It was a sizzling hot summer Sunday afternoon in Annapolis, where Mario had come to visit his son, Ernesto and his wife Julia, but of course Lyrica was the real pull. Having grown up in Havana and spent most of his adult life in Miami, Mario had no problem with the heat – – or so he thought, as he wiped the beads of sweat from his forehead.
Everyone marveled at her nose for mushrooms. This was the same nose that smelled the bear before she saw it, or its tracks, or heard the ruckus it was making as it broke through the brush ahead of her, seeking his own fishy breakfast. It was Ogira’s luck that the wind was coming from the north, giving her notice of the bear before it noticed her.
Brian had only just managed to settle himself in his seat, which was obviously designed to fit the body of an Ecuadorean rather than a Bostonian like himself. He was reaching forward to grab the book he’d placed in the seat pocket, when he heard the pilot speaking and his hand froze in midair.
Petra remembered another time, a time long ago in another place, before this time or this place. In fact, she had many such memories, but this one was especially vivid and poignant.
Normally one to follow all the rules, work extra hard to please her teachers and her parents, read ahead and get her homework done early, walking to school – – up the railroad tracks, no less – – felt like a tremendous challenge to her usual routine, her very sensible world. It felt like a rebellion.