Showing posts from June, 2006
41. "Natalie...?" Milt's voice was a hoarse gasp.
42. Bart swung around fast—the rubber of his soles squeaking and losing a bit of grip against the wet street.
43. His shooting arm tightened.
44. Betraying her pasted-on apathy, Natalie watched herself reach out to Milt.
45. But like a drunkard, he batted her arm away.
46. He raised and pressed a shaky forefinger to his lips; then jabbed it in her direction.