and is at a loss at how to comprehend it all. Or perhaps she just suspects, like one can suspect many things in the space between waking and sleep. Her eyes flutter as rain kicks at her, and you draw yourself up, shielding her. You bring your finger up to your mouth and smile. Not a word to anyone, you say. She does not under-stand your language, only continues to look at you in wonder, the orchestra stumbling to a halt as the pavilion crashes down to the mud. The Stranger has lost, again. He stares at the innards that lay on the sizzling noonday rock, the way they unfurl like a forgotten scarf. It is his own innards -- his own life ebbing. He cups a hand to his stomach, as if to prevent further leakage, but there is nothing left to escape. Well … he whispers thoughtfully. With white trembling fingers, he touches the brim of his hat. You finish the thought: Until next time. His Lin Page 15 body flops forward, almost comically, and lies still. You could cremate him, you could toss him into the crevasse, where he would join the dozens of others who have died for far less noble causes. But it is no use -- he will return, as regular as the season, and it is more important for you to sleep, under the pitiful protection of that stone shelter. Already your clarity is fading -- Was there someone here? Moments ago? No one now, nothing here but your four limbs, weighted down by infinite life. During the night the temperature drops below freezing, and your stuttered breaths rise like smoke from a funeral pyre. In the midst of restless sleep, you awake on your side, facing the slash of doorway. Among the outcroppings outside, there is a rock that has the vague shape of a human body, on his side, facing you, expec-tant like a lover, but it is indistinguishable in the moonlight from the other rocks. When you wake in the morning, you bite your lip as you recollect