Brownell Jenks lifted the lid on the propane grill, waved the smoke clear, and then poked the chicken breasts. “Two minutes.” “Aye, aye, sir.” Hetta went inside, filled two plates with rice and spinach, and returned to the aft deck for an early evening dinner al fresco. “Here’s to being back on HiJenks,” Hetta toasted. She clinked wineglasses with Jenks, then swiveled her head when, a quarter mile away, a shrimp boat’s diesels coughed to life. She giggled. God, sometimes I am such an idiot! “What’s so funny?” “Oh, nothing. Just happy to be here, with you, on our boat. And safe. Save the chicken skin for Canardly.” Hetta, afraid Jenks would think her nuttier than usual, felt vast relief that her fears, which began with the bus trip back from La Paz, turned out to be an overblown imagination fed by paranoia. “HiJenks here we come,” Hetta announced as soon as they settled into the bus at the La Paz terminal.
