JOURNAL OF DIXON AINSLEY
9 August
6:20 a.m.
Warsaw, Poland
There was a flood in Latvia, one that made it impossible to drive over what was evidently the only bridge in existence, or at least so you would have assumed, judging by the reaction of the local population.
“I’m not saying that I would have wished to drive through flooded areas,” I told Paulie that night when we were lying together in the car. “But it is irksome to be here wasting time.”
Paulie made a noise of agreement. She was warm and soft and lay draped over me like a delicious woman-scented blanket, the car blanket over top of us. I had a horrible feeling that my left buttock was glued by body moisture to the leather bench of the backseat, but other than making a little wiggle to see how hard it would be to shift the ch
