On an island where rain comes in warm five-minute bucketfuls, where the blue bowl of the sky never fades to more than slate, this is the storm of the century. The millennium. The Christian era. The storm of all time, past and future.
And yet the rain doesn't come. The wind, which never stops in these Windward Islands, is still. The rain and the wind are waiting--for me? Or am I waiting for them? The set of knives lies on the counter, gleaming; bars of polished violence at rest. I finger the edge of a wide blade. It's sharp. It's ready.
I'm ready, too.