“So I was out there last night,” I said into the receiver. I rubbed my ankles against the expert starch of the hotel bed sheets. The sun came through the window and squiggled signatures of dust in the air. “He’s a big-wig, this guy. Thought I’d take a further look.” Back across the international static, my wife sighed.
“So this is another thing, now,” she said.
“Just a detour,” I told her. “It could be helpful, in the long run.”
“How much longer will it take?”
“It’ll only add a day or so. I promise.”
“A day or two?”
“But you hate water.”
“Gotta learn to love it some time. It’s got me surrounded.”
“Goodnight,” said my wife from her darkened slice of the earth.
After I hung up, I stared at the ceiling. I took a long cold shower, washing away not only the archaeological accumulation of sweat that had built up on my from only one morning outdoors, but a persistent image of Yvette Henry that had somehow crawled into my mind.