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Show 73 "We'll have to hurry. We don't have much time." He placed the two bags on the running board and refastened the straps. Darcy began to slide slowly across the plastic-covered seat. David looped the straps over his head so that one bag hung at each hip, a large canvas X appearing across his chest. When she was close enough, he reached for Darcy's hand and pulled her from the taxi. Her nose was still bleeding. There was a dark stain on her peasant blouse. The taxi rocked feebly in the four pits it continued to dig. "I think we should wait here," said Darcy. "There's no time for waiting." "The lady in front, I think she's hurt." "Are we medics? Come on." They started away from the taxi, David towing at arm's length the girl whose small plodding feet left not holes but channels in the dark mud. Behind him he could hear shouting, angry Greek shouting, and guessed it was the driver demanding his fare. He would be waving his arms and beating the sky but David did not turn to see. He walked fast, trying to keep to the least muddy parts of the road, often choosing the deep ruts the taxi had left earlier, coming down the island. The bags flopped at his sides and their weight pulled at his shoulders. The canvas straps worked the thin material on his t-shirt back and forth, over and into his skin. For long minutes he focused on the lights ahead. Phira. He could not keep them from moving, coming close to where he thought he might easily put one out with a thrown stone, then receding. Whenever |
