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Show 187 Hunt went back to his four colors and to the burning man, but the smoke fromthe man's flames began to look too much like C02 vapor from dry ice. So Hunt went out again and worked in the yard. He trimmed the oak. He thinned Leah's garden. He worried that the marten wouldn't last. When Leah got home, she burst into tears. "Hunt, no! Hunt, no! What have you done?!" she wailed. "Sean's trapped in a bus terminal in Chicago," Hunt informed her. Leah's eyes swung wide. "'Trapped1 was a bad word," Hunt retracked. "'Trapped' is wrong." He rephrased: "They're not driving West. They're . . . It's a safety precaution. Snow." Hunt knew that stare. He knew Leah's stare. Over the years, it had become Classic Incredulity. "Would you rather he was on a bus?" Hunt asked. "On 1-80? In a blizzard? In Nebraska?" "Would I rather? Are we playing 'would I rather,' Hunt? Is that what we're doing now?" Hunt knew what was coming. "I would rather live in a secure household," she began. "I would rather live with a man who does not make burnt offerings of this family . . . and his family's landscape to some whim, I would rather be The'Mommie -- in a household where my mate's 'rather' was to be The Daddy. It's an old tradition, Hunt. It has a really fine and lovely longevity. -Shall I go on?" Hunt was rocking on his feet. When Leah turned to leave the room, he said to her shoulders: "Sean will be fine. I'll put odds that he'll be with us in three days. --It will season him." Leah turned back. Hunt saw her standing, framed in a doorway. Her cheeks |