Scavenger

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Eric Gray and Mike Volpe at Jet Aviation, Teterboro Airport.

Sarie Morrell. The last name’s the same as mine for a reason. She’s my daughter. But she’s also my friend and one of the most inventive book publicists I know.

He no longer called her by his dead wife’s name, even though the resemblance was strong enough to make his heart ache. Sometimes, when he woke and found her sitting next to his hospital bed, he thought he was hallucinating.

“What’s my name?” she asked.

“Amanda,” he was careful to answer.

“Excellent,” a doctor said. The watchful man never mentioned his specialty, but Balenger assumed he was a psychiatrist. “I think you’re ready to be released.”

The taxi entered the Park Slope district of Brooklyn. Trying not to stare at Amanda’s long blonde hair and soft blue eyes that reminded him so much of Diane, Balenger forced himself to peer out the window. He saw a huge stone arch with a statue at the top: a winged woman with flowing robes.

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