He scored a hundred
points once. No one could take _that_ away from him. A familiar pang
squeezed Oliver. The nothing pang. What have you done? Nothing.
Scotch trickled down Oliver's throat. Wilt kept a steady pace down the
beach. Oliver thought of getting a ticket to another world--the
Philippines, say--and disappearing. He could go to a village on a
remote island and live until he ran out of money. It would be perfect
for a while, and then, to hell with it, he would get kidnapped or lost
in the jungle; it wouldn't matter.
No use. A force inside him would not let go. His spirit assumed a stone
face. Forward.
He awoke the next morning at 4 a.m., out of synch from jet lag. Half an
hour later he gave up trying to get back to sleep. He dressed and
walked toward the shopping mall, stopping at a Tops Restaurant busy
with cab drivers, early risers, and night owls winding down. He had
half a papaya, served with a piece of lemon. Delicious. Eggs came with
two scoops of rice. Eggs and rice? Not bad. Full daylight came as he
finished a second cup of coffee and looked at his map.
Alewa Heights was on the other side of the city. He could find a bus
that would get him close, no doubt, but it was early to be visiting.
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