Trenchard glanced at the document. He was reaching wearily for some kind of buffer to his harrying conscience. She saw the moonlit waters, the black shadow of the proa, the moon-fire that ran down the far edge of the bellying sail, the silent natives: no sound except the slapping of the outrigger and the low sibilant murmur of water falling away from the sides—and the beating of her heart. She practiced swaddling on a doll, pretending to pat the head of her imaginary infant boy. I have been thinking—I will go to my wife again. ” He did not appear to require any answer to his question. She dreaded living off the land again, like an animal, as she had done for dozens of years at a stretch. The bodies had been found in the river without their heads, which were busy decomposing in a ravine. He was still thickly clad in jeans. ‘But you do not understand, mon ami. \"Are you hungry at all?\" He asked her. Their conversation hung.
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