me whether World Cultures Day Kyle is cute?” “Because I actually know Kyle—gross.” She leans in now, too. “But what if we vote for Mr. Prince?” I knew her checkmate was coming, but it still catches me unaware. “I knew you were up to something, you little shi—” I pull back just in time,


her glass. “I look marvelous.” Naturally she had business to take care of. Once the ball was underway, she’d begun surreptitiously gathering her actresses, sending them circling around the ballroom, knocking over drinks, upsetting supper plates, causing confusion. “Movement,” Winnie had said when they were going over the program for the evening. “We must have constant and immediate movement. We need people away from the windows, eyes on the entertainment. We’ve got ropes going up the eastern side of the house. We can’t have anyone spotting that.” “I’ve got it,” Hephzibah had said. Winnie had made her apologies half a dozen times, but Hephzibah still wouldn’t meet her eye. “Don’t fuss.” There was no delay to the dancing, no wallflowers spoiling the mood: Hephzibah’s actresses saw to that. I might join in, Hephzibah thought, a splendid fog descending over her vision. She saw her men leading women to the ballroom floor, music swelling. They looked like sea anemones, billowing into each other’s arms, pulsing. It was a waltz, a fast one. It made the blood start pumping in the veins. I need more champagne, she decided. And more jelly. She spied a boy gawking at her from the corner of the room. A lamp-trimmer, she assumed, or an urchin kept for running errands. He had a pointed, weaselly face, and he was keeping himself carefully out of view from the other servants. In the normal course of events, Hephzibah might have flicked him half a crown for trying his luck upstairs. But this wasn’t the time for unkempt boys to be scuttling around the house. They’d made no allowances in the plan for that. And she didn’t like the way he was staring at her. One of Hephzibah’s actresses came whirling past, a profusion of taffeta and silks. “Goodness gracious!” she cried, throwing her champagne glass to the floor, where it shattered in all directions. “Enough chaos for you, dear?” she muttered to Hephzibah as the waiters hurried to clean it up, the dancers surging around them. The boy’s eyes narrowed. Have I been rumbled? Hephzibah wondered, with a prickling of alarm. “Boy!” she exclaimed, sidestepping the actress. “Fetch me a drink!” Perhaps her voice came out a little louder than she’d intended. An under-footman or a waiter glided up, tray in hand. “Madam,” he said, blocking her path. She dodged. “That little boy can fetch it for me,” she said. “He needs teaching a lesson. He made a face at me. He is a cheeky rodent.” I never, mouthed the boy. “Tell him...tell him to go down to the kitchen and fetch me a...cold flannel!” Oh, I do feel a little dizzy, she thought. Perhaps it was the heat. Or the champagne. Surely she could leave her actresses to manage things, just for a moment. “Here, help me,” she said, lurching forward, grabbing the boy by his shoulder. He wriggled furiously underneath her. “Get me to a chair.” The footmen had glanced at each other, then at the crowd. “Help Her Grace into the Boiserie,” one said to the boy. “I’ll


from me—” “Don’t gaslight me.” I can feel my heartbeat in my throat. My face feels terribly hot, tight; my head dizzy. Reality is careening away from me, and I’m only hanging on by a thread. All I know—all I can hold on to—is the revelation that Diana did this to me. It’s been Diana all along. “I know what you’re doing. I know it’s you—” “Jesus Christ.” Diana’s arm trembles, but she doesn’t spray me. “What are you talking about?” “Those are her boots. Her shawl.” I almost choke, I’m so angry. Was it Diana that first night at Politics and Prose? Was it Diana at Coco’s? Has she been fucking with me for months? I think back to that rant she gave at the panel in Virginia, to all those interviews and blog pieces she’s put out about me since. The woman is obsessed with me. Is this all some perverse art project for her? The Haunting of Juniper Song? “Hold on.” Diana lowers the can. “Do you think I’m trying to dress up like Athena Liu?” “You can’t pretend,” I insist. “You’re dressed up like her; you’re stalking me—” “These are my boots,” says Diana. “These are my clothes. And I’m walking by Saxby’s because I fucking live here, you psycho.” “I’m not a psycho—” “Not all Asian women look the same,” Diana snarls. “Is that so hard to comprehend, you crazy bitch?” I almost slap her then. “I’m not crazy.” But up close, all the resemblances fall apart. Those aren’t Athena’s boots—Athena’s favorite Uggs were brown, with tassels. Diana’s are black, with buckles and stiletto heels. Diana’s hair is blunt and straight-edged, not loosely curled. She’s wearing hoops, not emerald danglers. Her lipstick is far, far brighter than anything Athena would ever wear. She doesn’t look like Athena. She doesn’t look like her at all. What on earth did I see in that café window? “I’m not crazy.” But I can think of no evidence otherwise. I can’t trust my eyes. I can’t trust my memory. All the fight goes out of me then, and my chest sags; the air lets out. My voice cracks. “I’m not.” Diana watches me for a long moment, her face a mix of curiosity, pity, and disgust. At last, she places the pepper spray back in her bag. “Jesus,” she mutters, then hurries away from me, glancing over her shoulder with every other step as if making sure I don’t follow. “You need help.” SOMEHOW I MANAGE TO COLLECT MY THINGS FROM SAXBY’S AND head home. My Uber driver must think I’m drunk—I’m breathing hard and I can’t stop reeling, clutching the armrest like it’s the only thing that will keep me from toppling over. My mind keeps replaying the encounter with Diana. My fingers digging into her shoulders. Her pepper spray. The disgust in her eyes, the fear. For a moment there, she really thought I was going to attack her. I can’t believe I did that. There’s no excuse. No explanation. I accosted someone in broad daylight. I run for


making mocking grimaces at it. Sabor paced back and forth beneath the tree for hours; four times she crouched and sprang at the dancing sprite above her, but might as well have clutched at the illusive wind that murmured through the tree tops. At last Tarzan tired of the sport, and with a parting roar of challenge and a well-aimed ripe fruit that spread soft and sticky over the snarling face of his enemy, he swung rapidly through the trees, a hundred feet above the ground, and in a short time was among the members of his tribe. Here he recounted the details of his adventure, with swelling chest and so considerable swagger that he quite impressed even his bitterest enemies, while Kala fairly danced for joy and pride. Chapter 9 Man and Man Tarzan of the Apes lived on in his wild, jungle existence with little change for several years, only that he grew stronger and wiser, and learned from his books more and more of the strange worlds which lay somewhere outside his primeval forest. To him life was never monotonous or stale. There was always Pisah, the fish, to be caught in the many streams and the little lakes, and Sabor, with her ferocious cousins to keep one ever on the alert and give zest to every instant that one spent upon the ground. Often they hunted him, and more often he hunted them, but though they never quite reached him with those cruel, sharp claws of theirs, yet there were times when one could scarce have passed a thick leaf between their talons and his smooth hide. Quick was Sabor, the lioness, and quick were Numa and Sheeta, but Tarzan of the Apes was lightning. With Tantor, the elephant, he made friends. How? Ask not. But this is known to the denizens of the jungle, that on many moonlight nights Tarzan of the Apes and Tantor, the elephant, walked together, and where the way was clear Tarzan rode, perched high upon Tantor's mighty back. Many days during these years he spent in the cabin of his father, where still lay, untouched, the bones of his parents and the skeleton of Kala's baby. At eighteen he read fluently and understood nearly all he read in the many and varied volumes on the shelves. Also could he write, with printed letters, rapidly and plainly, but script he had not mastered, for though there were several copy books among his treasure, there was so little written English in the cabin that he saw no use for bothering with this other form of writing, though he could read it, laboriously. Thus, at eighteen, we find him, an English lordling, who could speak no English, and yet who could read and write his native language. Never had he seen a human being other than himself, for the little area traversed by his tribe was watered by no greater river to bring down the savage natives of the interior. Chapter 9 46 High hills shut it off on three sides, the ocean on the


it can be linked to any other shootings.” He envisions his wife, so calm and collected as Brody bled out beside her on the floor. Sure, she was no stranger to trauma, but after coming so close to taking a bullet to her face, she wasn’t even rattled. And how she so easily put on a show of doing compressions for the first responders, as if she’d been trying desperately to save Carr’s life. What was she afraid would happen if Carr lived? Out of nowhere, their marriage therapist’s words pop into his mind. Think the best of each other, not the worst. Sloane had been telling the truth about Brody attacking her in their garage. She probably just didn’t want to live with the threat of him coming after her again. If that was the case, he can’t say he blames her. The detective stands from her chair. “Thanks for your cooperation, detective. As you know, you’ll be on leave until we, and King County Major crimes, conclude our investigations. I’ll let you know by email if I have any more questions. You can meet your wife outside in the hall.” She opens the door, waiting for Ethan and the police guild representative to exit first. Ethan follows the guild rep out of the room. Sloane is leaning against the wall, still wearing her scrubs, which are now stained with blood. Jonah is standing beside her. Her eyes look red from crying, a stark contrast to her cool and collected demeanor after Ethan shot Brody. He thinks back to the instant before he pulled the trigger. Seeing Brody lift his gun toward Sloane’s terrified face. He couldn’t lose her. He loves her, despite everything. She grabs his hand. “Let’s go home.” But can he trust her? Jonah slaps Ethan on the shoulder. “Everything’s gonna be okay. I’ll drive you two.” Ethan wants to believe his partner’s words as Jonah leads the way down the hall toward the exit. As they move down the quiet hallway Sloane squeezes his hand, and he feels himself squeeze hers back. Maybe this was their chance. To put the past behind them. And start fresh. Chapter 47 Five Weeks Later Sloane wakes to the sensation of Ethan’s lips on hers. Her eyes flutter open, and she smiles when he pulls away. The early morning sunlight filtering in through their drawn bedroom curtains is enough for Sloane to see he’s already dressed for work. “I’ll see you tonight,” he says. She reaches behind his head and draws him toward her for another kiss. “Bye, detective.” She yawns as he pushes himself off their bed, straightening his suit as he heads for the door. “I love you.” He turns. “I love you, too.” Sloane sits up in bed when she hears the garage door open, knowing she won’t be able to go back to sleep. She lifts her phone from her nightstand to check the time. She has over four hours before she meets Kay for lunch. She throws back her comforter and pulls on her silk robe


A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man.txt

an intense sense of power to know that he could, by a single act of consent, in a moment of thought, undo all that he had done. He seemed to feel a flood slowly advancing towards his naked feet and to be waiting for the first faint timid noiseless wavelet to touch his fevered skin. Then, almost at the instant of that touch, almost at the verge of sinful consent, he found himself standing far away from the flood upon a dry shore, saved by a sudden act of the will or a sudden ejaculation; and, seeing the silver line of the flood far away and beginning again its slow advance towards his feet, a new thrill of power and satisfaction shook his soul to know that he had not yielded nor undone all. When he had eluded the flood of temptation many times in this way he grew troubled and wondered whether the grace which he had refused to lose was not being filched from him little by little. The clear certitude of his own immunity grew dim and to it succeeded a vague fear that his soul had really fallen unawares. It was with difficulty that he won back his old consciousness of his state of grace by telling himself that he had prayed to God at every temptation and that the grace which he had prayed for must have been given to him inasmuch as God was obliged to give it. The very frequency and violence of temptations showed him at last the truth of what he had heard about the trials of the saints. Frequent and violent temptations were a proof that the citadel of the soul had not fallen and that the devil raged to make it fall. Often when he had confessed his doubts and scruples--some momentary inattention at prayer, a movement of trivial anger in his soul, or a subtle wilfulness in speech or act--he was bidden by his confessor to name some sin of his past life before absolution was given him. He named it with humility and shame and repented of it once more. It humiliated and shamed him to think that he would never be freed from it wholly, however holily he might live or whatever virtues or perfections he might attain. A restless feeling of guilt would always be present with him: he would confess and repent and be absolved, confess and repent again and be absolved again, fruitlessly. Perhaps that first hasty confession wrung from him by the fear of hell had not been good? Perhaps, concerned only for his imminent doom, he had not had sincere sorrow for his sin? But the surest sign that his confession had been good and that he had had sincere sorrow for his sin was, he knew, the amendment of his life. --I have amended my life, have I not? he asked himself. * * * * * The director stood in the embrasure of the window, his back to the light, leaning an elbow on the brown crossblind, and, as he spoke


secret, he knows that. He has to tell McKinnon after he goes through the records. Then, he’ll get kicked off the case—and the whole department will know why. He’ll have to trust that Jonah will do what’s necessary to ensure that the rich asshole gets what’s coming to him. But first, he needs to know how long it was going on. How often Sloane was communicating with her sex-offender lover. Ethan flips to the third page, still not having seen Sloane’s number on Carr’s call logs. He feels only slight relief that the affair has been going on less than two months. The shorter the fling, the less likely it seems Sloane could have been involved in the murder of Carr’s wife. If the case goes to trial, there will be no way to keep the affair out of the media. Even with Sloane wanting his forgiveness, he doubts their marriage will survive it. By the bottom of the fourth page, he still hasn’t spotted Sloane’s number. Unable to take it any longer, he digs through the pages until he finds the date of Sloane’s hospital award ceremony. He runs his finger down the list of numbers called that day. There was a two-minute call at 3:16 p.m. and not another call until 7:58 p.m. that night. Ethan stares at the date at the top of the page. He doesn’t have it wrong. And it had to have been between five and six p.m. when he heard Sloane on the phone in their bathroom. So, where is it? He skims through the text messages from that day. If they were talking on the phone, and sleeping together, they had to be texting too. But there was nothing to or from Sloane’s number. Ethan scans the next several pages. Still nothing. He lifts his phone from the desk and calls Jonah, who answers on the second ring. “Hey,” Ethan says. “Are these all the phone records from Brody Carr?” “That’s the only cell phone account in his name. I double checked. Why?” Ethan puts his hand to his forehead, staring at the papers splayed across his desk. It would be better for Sloane if they don’t find them, but he needs to know. Plus, if Carr had an unregistered number, there was likely much more damning evidence on it than his affair with Ethan’s wife. “I guess I expected a guy like that to have more than one number, you know?” “If he does, there’s no record of it.” “Huh. Okay, thanks. I’ll keep looking through these. Let me know what you learn from the divorce attorney. And how it goes with the dive team.” Ethan hangs up and goes through each page again. Certain that Sloane’s number isn’t anywhere in Carr’s cell records, he rubs his eyes. He thinks about her phone ringing when he came home earlier, and how quick she was to decline the call. His desk phone rings, bringing him back to the present. “Detective Marks.” “Ethan, it’s Pete.” He recognizes the medical examiner’s gravelly voice. “I wanted to


It was the first time he’d struck out at her in months, and she almost enjoyed the blow, because it was real. “I’ll stop looking for historical work. I’ll be more open. I’ll do landscaping.” “You’d hate that.” “Then I’ll hate it.” “Is something going on with that guy?” “No.” “Okay. I trust you. And you can trust me.” “Why? What’s changed?” “I don’t want to lose you, Maud.” But I’m already gone, she thought. I left long ago and I never came back. And I never will. “We’ll talk about it when I’m home at the end of August, like we said.” “Why can’t we talk about it when I visit?” “Because that’s not what we agreed to. We can’t have the conversation with the girls around.” “Don’t ruin our life over one mistake.” “I thought you slept with her twice,” Maud said, unable to stop herself. “You know what I mean.” After she hung up, she walked across the porch to look more closely at the nest. She recognized the hexagons made by paper wasps—they wouldn’t sting the girls, so she decided to let them be. That weekend, she took Ella and Louise to the city. On the boat to Ellis Island, she thought about Gabriel. In the kaleidoscope of the gem room at the Museum of Natural History, moving up and down on a carousel horse in Central Park, and walking along the High Line, she thought about Gabriel. This place is a desert without you, he texted. “Bathing suit time,” she told Ella on Sunday morning, as people bearing shopping bags rushed by them on the sidewalk. “Your period must be over by now. You can’t keep sitting around doing nothing at camp when everyone’s swimming.” “Fine,” Ella muttered. They were standing on Fifth Avenue in front of the flagship store of a clothing chain that Ella liked and Maud didn’t, a source of previous shopping conflicts. “I’d think you’d be happy I brought you here,” Maud said, opening the door. “I don’t feel like getting a bathing suit.” “You can buy a few other things too.” Maud’s impression of the clothing chain as overpriced, cult-like, and ridiculous (it had an urban cowboy theme) was not lessened by the sight of two shirtless white boys in ten-gallon hats who greeted them as they walked inside. “Yuck,” Louise whispered. “Agreed,” Maud whispered back, although there was no need to lower her voice given the cowpunk music blaring through the store. Ella gave the boys a nervous wave, then beelined for a wall of T-shirts. Maud stifled her opinions about the clothes that Ella heaped into her arms: a bandanna repurposed as a tank top, jeans that seemed to have passed several times through a shredder. Later, though, in the dressing room, when Ella parted the curtain to show them her first selection, Maud almost gasped as Louise applauded. In a spaghetti-strap sundress, her thick hair flooding her bare shoulders, her body all soft, delicate lines, Ella was stunningly beautiful. “You look amazing,” Maud said. “Do you feel good in


keep the tears from coming down my cheeks but found it impossible. “Lanie, what’s wrong?” I shook my head. “I do not deserve your kindness. I don’t now and I didn’t then.” He hadn’t said anything about my apology after we were interrupted and, while part of me wanted to let it lie, another part just had to know what he was feeling. “You lost your job!” I said, sniffling. He rubbed the stubble on his chin, as if he was thinking. “Yeah. But you would have lost your scholarship. I took the blame willingly. That was on me.” Hearing him say that made me smile just the tiniest bit, and I thought that maybe we were okay. But, as the rain pounded on the tin roof of the sailing hut, Rich’s face clouded, and he turned away from me. “See,” I said softly. “I knew you were still mad.” “It wasn’t the drinking ticket that pissed me off,” he started. He turned back to me. “It was how you handled the aftermath. I mean, what the hell, Lanier?” I hated when he called me Lanier. I felt like a child being scolded, which, let’s face it: I kind of deserved. “I got not talking to me in the cop car. But not responding to my letters? I felt like I had done the most chivalrous thing in the world, had proven my love for you in a big way, and you just ghosted me!” Shame washed over me anew. “I know,” I whispered. I moved closer to him, feeling like I was stepping into dangerous territory but unable to resist. “I was so ashamed I couldn’t bring myself to open your letters.” “You didn’t make Daphne do it? It could have been your ‘hard thing.’ ” He was attempting a joke, but it didn’t feel like one. I took a deep breath. “I couldn’t bear to open the letters. I was too afraid of what they might say. I imagined how, after camp, I would just show up at your fraternity house, unannounced. I would apologize. I would beg for your forgiveness. I would tell you how broken up I was inside and ashamed that I didn’t take responsibility for my actions, that I let you take the blame for something that wasn’t your fault. And, as a result, ironically, I didn’t take responsibility for my actions again.” “So what stopped you?” “The same thing that stopped me from opening your letters. I thought you hated me,” I said. “But if I didn’t see you, if you didn’t tell me, then I’d never know for sure.” “Lanier, do you know what those letters said?” I shook my head. “They said I loved you, that I forgave you, that I would wait for you forever.” Rich was so close now that I could feel his breath, his steady inhale and exhale. “They said I would always protect you, always keep you safe, and if getting a stupid drinking ticket was a way I could prove that, then I would do it a


all perfect and impressive. I watch as she helps a sunny Irish Traveller girl named Mary wrestle a tent key into a pole. “Don’t be scared of it,” Celine says firmly. “It’s not going to break.” “It’ll break my damn nose if I let go,” Mary huffs. “Then don’t let go,” is Celine’s sweet-as-honey response. She doesn’t seem bothered by the rain; she’s taken her coat off and wrapped it around her waist. Her hoodie’s unzipped and her collarbone is gleaming wet. A few braids have slipped out of her ponytail but her black eyeliner—two wings per eye, like a butterfly—is sharp and clean and as unbothered as she is. “Mate,” Raj says in this very weird tone of voice, “isn’t that your cousin?” “No,” I reply, watching Celine corral tent poles as if they were rogue boa constrictors. “Oh.” He sounds relieved but still dubious. Relubious. “It’s just, Thomas said—” “No,” I repeat. Sorry, Thomas, but the cousin lie is no longer working for me. I blink, realize I’m staring, and turn away. “But you do know her?” Raj asks, watching me with this one-sided, flickering smile. “No. I mean, yeah. Yeah, I know her. We go to the same school, remember?” And that’s it. She’s not even talking to me, so I’m definitely not thinking about her. I know I asked if we could be normal—which, in hindsight, seems like such a pathetic attempt at begging for friendship—and she said yes, but I bet she regrets it. I bet it didn’t feel like her heart was a fist unclenching. I bet she’s going to come over here and say— “Bradley?” My head jerks up. Celine. “Can we talk?” I ignore her butterfly eyes and nod. “Okay.” Raj grins as Celine and I crawl into the tent. Inside, Celine headbutts the saggy part of our roof like a fault-seeking missile and looks at me. “Um.” “Don’t judge.” She rolls her eyes, but the action is more amused than scathing. Weird. Very weird. “I thought you were pissed at me,” I blurt, then instantly regret it. Why would I mention that? I could honestly sink into a hole. Celine blinks and echoes my thoughts. “Why?” “We didn’t talk. Yesterday.” Her brow furrows, like you could press a fingertip between her eyes and smooth the creases out. In this shadowy, raindrop-stained blue universe, she is very soft and dark, like falling into bed at night after a long, hard day. “I didn’t think we needed to talk. You said…not-enemies.” So she wasn’t ignoring me—just being infuriatingly literal and pragmatic and other Celine-like qualities. “Typical. I put my pride on the line to negotiate an historic peace treaty and you can’t even tell me good morning?” “Do you hear yourself?” she asks me curiously. “Like, when you speak? Or is it just noise?” I’m going to strangle her. “Why do you look like you’ve got gas?” she asks. I rub a hand over my face. “You know what I admire about you, Celine? Your class and sophistication.” She snorts. “Bite me.” “No, it’s impressive.


certainly Amy could, too. I said, “We won’t have a chance to name Denny Bloch, then.” “I know, I know,” she said. “But at this point, I think it dilutes the case.” She sounded so careful, so conciliatory. Not for the first time, I worried Amy thought I was hung up on my own agenda. I said, “Can I come watch the proceedings, then?” I already knew the answer: I’d be a distraction there, too. What she said, though, was “You’re still on our list; nothing’s definite. If you can stay in town that’s great, and you’re still sequestered.” “Right.” “We’ll probably rest late Monday or early Tuesday, and then you can go.” I calculated that I could use the next few days as a writing retreat. I was deep into my research on Marion Wong and the Mandarin Film company. I could lose myself in that all day. But writing time was a sorry consolation prize. All I wanted was to be on the stand. Your name had been sitting in my throat for four years, waiting to get out. I’d been waiting four years to see Omar, to look him in the eyes. I didn’t want or expect anything from him; I just wanted to see his face. I lay on the bed a long time, listening to the elevator let people off on other floors. 12 I sat on my cracked balcony chair in my coat that evening, staring out at the long, snowy lawn and the river it sloped to. A gazebo partway down, one that might have been used for weddings in summer, sat desolate—a place to break up with someone. The sun was setting, lending everything a golden glaze and a flimsy illusion of warmth. Jerome had texted to wish me luck tomorrow, and I didn’t know how to explain that I was out here for nothing. Yahav, following the case closely via Twitter and getting updates from Alder, didn’t need to be told; not long after I hung up with Amy, he’d texted, They might feel it’s a risk now to put you up there. Any word? I was thinking of going inside when a man came into view, pacing by the river and talking on his phone. I was fairly sure it was Geoff Richler, although this person strode confidently, with purpose, and didn’t slouch like the teenager I’d known. He wore a fleece, but his shoulders seemed built for a blazer. They were architectural supports that something expensive ought to hang from. When he returned the phone to his pocket, I called out and yes, it was Geoff; here he came leaping up the lawn. He jumped and tried to catch the lower rim of the balcony, which didn’t work the first time but worked the second—and then he was hauling himself up, getting his whole body not over the railing but outside of it, so he stood face-to-face with me, the railing between us. I put my hands on his shoulders and squeezed. He couldn’t hug me back without letting go of