Unformatted text preview: ow." There was a car waiting for them, an egregious American Lincoln limousine. It was lined in gray velvet. Its glass was so dim that the outside world fell under an edict of utter night. Impossible to really see a city through such windows, Yuri thought. He sat very still. He was thinking of something that had happened to him years ago. 409 He was remembering the long train ride with his mother into Serbia. She had given him something. An ice pick, though he did not know what it was at the time. It was a long rounded and pointed instrument, made of metal, with a wooden handle which had once been painted, and from which the paint had been chipped away. "Here, you keep this," she'd said. "You use it if you have to. You stick it straight in ... between the ribs." How fierce she'd looked in those moments. And he had been so startled. "But who's going to hurt us?" he had asked. He did not know at this moment whatever became of the ice pick. Perhaps it had been left...
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This note was uploaded on 02/20/2010 for the course WRITING 220.200 taught by Professor Julie during the Spring '10 term at Johns Hopkins.
- Spring '10