Whirlwind

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My gratitude and fond appreciation to the poor folks who had to listen, advise, and humor me over the past few months:

Caitlin Blasdell, who, for reasons known only to herselt, puts up with all my calls, and has never once told me to stop bugging her and get back to work;

Steve Nesheirn, MD., for the wonderfully gruesome details, and for all the possibilities therein;

Wendy Webb, R.N., M.Ed., for taking those details and actually making them fun;

Geoffrey Marsh, for graciously allowing me to borrow the Konochine Indians for my own disgusting use;

The Jersey Conspiracy, as always, this time providing me with more dead bodies than I could possibly use this time around, and one drunk;

And Robert E. Vardeman, who never stops reminding me why it's nice to have good friends in far places.

The sun was white and hot, and the wind blew ceaselessly.

Annie Hatch stood alone on her ranch house porch, one hand absently rubbing her stomach as she tried to decide what to do. The late-morning sun made her squint, the temperature already riding near ninety.

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