On the last island in line, the lights of a town sparkled distantly. “It’s hard to believe I made a hike across that same stretch of country once,” he said. “If I hadn’t found an oasis with a Coke machine, I’d have ended up a set of dry bones.” “My feet hurt,” Swinehild groaned. “Let’s take ten.” They settled themselves on the ground and O’Leary opened the lunch basket, from which a powerful aroma of garlic arose. He carved slices of sausage, and they chewed, looking up at the stars. “Funny,” Swinehild said. “When I was a kid, I used to imagine there was people on all those stars out there. They all lived in beautiful gardens and danced and played all day long. I had an idea I was an orphan, marooned from someplace like that, and that someday my real folks would come along and take me back.” “The curious thing about me,” Lafayette said, “was that I didn’t think anything like that at all.
