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Show 61 "Oh, my God," she said aloud. "Oh,- my God: What am I doing? What am I doing?!" She wandered to the island of floating, elevated cabinets in the middle of the long rectangular room, put her head against one of them and beat it gently. She was crying. She was alone in an old New England house on the edge of water. And without a husband. And crying. And angry. And unable to see what was happening in any future of her Life. Hunt and Anne! Hunt and Anne! Who was this Anne? Was she even real? Leah had asked Hunt that, once, and Hunt had said: "I don't know. I don't know that I'm really sure." God: Seekers were such bloody bastards! And sad-eyed, apologetic Seekers, ones like Hunt, were the worst! Leah turned out into the room. Was it Spring or Winter? Was it Spring or Winter? Which was it this hour? Still sun! She could see that. Still almost-blinding sun. And water cascading from the roof. Leah walked to the window again and read the thermometer. Fifty-seven degrees. But the black pitch of clouds had continued rising. Getting closer. What season was it that Leah, Outsider to the Quest for Quaint Old Seaside Hotels, was really in? Leah watched the birds. She loved them. She loved them really. They survived it all. All. They discovered food. They pulled their wings up, in the wind. They flew home. They had uncomplicated instincts: codes printed in their tiny cells. And they would live! They would do what they had to do -- eat, huddle, search, fly home. Outside her window now were towhees and evening grossbeak. They mingled in the unexpected sun, then approached one of Leah's feeders, investigated, fluttered away. |