Indonesia

Denpasar, Bali, June, 1977.

Everything rots quickly in the tropics, and it smells like it. Barbara was as baffled by this as she had been nervous about everything in her life. Staring unsteadily down the steps from the DC-8 door felt like running headlong into hell, with approximately the same loss of control.

The heat was killer, the humidity worse. Friends had happified Bali, as if it was some paradisical end-place, but the reality was stupifying, all the worse for being that way from the first breath.

"Oh, God", she thought, taking a moment to steel herself for whatever was to come.

She grabbed Jonathon's hand more closely than in years, and smiled tightly at him.

"Ready for the adventure?" she asked him.

He looked back at her, aware of her uncertainty. Twelve year-olds have that kind of karmic calm.

"What's that smell?" he replied.

"I don't know, but I guess we should get going" she said. Avoidance was a way of life.

They walked down the steps carefully, aware of them rocking in the breeze, and of the crowd behind.

"What happens now?", Jon asked.

"I don't know. Just look for your father", she said. "He'll be here somewhere".