“John Wilson.” “Jenni Lane.” “What are you doing here?” I asked. She shook her head. She looked a little panicked to me. “What do they...want with you,” I asked. “Who is they?” She asked. “My wife, her lover, they put me here.” I explained, admiring her still oily body. “Why?” “Money, time.” I said. “What do they want with you? What’s that cooler doing in here? What’s in it?” Soon, trying to keep her near panicked mind occupied with questions and answers, we came to several conclusions. My. I’m not tumbling end over end, thank god, so much asriding a toboggan or sled on a very bumpy blind ride. Ieventually manage to get out of my bag and jerk openthe flap. I tumble out, which is a major mistake,because the tent blasts off without me and I’m leftnaked to face the furious driving sand. I’m blown back by it and sputter and cough, choking onsand. I turn my back to the storm, crawling along theground in search of shelter. I climb to my feet andstagger along, my feet. More

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