He was not yet in the same state as Boyd, but he was well on the way. And yet, somehow, he still looked like the man she knew. He writhed underneath her. She went cold. “Don’t sweat it,” she said. Boyd turned and ran, hopping the side fence and vanishing. “Not this time,” she said. She was delighted. She listened more closely. Alan was out there somewhere. Her scream paralyzed her throat, and all that came out was a sob. “Ohhh, fuck!” she said, rolling her eyes. On her break she sat outside and watched the milling masses going up one end of Fisherman’s Wharf and down the other, in and out of the souvenir shops and the restaurants or down to the docks to watch the boats coming in or the sea lions playing. She pushed him back down and he moaned with frustration. She asked Olivier about it and he said he couldn’t remember where he’d heard it. She seemed a bit less agitated today, until she started talking about how she’d found Boyd’s gun and was sleeping with it under her pillow.
