The world isn't real yet; she hasn't comparisons by which to govern her acts. ’ She sagged a little suddenly, as if the painful memories in her mind had exhausted her body. The next page was a drawing that she had made in pen and ink of his face, or what she had remembered of it. “Okay, Mom. ” She rested the firing end of the cannon against her own temple. She had, by the magic of recollection, set the picture of the typhoon between herself and her table companions: the terrible rollers thundering on the white shore, the deafening bellow of the wind, the bending and snapping palms, the thatches of the native huts scattering inland, the blur of sand dust, and those two outcasts defying the elements. Teenagers buzzed about her newly discovered talent for the violin in the same sentences as they gossiped about her torrid police scandal and a lost mother who remained in the deep shadows of murder mystery. ’ ‘I know,’ he said, smiling. She no more realizes what she has done than a child of eight. ’ ‘Pottiswick, you mean, miss?’ ‘Yes, yes.
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