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Show 75 of the tomato cannery, drifted across the white of the moon. Darcy's small hand was hot and sweaty in his own and David tried not to hear, behind him, her jagged breathing. Instead he listened for the low electrical hum of the island generator, just ahead, that would mean the end of the tomato fields, the end of the mud, the beginning of Phira. As they walked the drone grew louder, swelling to fill the cool night, yet did not cover his sudden awareness of a new intruding sound. A honking horn. David spun around. The big taxi was charging up the road, coming at them like a war machine. He grabbed Darcy by the waist and pulled her to the wall. With the back of their legs to the cold stone he watched as the taxi approached, swerving only slightly from the rutted track when it was nearly upon them. Too late David realized the driver's intent, too late to tell Darcy to close her mouth as he barely managed to cover his own face with his hands. The taxi roared by. "Lovers, lovers," yelled one of the Germans, hanging from a window and waving, barely visible through the wild spray of mud. "Assholes," screamed David. Darcy was choking, spitting. Her breath came in gulps. Tears glistened at her eyes before turning dark on her cheeks. They were both solid mud, poorly executed sculptures of wet clay. Once again David started to wipe the debris from Darcy's face. She pushed his hand away. "Don't touch me," she cried, and stumbled from him. They walked apart, side by side, silent except for an occasional |
