She had, by the magic of recollection, set the picture of the typhoon between herself and her table companions: the terrible rollers thundering on the white shore, the deafening bellow of the wind, the bending and snapping palms, the thatches of the native huts scattering inland, the blur of sand dust, and those two outcasts defying the elements. She packed her backpack with a change of clothes, some rags, and her old length of piano wire. “I’m sorry. The detective rapidly sketched the appearance of the room in his notebook, and picked up the pistol from under the table. Traci was the most grateful, because he stopped his sexual advances. She became eager to explain herself, to show herself in the right light. Perhaps this was the real turning point: the hour in which the disordered mind began permanently to readjust itself. On Friday Michelle found Lucy while waiting in line by the soda machine.
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