“Panama beat us. Not so bad. Panama used to be part of Colombia before your gringo forebears stole it from us to build the canal.” He moved closer, gentle and sudden as a cat. His lips touched her, barely brushed them, softer than she would have thought. She recoiled, her back straightening. He had all the right moves — not even his breath was bad. She blinked. He was smiling. Not gloating, but amused with them both.

“What did Gregory mean? He said the world had heard the last of us —”

“Oh, Gregory is nothing but a common sexual sadist. He was having his fun. Surely you could see that.”

She thought she had seen more, but she didn’t want Chino to see her brain gears grinding. He looked concerned. “Are you going to cry?”

“I don’t want to die!”

He stroked her arm. “No one wants to die, Amy. Most people believe it will never happen to them. They never mature to the point of being able to accept death as the ultimate fact of life. We live in a very immature world, one in which the leadership is pleased to leave the masses in a state of developmental arrest — social infantilism, if you will.”

“Where did you go to school?”

“What? Why do you ask?”

“You just seem very well educated, that’s all.” She wasn’t looking at him. If he took the bait, it would be only because it entertained him. For all he knew, she was trying to divert him from kissing her again, like the unimaginative provincial he probably still thought she was. If she could get him off on a rant, he might tell her something she needed to know. She was thinking of Sam again. She could never really think of sex without thinking of Sam. God knew, when she’d been younger, afraid of where they were going — toward commitment — she’d tried. She’d tried hard. But even in those days, he had her — and frequently, at that.

What confused her now was that she could see only the goofy side of him now, and she didn’t know if she was trying to diminish him in her own eyes compared to this custom-tailored sperm bank or trying to cling to what she knew was safe. But that didn’t confuse her as much as responding in spite of herself to a man who was probably going to kill her when he was done with her.

And whose arm swung around her now. She hadn’t fooled him. He lifted her to him and kissed her again, slow, expert, playing with her, just touching her parted lips with his tongue. He was glad to be with her, too, and when the thought of pressing herself against him, of letting go, invaded her consciousness, she burst into tears. He released her at once.

“Better than a virgin,” he said.

“What do you mean?” She knew.