“Where to?” the driver said as we climbed in. “Sausalito,” said Becca. “And where in Sausalito?” he asked. “Do you have a map?” Darrell asked. “We’ll show you.” “Yeah . . . somewhere . . .” The driver rummaged around under his seat and then passed a wad of crinkled paper over to us. Darrell studied the map under the seat light. “Here. Liberty Dock.” The driver flipped on his meter. “Now you’re talking.” The cab whizzed up to the bridge, crossed it, and wound down through the streets on the far side. A few minutes later, it slowed and pulled into a mostly empty parking lot. “This is as close as I can get. You’ll have to walk the rest of the way.” The cab left us there. It was quiet down by the water. The air was so cold my lungs hurt. The sky beyond the bridge was dead black, and the stars seemed on fire. Where mathematics and magic become one. Becca shivered again, and I wanted to huddle with her to get warm, but we had no time for anything like that.
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