Ruth's arm trembled and her step faltered, but he was too far away in thought to be observant. He was mad. So, here he was, on the last lap of middle age, in China, having missed all the thrills in life except one—the war against Death. “Your arrival is really most opportune. Fortescue?” “At your service. What! mum still. Am I so forgettable?” He strode down the hall as she ran to catch up with him past lockers someone had painted an abysmal shade of gray blue. We smirk, and we’re a bit—furtive.
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