WEDDING FIRETHE MIST still hung thinly at the edges of the hills and there was vagueness in the scene. Dogas sidled closer to the side of the bus for
there could be warmth there, but it was made of galvanized iron sheet and was cold, too, so he settled in the middle of the seat. He pulled the jacked zipper up to his neck, then fumbled for a
cigarette in one of his pockets. The cigarette came out shriveled like an old man’s finger. Limply the cigarette hung between his lips. He had lost his match.
A curse formed in his mind. “What a morning!” he would have bellowed had he been in his dormitory in the city below. But he was not in the city, not in the hot boarding house with
army cots placed against the wall serving as the room-divider, clothes hanger, and bulletin board. He was not with
