A truck roared past, its fierce breath nearly knocked him off his feet.Before him a dirt path led down. He stepped onto it, the bridge's guardrail started just to his left. It was made of heavily dented rusted steel and cement.The sun had come out and the shadows were hard and sharp.Brambles rose on either side of the path. Its dirt was slick and the stones that stuck up through it black and glistening. It veered around a boulder and then back and around to the bridge. Dart nearly jerked him. On the way back to the airport, Lenny tried to intercede for his boss. He told me how wonderful he was to all the men. They worked extra hard for him because they respected him so much. He didn't understand why Mr. Sloan had gotten so upset. He had never seen him like that in the five years that he had worked for him. Something must have happened to set him off and he hoped that I would not hold it against him. I didn't respond to him at all. When we arrived at the plane, I got out of the car. We butcher. We overcome. We succeed.Our charge continues. I’m exhausted, bloodied, impaled, near death. Bucephalus is my name—a stallion, a warhorse of Alexander the Great, the protector of men and conqueror of antiquity. My death becomes inevitable, pierced by spears near the bank of the River Hydaspes. Instead of embracing doom, I charge. I stumble. I lie there. I try to stand, but it’s impossible. More spears pierce me. Somewhere to my left, Alexander battles on foot, an enraged king nearing. Her hair had been cut to shoulder length; her smile was radiant, making the dimple very visible. She greeted me by jumping into my arms and giving me the kind of kiss reserved only for lovers. I picked up her bag and noted that it was heavier than a one-night stay would require. My closet was already overflowing with more of her clothes than most women owned."I brought your coat. You forgot it," she informed me, speaking of the leather coat she'd given me as a Christmas gift. I wondered if.
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