Hold, indicates Will, with an upraised fist, and we hold: bunched together beneath the overhang of the aquarium’s entrance like children, like boys playing war, our 45s and shotguns and M14s (for Beth and me) poised; our guts (or at least mine) tied up in knots.
He waves two fingers, which means Column Formation, and we form up; Beth and I near the back, so that we can still see the sub (as well as Captain O’Neil—lending cover from the sail), followed by Petty Officer Slater, preceded by Will and Benny.
Then we wait: as rain begins to spot the pavement and the city lays dormant, comatose—choked with moss and cycads, bereft. Then we watch to see if our arrival has been in any way remarked upon—and if so, by what—as the nearby fountain splashes (silently) and I wonder how it could possibly
