We settled into a routine—Maldano taking the morning while I looked in on her in the afternoon—ending our days in deck chairs while drinking whiskey sours and gazing at the Sargasso Sea (and also our starship, which stood sentinel below us like a Minuteman missile). None of which changed the fact that she seemed to be getting worse, not better, or that, in spite of her denials, she appeared to have lost mobility in her hand and fingers—a sure sign of infection, at least with an animal bite. The fact was she needed antibiotics, and soon. The fact was we’d need to return to the shopping plaza at Cocoa Beach.
“Yes, but. With a pair of .22 calibers weapons? How is that a good idea?”
Maldano was skeptical.
I thought about the weapons in question, which were the only ones she had: a Rimfire P
