Brendon’s had an awful stroke of luck. Their conversation degenerated again and again into a strain of self-congratulation that would have irked an eavesdropper. She spied him sitting on his armless black couch, his feet splayed as he stared at his television blankly. Everything was fresh and bright, from the kindly manners of the Frutigen cobbler, who hammered mountain nails into her boots, to the unfamiliar wild flowers that spangled the wayside. "You needn't gag me," he added, "I'll not cry out. I don’t think for a moment that he would recognize you.
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