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and had packed for emergencies, and even canned food was delicious when you were barricaded against nature and equipped with a camp stove and a hurricane lantern. Under other circumstances it might have been a three-day endurance contest, but Turk turned out to be good company. She had not meant to seduce him and she believed he had not set out to seduce her. The attraction had been sudden and mutual and utterly explicable.
    They had exchanged stories and warmed each other when the wind turned cold. At the time it had seemed to Lise that she would be happy to wrap Turk Findley around herself like a blanket and shut out the rest of the world forever. And if you had asked her whether she was on the verge of something more meaningful than an unexpected tryst, she might have said yes,
maybe.
    She had meant to keep up the relationship when they arrived back in the Port. But the Port had a way of subverting your best intentions. Problems that had seemed featherweight from the inside of a tent in the Mohindar Range regained their customary mass and inertia. Her separation from Brian was an established fact by that time, at least in her mind, though Brian was still liable to spasms of let’s-work-it-out, well meant, she supposed, but humiliating for both of them.
    She had told him about Turk, and while that stonewalled Brian’s attempts at reconciliation it introduced a whole new vector of guilt: she began to suspect herself of using Turk as a lever—a sort of emotional crowbar against Brian’s attempts to rekindle a dead fire. So, after a few uneasy meetings, she had let the relationship lapse. Better not to complicate what was already a complicated situation.
    But now there was a
decree nisi
in the glove compartment of her car: her future was a blank page, and she was tempted to write on it.
    The crowd on the patio began to react to the meteor shower. She looked up as three scaldingly-bright white lines scribed across the meridian. The meteors emanated from a point well above the horizon and almost directly due east, and before she could look away there were more of them—two, then one, then a spectacular cluster of five.
    She was reminded of a summer in Idaho when she had gone stargazing with her father—she couldn’t have been more than ten years old. Her father had grown up before the Spin and he had talked to her about the stars “the way they used to be,” before the Hypotheticals dragged the Earth a few billion years down the river of time. He missed the old constellations, he said, the old star names. But there had been meteors that night, dozens of them, the largest intercepted by the invisible barrier that protected the Earth from the swollen sun, the smallest incinerated in the atmosphere. She had watched them arc across the heavens with a speed and brilliance that left her breathless.
    As now. The fireworks of God. “Wow,” she said, lamely.
    Turk pulled his chair around to her side of the table so they were both facing the sea. He didn’t make any kind of an overt move and she guessed he probably wouldn’t. Navigating the high mountain passes must have been simple compared to this. She didn’t make any moves either, was careful not to, but she couldn’t help feeling the heat of his body inches from hers. She sipped her coffee without tasting it. There was another flurry of falling stars. She wondered aloud whether any of them ever reached the ground.
    “It’s just dust,” Turk said, “or that’s what the astronomers say. What’s left of some old comet.”
    But something new had caught her attention. “So what about that?” she asked, pointing east, lower on the horizon, where the dark sky met the darker sea. It looked to Lise like something was actually falling out there—not meteors but bright dots that hung in the air like flares, or what she imagined flares would look like. The reflected light of them colored the ocean a streaky orange. She didn’t remember anything like that from her previous