The boy’s
eyes were closed again. He was waiting to die. Han had no idea how to clear the
AK47 and make it fire. He had little inclination to experiment.
He
remembered a thing a beatnik poet had said to his audience in San Francisco,
six summers before. He’d been amused because the poet said it was an ancient
Chinese curse, and Han had never heard of it.
He
spoke it softly to the boy in nine flat syllables of bad English, and moved on.
For the rest of his life, Spider would hear that phrase in his dreams and never
decipher it:
“May
you live in interesting times.”
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