Wall of Night

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The last day Priscilla Hadin was to see her husband alive was breathtaking: the air crisp and fresh, the sky a cloudless blue. Beyond the pier, the lake was a perfect mirror for the reds and golds of the trees bordering the shoreline.

She watched her husband cajole the stevedores as they scurried up and down the boat’s gangplank, carrying crates of all sizes and shapes. The pier thrummed with activity: throngs of natives, the babble of different languages, vendors hawking grilled meat and trinkets, the wail of boat whistles.

Something bumped Priscilla from behind and she turned. A goat was chewing at her fur boots; a gap-toothed woman tugged at the goat and kept walking. A far cry from Long Island, Priscilla thought.

“You there!” she heard her husband call. “Be careful, will you? Good man!”

Andrew Galbreth Hadin turned and flashed a grin at Priscilla. So like a little boy, she thought fondly. In many ways Andrew was a mystery to her. He had the courage of a lion and the dogged curiosity of a toddler who’s just realized he’s surrounded by a giant, fascinating world.

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