It is always on his person. She had, by the magic of recollection, set the picture of the typhoon between herself and her table companions: the terrible rollers thundering on the white shore, the deafening bellow of the wind, the bending and snapping palms, the thatches of the native huts scattering inland, the blur of sand dust, and those two outcasts defying the elements. Luck. “This ain’t no place for you. He tasted like cinders and ash, but not of smoke. I loathe this room. She looked at me as though I were some unclean thing, as though my soul were weighted with every sin in the calendar.
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