”“If you expect me to apologise for myself, you’ve got a long wait coming. Before I covered his face I tried to close his eyes, but of course the lids were frozen in place. There would be—should be—driftwood floating in the slow, late-summer current, coming to rest on shoals; and I’m guessing the delay was so that you got your chance to scream at the dying man, telling Wade that he was a m
Between them, sunlight glittered dully off water opaque as green paint. “No,” said Nakada. Except nothing was flying on that hot September morning. “And the books were opened,” Dos Orsos recited.
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