We scampered across the assembly hall to peep out of the wooden louvered windows of our primary school, hoping to catch a glimpse of the parents as the cars pulled up across the street at the porte cochere of the Members Club to deposit their passengers . . .
Freddy scowls when I shine my flashlight in his face. His gold tooth glints in the gloom . . .
This was the ninth time for the week she had noticed it: a splitting migraine . . .
We all sneezed. Or maybe I just sneezed, but we all looked away at exactly the same time and, at exactly the same time, looked back . . .
Laure always believed she would die young, a murder victim. At 40, she had assumed time for the killing had run out. Yet here she was, kneeling on gravel in the middle of the night, about to die in the high-altitude plains of Ladakh . . .
Whenever I start a restoration project, I take before-photos, and when I finish, I take after-shots . . .
The long wooden pirogue knocked lazily against the concrete pillars of the jetty . . .
It was almost dawn when a loud shriek of anguish and pain could be heard at the end of Guayaguayare village . . .