They confronted each other, barely feet apart, neither apparently any longer aware of anyone else in the room. He read "The Beachcombers" to McClintock that night after coffee; and when he had done, the old trader nodded. And for many years, that was the way it was. She sensed that he was looking for her. His foot tapped impatiently, and he took up the papers. She felt her chest trying to float up, but the blessed undertow, the dreaded reason why she was warned to never bathe in the ocean, sucked her feet down, putting the decision where it belonged, into the hands of God. She did not wince.
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