Thames Darrell III. Wood. Leonardo had told her it would happen, and warned her to make use of it. I found it on the beach, just sitting there nestled inside a piece of driftwood. She slipped down the perfunctory flight of stairs, short because of the home’s split-level style. The beach: to get there as quickly as he could, to reach the white man's nadir of abasement and gather the promise of that soothing indifference which comes with the final disintegration of the fibres of conscience. Treat me as an elder brother, if you like. But escape to where? She thought of the ships that sailed from the peninsulas to hot deserts where spices were traded. When the lad is fit to be moved, we’ll bring him home.
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