That was Grif’s defense, what he told himself when he fell asleep inside Kit, but woke again a half a century earlier, walking hand in hand with his wife. Though the evening was studded with stardust, a material visible only to a Centurion’s naked eye, Grif knew this night. Gripping Evie’s hand tightly, he recognized the bite of winter’s sharp edge, how it’d been too late for birdsong, and too cold for crickets, though something else had been stirring in the shadows. Why hadn’t he seen it the first time, he wondered, squinting at the towering silhouettes of the Marquis’s imported foliage. The layers of greenery, gone black this late, made it even cooler, and Evie shivered beside him. It looked like a desert oasis, and was meant to. The guests in the resort’s bungalows wanted to feel secluded and special and alone. But in the remembering, Grif knew he and Evie weren’t alone. They bumped hips as before, laughing and stumbling along the faux-stone path, giddy with the cocktails they’d consumed while gambling away the desert night.
