But she's a quiet type, doesn't say much. Then, in the distant rapids, there is movement. It's a flock of real ducks, flying downstream and quacking loudly as if trying to warn nature of the coming abomination. Necks craning, legs pumping, a wake of feet and bills and assorted duck parts flowing in front of them. None of the ducks is mine.
Muffled explosions rock the bridge.
The crowd cheers, a winning duck has crossed the finish line. No, someone has shot the Senator, three red blossoms have appeared on his chest. I find Diane and we head home.