“Jesus,” I say, just as plain as day, before I stop myself. Before I can deny the evidence of my own eyes, which I attribute to all the smoke and fire and darkness, and to fatigue. Which I attribute to the night before and to still being hungover, and to the Incident, which rides with us still. “No—ah. Never mind. It’s ... it’s just ... all this destruction. It’s nothing.”
But it is something, says a voice (even as I wipe my eyes and peer through the viewfinder). It’s something and you know it; same as when they were dancing together. Look closer.
And I do—look closer, I mean—at the shadows beneath the canopy and how they move so—so precisely; so primly—so haltingly, like cold-blooded animals. At the white of the truckdriver’s eyes and worse, his hurt, wounded expression (as though he ca
