"Hey, mister!"

Becker had been walking across the concourse toward a bank ofpay phones. He stopped and turned. Coming up behind him was thegirl he'd just surprised in the bathroom. She waved for him towait. "Mister, wait!"

Now what? Becker groaned. She wants to pressinvasion-of-privacy charges?

The girl dragged her duffel toward him. When she arrived, shewas now wearing a huge smile. "Sorry to yell at you backthere. You just kind of startled me."

"No problem," Becker assured, somewhat puzzled."I was in the wrong place."

"This will sound crazy," she said, batting herbloodshot eyes. "But you wouldn't happen to have somemoney you can lend me, would you?"

Becker stared at her in disbelief. "Money for what?"he demanded. I'm not funding your drug habit if that'swhat you're asking.

"I'm trying to get back home," the blonde said."Can you help?"

"Miss your flight?"

She nodded. "Lost my ticket. They wouldn't let me geton. Airlines can be such assholes. I don't have the cash tobuy another."

"Where are your parents?" Becker asked.

"States."

"Can you reach them?"

"Nope. Already tried. I think they're weekending onsomebody's yacht."

Becker scanned the girl's expensive clothing. "Youdon't have a credit card?"

"Yeah, but my dad canceled it. He thinks I'm ondrugs."

"Are you on drugs?" Becker asked, deadpan,eyeing her swollen forearm.

The girl glared, indignant. "Of course not!" She gaveBecker an innocent huff, and he suddenly got the feeling he wasbeing played.

"Come on," she said. "You look like a rich guy.Can't you spot me some cash to get home? I could send it toyou later."

Becker figured any cash he gave this girl would end up in thehands of some drug dealer in Triana. "First of all," hesaid, "I'm not a rich guy—I'm a teacher. ButI'll tell you what I'll do …" I'll callyour bluff, that's what I'll do. "Why don'tI charge the ticket for you?"

The blonde stared at him in utter shock. "You'd dothat?" she stammered, eyes wide with hope. "You'dbuy me a ticket home? Oh, God, thank you!"

Becker was speechless. He had apparently misjudged themoment.

The girl threw her arms around him. "It's been ashitty summer," she choked, almost bursting into tears."Oh, thank you! I've got to get out of here!"

Becker returned her embrace halfheartedly. The girl let go ofhim, and he eyed her forearm again.

She followed his gaze to the bluish rash. "Gross,huh?"

Becker nodded. "I thought you said you weren't ondrugs."

The girl laughed. "It's Magic Marker! I took off halfmy skin trying to scrub it off. The ink smeared."

Becker looked closer. In the fluorescent light, he could see,blurred beneath the reddish swelling on her arm, the faint outlineof writing—words scrawled on flesh.

"But… but your eyes," Becker said, feelingdumb. "They're all red."

She laughed. "I was crying. I told you, I missed myflight."

Becker looked back at the words on her arm.

She frowned, embarrassed. "Oops, you can still kind of readit, can't you?"

Becker leaned closer. He could read it all right. The messagewas crystal clear. As he read the four faint words, the last twelvehours flashed before his eyes.

David Becker found himself back in the Alfonso XIII hotel room.The obese German was touching his own forearm and speaking brokenEnglish: Fock off und die.

"You okay?" the girl asked, eyeing the dazedBecker.

Becker did not look up from her arm. He was dizzy. The fourwords smeared across the girl's flesh carried a very simplemessage: FUCK OFF AND DIE.

The blonde looked down at it, embarrassed. "This friend ofmine wrote it… pretty stupid, huh?"

Becker couldn't speak. Fock off und die. Hecouldn't believe it. The German hadn't been insultinghim, he'd been trying to help. Becker lifted his gaze to thegirl's face. In the fluorescent light of the concourse, hecould see faint traces of red and blue in the girl's blondhair.

"Y-you…" Becker stammered, staring at herunpierced ears. "You wouldn't happen to wear earrings,would you?"

The girl eyed him strangely. She fished a tiny object from herpocket and held it out. Becker gazed at the skull pendant danglingin her hand.

"A clip-on?" he stammered.

"Hell, yes," the girl replied. "I'm scaredshitless of needles."