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Show 40 "Inside." "I'll go . . ." "You can't. It's locked. I wasn't thinking." "I'll slip a note ..." "No." "Under the door. They'll hold i t . . . " "No." "Why?" "I don't want the suitcase any more. It's not worth anything." "Leah." "Hunt: Yes; allow me." He opened the car and she got in; they went out, as they had often done years before, and had whiskey sours and seafood. Leah got drunk, and told Hunt all of the hat-man story. They both laughed. "He ran," she said, "into the void." Driving home, Hunt spread the quilt across the seat and across his lap; Leah lay resting on it. She felt Hunt's hands and the dark. And they felt patched but warm. Leah watched the dials on the dashboard, glowing green. "A lot of time," Hunt said at one point, "I mean, invested." "Yes," Leah said. And she looked, beyond the tight car windows, at a kind of stitching across the night. |