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Show Moon -118 The walkway was constructed of some sort of flagstone, and perhaps her toe caught an edge, though she didn't remember tripping. Whatever it was, suddenly she was falling and falling hard. Her face and elbow slapped onto the stones, and she lay there, burning with pain and surprise. A Marine guard leaped from the embassy steps and helped her up, hailed a taxi and sent her to the Army dispensary. The fall had bloodied her nose, her cheek was badly grazed, and her elbow was studded with gravel. The Army doctor scrubbed out the gravel with a stiff brush and was curt, distracted. She thought he might be a little bit hungover, for so many Americans here drank heavily. He wasn't the right doctor to talk to, this much was clear. That evening she made a joke to James about falling on her face, saying it was sort of like walking into a door or putting her foot in her mouth. This joking was new for her, a gift she hadn't known was in her. In the face of the suspicion that she was being overcome by an alien force in her body, the discovery of jokes gave her a sense of grace. It wasn't the falling exactly that bothered her, it was falling for no reason, falling because suddenly her legs simply gave way and the doctor was annoyed and did not want to notice how frightened she was and needed to talk to someone. Most people, she had learned long ago, did not like to encourage those who yearned to talk, as if such talk might remind them of an unpleasant weakness in the structure of things, like a badly dented car. It was, she perceived, a woman's duty to spare the world such reminders, to let the wheels roll on with the illusion of safety, a tenuous eternity. And what would she gain by insisting on her voice, much as something hot and loud inside her pressed her |