75.

Reckless endangerment.

As opposed to all the more thoughtful, well-intentioned, responsible sorts of endangerment.

“Just answer the question.”

“Yes,” says Rome. “I would consider myself guilty of reckless endangerment.”

“We clocked you at 216.” Rome beams, can’t help it. It's news to her. “You were wearing a blindfold.”

“Wow,” says Rome.

“Why?”

She’s feeling honest all of a sudden. “Honestly?”

“Yes.”

“To impress a boy.”

These things, says Rome, they’re always to impress a boy.

76.

Cairo learns Portuguese in three weeks. No one is surprised.

The inner ring suspects it's a smokescreen tongue – that he's also clandestinely learning something relevant, Farsi or whatever – but there's no telling, so no one asks.

Recklessness is often ascribed as invincibility complex. Au contraire, it's staggeringly possible that it's the reverse – that faith in dying young is what inspires such casual discaution.

Cairo can subsist on cinnamon Certs and nicotine for a good long while.

77.

He appraises the sunset, incredulous. "You don't notice? Still?"

"Um, no? Go fish." He claims a card from the centre-table mess, frowns, removes his shirt. She proceeds. "Got any… fours?"

"I'm telling you, they're getting shorter. And no."

"You have to say 'go fish.'"

"…I miss poker."

"You miss metaphor."

He half-smirks concession. "Vá pescar."

Athens fishes unsuccessfully, loses a belt. "You miss your guns?"

"Metaphors, love. Got any… aces?"

Athens smiles, reaches up her sleeve.

"Smartass."

78.

The thing that saves Hell is the music. It also triples business for Athens, bronze mandolinist legendaire. One night (like all nights), no one's checking I.D.s...

"How old are you?" she asks, sweat-wet from stage lights, angel's voice alcohol-damp.

"Old enough," he says.

"To vote?"

"To drive."

"Hm," she says.

(The problem with having a Christ complex isn't the whole search-and-rescue bit. This instinct is good. The problem is, nine times out of ten, the savior's not Christ.)

79.

Rome escapes, and she does it alone.

Sort of.

"Hiya."

"Get off the car I'm about to steal."

Cairo slides off and opens the driver's side door for her, chivalrous as hell. "You know," he says, "it's thirty hours to Alicia." The dogs are already barking, old-school-style. "You'll want a second." She looks uncertain. "Quick, love. Bloodhounds are fast."

"Jaguars are faster."

"Assuming you can handle it."

Her eyes flicker. "I could do this blindfolded."

Cairo grins. "Game on."

80.

Boston uncocks it again; loves the click. The potentiality. Cocks it.

Matte silhouette against the rail, she strains to see what'll wreck him. Horizontal green. Black. Anything. She craves it, innocently, the way one wants cars to crash at a race.

The Dark Horse lurches; Boston curses – unladylike, but this close to the edge of the world, she figures, who fucking cares.

She found the pistol under his pillow. This is the closest thing to in love she'll ever be.

81.

"Name?"

"Orpheus."

"Occupation?"

Cairo grins. "Rescuing people from Hell."

The desk attendant glares up, slow, practically sweating ennui. "Occupation?"

"…Singer."

"Perhaps you'd like Athens then?" she recommends, already knowing too much.

"Athens," Cairo levels acicularly, "fucked over my tyro."

Rome offers a receptionist smile. "Well – with due respect, that is her job."

"'Fucked over.'"

"Semantics."

"Tell your suitemate: 1)I'd like to see her, 2)it's for revenge, and 3)'revenge' is not a euphemism."

The lack of alcohol on his breath terrifies her.