And—I realized, through a psychedelic and powerful surge of nausea—Ronna.

Of course, with my senses addled and perceptions blurred, I had to see.

So I shut myself in a catercorner hall bathroom, turned off the light, and left the door ajar.

Five minutes later John strode past, and five minutes after that, Ronna.

The longest ten minutes in sports.

I locked the door, ran the faucet, then turned and knelt on the cold tile, felt the foul surge rush out, splashing toilet water and vomit onto my face.

When the second wave of nausea ended, I rinsed in the sink, then zipped my long down coat up to my chin, and sat on the john.

Betrayed.

Hung on a noose of innocence.

One chapter concluded and another about to begin.

Over the next few days, John was as attentive and affectionate as he’d ever been, fueled by guilt and the brittle comfort that he had gotten away with something. He smiled more than usual, a sheepish, apologetic thing in which I also saw pity, which infuriated me.

I was a moody wreck but hid it. Threw myself into my weightlifting and breath-control exercises for the Monsters of Mavericks. Spent extra hours in the ocean, wrestling the jet ski through the local waves and whitewater, trying to master that eight-hundred-pound brute. Sometimes I’d head into the open sea and gun the throttle, cutting a straight line across the ocean, fast as the ski would go, pretending I was outrunning John’s betrayal. Outrunning John himself. Leaving him behind in the smoky roar of the machine.

Two nights after the New Year’s Eve party in the canyon, I led John into our bedroom and made love to him. It was heartbroken and powerful, and left me in tears. I wouldn’t let him go and we made love again, this time long and sweetly desperate for me. He told me he was sorry though he didn’t say for what.

Lying there after, I knew I’d catch that wandering spirit again, that life that had been trying to find a home inside me.

I knew it. Felt it.

Smiled as I lay there, listening to John’s soft, slow breathing.

John’s breath of life.

All ours.

33

This from Brawn, the latest far-right social platform that Brock figures will be out of business in a year:

Kasper Aamon #kasperaamonrightfight

The devil broke my jaw yesterday at the Breath of Life Rescue Mission in Aguanga, CA when I asked Brother Brock Stonebreaker how many illegals were living there. Ninety-two, and hardly a white face among them. Ugly, dark people picking the lice off each others’ backs. A fake sermon by a madman with rabies. Stay away! Or…?

Brock sits at one end of a gray-and-blue plaid Salvation Army couch in the mild morning sunlight outside his Breath of Life chapel. He’s got his phone out, trading punches with his enemies. Months ago, he got tired of the Right Fight and other creeps hounding him on his website and Twitter page so he dove right into the sewer with them on Brawn, where he can always find a fight if he’s in the mood.

He’s also got a tablet beside him, with live Mavericks cameras on Surfline.com. Right now the surf is flat, gray, no swell, just windy chop and pelicans diving into a school of anchovies. But FreakZilla—freakishly early for sure—is forming more strongly now, its speed and width growing, but its path still open to interpretation. Brock studies the NOAA Data Center maps: impressive. Surfline is bullish on the swell hitting Half Moon Bay; NOAA cautious. Brock’s gut tells him it’s going to be big, very big. Possible ETA at Half Moon Bay is 120 hours: five days from now. A key reading of the Southeast Papa buoy in Oregon currently has a twenty-six-foot, nineteen-second swell. A swell that big, with a nineteen-second interval, Brock knows, means very large, once-in-a-decade surf—if it stays on course.

Storms upon storms, Brock thinks.

Mahina’s at the other end of the sofa with the current weekend edition of USA Today.

Brock looks at Kasper Aamon’s very swollen face on the Brawn feed. It looks plenty painful but Brock’s heart doesn’t exactly go out to Kasper. Fucking Nazis trying to hurt my people, he thinks: Kristallnacht ’38.

#brockstonebreaker1

Kasper, you say such nice things about me, but you deserve what you got! You were armed, threatening, and trespassing on church property. Stay away is right. And what does “stay away!… Or?” really mean? Going to send more Right Fighters out our way? Hey, dim bulb, there’s a wildfire in Flagstaff, uncontained, evacuations. Why don’t you ice that jaw, join us Go Dogs and HELP! Plenty of white people there who need a hand up!

#timothy.45rightfight

You can tell from Brock Stonebreaker’s YouTubes that he’s an oily fool spoiling for a fight. Look at those greasy dreadlocks! If I see you in Mt. Shasta I’ll break your jaw and tear out those dreads with my teeth, one filthy little bundle at a time. After that, you can crawl over and pick up your balls in the gutter.

#wardblock214

You lice pickers! Do you eat them like monkeys do?

Brock looks at Wardblock214’s picture. He’s a hairy, glaring guy in a plaid flannel, an iron cross pendant peeking out below his beard. Looks something like Kasper. Brock likes the Brawn graphics because they’re big, and he can clearly see the faces of his critics. Sometimes the faces match the message. But sometimes the posters look nothing like what they say.

Such as this sweet-faced blonde behind big, flame-red glasses:

#joanofdark187

Nothing worse than a false savior. The Brock Stonebreakers of the world should be excommunicated and burned at the stake. I’ll pour the gas and light it myself. And shoot him on my smart phone, screaming, his nappy little locs on fire. Motherfucking traitor to his race.

#brockstonebreaker1

Joan! Bring all of your positive energy to Flagstaff! We need you! Bring water, food, clothing, blankets, camping stuff, money! If you don’t have wheels, Go Dogs will pick you up!

#kittybitch

Hang the President. Eat his lips.

Brock considers Kittybitch’s sullen face, her storm of red hair. Doesn’t know what to say back.

He checks Arizona Wildfire, figuring it’s going to take him and Mahina six and a half hours to make Flagstaff. The Go Dog Econoline is packed to the rafters with supplies, and its tank is full. The latest containment numbers are eight hundred acres, zero percent contained.

Brock watches both Kupchiks, checking the tires and changing the oil in his battered, black-and-green Go Dog van.

Closes the laptop and sets a big dark hand on Mahina’s warm shoulder.

He’s got the mission but he hates to leave.

Breath of Life.

Protect and serve.

“I’m going to get some Go Dogs out here while we’re gone,” he says.

“Kasper?” asks Mahina.