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Show 85 meant to contain t e r r i b le loss. Then she rose. "I'm sorry," Hunt said. She left her decimated shrimp and ran. Hunt called out, but she didn't turn. In his mind, he watched her plummet again, unequipped, into the cone of the Colorado River. She was a lightning bug in the void, a small unpowered abdomen of light. "Jesus!" Hunt said. He was sweating. He played and won; he was being watched. He started betting limits and winning, putting everything out. Drinks arrived, but the ice only melted in them. "Let me bet it all," Hunt pleaded. He had six or seven thousand dollars in chips. "Let me put out everything." Freeman came and gave permission. The dealer dealt. Hunt won. He shrieked and hurled one then another fistful of chips into the pit. "No!" Freeman seized him: "Stop!" he demanded. "We can't accept this! We can't accept your chips or your behavior. Put yourself together. Take a break." Hunt walked back to his room. The outside heat made him feel unmoored. Inside, he studied his preliminary sketch. Where had he learned the rendering of such soft, weightless lines? Victoria Speer's outline was frail, insubstantial; yet firm, touching, strangely durable. Her anatomy spoke. Hunt thought of Leah. He ran through still, quiet images: Leah standing at a window; Leah looking at snow; Leah sleeping: Leah working her quilt: Leah drying the hair of their boys beforea fire; Leah doing, accepting, offering. With curious passion, Hunt stripped and started to paint. In five hours, he called Victoria: "I'd like to take you to dinner," he said. "I've been |