“I could come see your beaver.” “You some kind of pervert?” Saint said. Jimmy caught himself and turned a deep shade of crimson. “I didn’t…I meant at the marshland.” “Where you’ll expect me to show you my beaver?” Jimmy began to sweat as he loosened his collar. “I just meant…I could help you photograph it.” Saint blew out her cheeks. Jimmy looked toward the sky, then at his shoes. And then Saint began to laugh. And she looked at his face, so open and honest and horrified, and she clutched her stomach and laughed so hard Jimmy could do little but dab the sweat from his brow and join her.
