Instinctively, he brought up the charts of the major world indices, the last remnant of his compulsive addiction to the rhythm of the markets. He had no money to trade, but the display was free. He took the glasses out of his sockets and emerged from the chilled cabin just in time to see the sun setting. The sky over the Arabian Gulf was white with orange clouds, and the air was hot and thick with the enveloping reassurance of a vast womb. The water was calm—like a sheet of evaporating glass—and the fog erased the horizon and made the freighters look like they were floating on air. He remembered he still had a boat to finish washing. The solar panel on his inflatable dingy was broken, so he had to paddle to the marina. He passed a deep-blue catamaran sailboat anchored amid a flotilla of much larger white motor yachts. Emerging from below the deck was Stephanie in a purple plaid skirt, black PVC plastic thigh-high boots, and a reflective gold T-shirt. She waved her arms for him to approach.
