I was expected. “Cosima

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West Street and San Francisco Lanewhich were
plainly marked on painted aluminum street signs and totally ignored. Maybe somebody had just recently
dreamed up these normal names and hammered up signs to improve the town’s image.
From the canyon’s crest I could see down into the isolated settlements at the north end of the valley
some abandonedsome buried in deep graves of mine tailingsthrough whichpresumablyBlack Mountain
now ran quantities of sulfuric acid. Far to the south lay open desert. The road I was on would pass through
one more flock of little housesall settled like hens into their gardensbefore reaching Doc Homer’s drafty
two-story gray edifice.
I bypassed the main entrance of the hospitalthe only one of the ghost town of Black Mountain
buildings that was still in use. The hospital itself had finally closed—people had to leave Grace for a more
equipped town if their problems were major—but Doc Homer’s office in the basement could handle anything
up to and including broken limbs. He wasn’t working there today. I’d called him at home; I was expected.
“Cosima? Cosima Noline [link widoczny dla zalogowanych]! I want you to look.” A heavyset woman in a housedress and running shoes
was standing at her mailboxshouting at me. “Childwiyilai:
[link widoczny dla zalogowanych]

On the Makaloa Mat LondonJack Published bbaafgwv