She killed a man who was squatting outside of a freezing brick shanty on the southern edge of Chicago as he waited for his dealer. She saw the moonlit waters, the black shadow of the proa, the moon-fire that ran down the far edge of the bellying sail, the silent natives: no sound except the slapping of the outrigger and the low sibilant murmur of water falling away from the sides—and the beating of her heart. The impassivity of her features changed at last. Fresh ground, no chicory, and all the rest of it. ‘Yes, very rude,’ agreed the major.
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