Spurlock stared at Ruth across the rim of his bowl. They found Ruth reading to Spurlock, whose shoulders and head were propped by pillows. I forget. Stanley, at the door. Nine years ago, I was honest—was happy. The baby boy was delivered in a sea of black blood, born dead and blue, and strangled by plague. I followed you home on the train. She was consumed by misery and hate. “They seem to come to you as naturally as disappointment—to other people. I never hunt the human tiger without being armed. ‘When you’re my age, you’ll be just as hardheaded. It was if the world had blinked out for a moment. Awful shapes seemed to flit by, borne on the wings of the tempest, animating and directing its fury. Three short days.
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