‘Me.’ Under the black leather, his dark eyes scan slowly from my boots to my hips to my breasts to my eyes with a grim mix of curiosity and disappointment. ‘I remember you,’ he says. ‘The firey one who slit my man’s throat.’ ‘And tossed a few molatov cocktails, as I recall,’ I smile. ‘What’s the problem?’ ‘He won’t come willingly.’ ‘Um… Sophie, Saku, Kristen – c’mon. Diane’s in charge ’till I get back.’ ‘We just need to know how to make him docile,’ he says. ‘The boys said they have gas for it.’ ‘They don’t.’ I shrug, and nod to Sophie, Saku and Kristen. ‘These are his friends – they can talk him down. Let’s go.’ * * * We go across, into the Market. Despite the floodlights and spotlights outside, the inside is near pitch-dark. One of the Westwood Cetas explains that they never had to deal with an intruder before – they always got them before they were inside. He leads us down a long hallway until we finally come to a place that looks like it’s been the victim of a. I no longer knew when she was in her room, when she was showering, when she was out riding. I could no longer hope to find her alone, give her a familiar kiss and go about my day. It was as though a part of me had gone missing.My wife thought she understood. Agatha called me an empty nester. She thought that, for me, the loss of my daughter to college, to growing up, was like losing the last remnant of her mother. She wasn't wrong. But she wasn't entirely right either.When Katherine called, she made excuses--to ask for money, to ask for one book or another from her shelf to be sent up to her. But we spoke for long hours on the telephone about everything. It still wasn't enough.One day, not a month into the semester, I announced that Katherine had called."She wants me to bring up her saddle," I lied to Agatha."Why don't you just ship it?" she said, idly over her newspaper."It would be expensive," I said. "And, anyway, I'd like to see her."I flinched, but Agatha said nothing. It was.
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