Shakespeare Their wings were heavy and their heart light. Myra Crow Kai led the way to the parking lot behind the hotel. A pickup truck sat under a purple bougainvillea in full blossom. The sun already stung her skin and struck reflections off the sea down below. Inside the truck it was warm but Kai opened the doors and it cooled down enough for her to climb inside. The cloth covers of the seats were dusty; the dashboard looked grimy, although she didn’t want to press her nose to it to examine it. Then Kai slid inside, slamming the car door closed, and his scent hit her. He smelled like the sea, salty and woodsy and fresh with an undertone of musk. She inhaled deeply, hoping he wouldn’t notice. One of the perks of being half-blind, if you could call it a perk, was she had a better feel for the other senses. Sounds, smells, textures became more intense when you had to rely on them to get around, and she wanted to sink in his scent and dream of waves and sparkling fish. “Buckle up,”
