But I liked to think that his betrayal had scarred him in some way.

Mimi snuggled in against my chest. “I never had a bike.”

“What did you have?”

“Horses. There were always horses.”

The hotel bed was overly soft, and I had to prop myself up on one elbow. “You think I could have a pillow?”

“Why? You thinking about going to sleep?”

SO WE’RE IN PRAGUE.

It’s almost midnight. We walk back to the hotel. The room is hotter than before, and even with all the windows open, I can see that it’s never going to get cool. The air conditioner is still making encouraging noises, and the spiders are still moving about on the ceiling.

Mimi sheds her clothes and crawls into bed. “We have to get up early,” she says. “The train leaves just before eight.”

“This is a bad idea.”

“You’d rather stay in Prague and go to the Museum of Chamber Pots and Toilets?”

I ease into the chair by the window and open my book.

“Could you turn off the light?”

“I can’t read without light.”

“It’s too late to read.” Mimi begins rolling herself up in the blankets. “You can read on the train.”

I turn out the lights and move the chair closer to the window. There is some illumination that finds its way into the room from the light standards on the bridge, but not enough for reading. Sometimes, when I can’t sleep, I’ll close my eyes and try to imagine what I might do to make the world a better place.

And because I like easy answers, I generally blame greed and racism, arrogance and sexism. I blame individuals and corporations. I blame the social norms and political structures that allow such destructive ideas and behaviours to breed and flourish.

Line them all up against a wall.

Of course, this is not an answer.

Still, I figure it’s better than doing nothing.

So that’s where I start my evening, sitting quietly in the chair, indulging my rage. And in no time at all, I’m able to turn my anger back on myself.

What have I done to make the world a better place? I write stories. I take pictures. At least I did. Now, I don’t even do that.

Nobody read your stuff anyway. Eugene leans against the radiator, his hands jammed in his pockets. Bleeding-hearts crap.

He almost got shot at Oka, Desi reminds Eugene.

Sure, says Eugene, but they missed.

And he did get death threats for his piece on the Kinder Morgan pipeline.

Death threats? says Kitty. We’re getting death threats?

The twins sit together on the bed. How about we talk about something happy? says Didi.

How about you stop feeling sorry for yourself, Chip barks at me, and start kicking some ass. That’ll make you feel better.