Without
the trackpad, the Joey would not function as it did. Elegant.
Silky. Smooth. Right.
Staring at the small flat black space beneath his finger, a dark
thought prodded his sense of certainty. Without Peter Jones,
could Wallaby operate as smoothly and naturally as a peripheral
of ICP?
* * *
Peter blinked awake in the room's gauzy afternoon brightness.
Whiffing a good, familiar smell, he shut his eyes for a little
while, listened to her moving around, moving things around.
"Hi."
He opened his eyes. Kate was crouched before him. He propped
himself up on one elbow.
"Oh," he moaned, touching his fingers to his temple.
"How you doing?"
He shrugged and his eyes met hers, then shifted past her
shoulder. Several pieces of luggage sat by the doorway. "What's
all that for?"
"We're going away for a bit."
He yawned. "We are?"
"Yep. I'm taking you to the Maine house for a little while."
"Okay," he said, offering no argument.
"First, we're going to treat you to a nice hot shower. Come on."
She gently helped him up and out of the room.
In the bathroom she went about undressing him.
He stood before her naked, watching her dip her hand in and out
of the shower, adjusting its temperature.
"Kate," he said, his voice rubbery.
"Hmm?"
"You're an artist."
"Mm-hmm."
"Well, I was wondering.
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