Thirty Girls by Susan Minot Page A

though, awake and on the prowl. The black tunnel of road was lit only as far as the headlights reached. Going down a hill, Harry braked abruptly. In the headlights was a dark lump in the road, a roll of clothes in their lane. Harry put the car in neutral, the motor idling in the quiet night, and peered over the steering wheel close to the windshield, trying to make out what was there. He looked out the black windows to his left and right and behind. Carjackers flagged you down for help, then people hiding in the bushes would pounce out. Flat tires happened all the time, but if you were going to help anyone, you took a risk. Stopping at night at all was arisk. Harry pulled on the emergency brake and opened the door, leaving the car running. He got out.
    Lock it, he said, and shut the door.
    He strode, not quickly but not slowly either, in front of the dim headlights. He stood over the bundle, looking at one end then the other. He bent down and slid his arms underneath, hoisted it like a sack onto his shoulder and across his back. A head appeared, dangling down. Harry carried the body off the road and set it down. Back in the headlights he had his usual expression—as she’d seen in the five long days she’d known him—internally focused and untroubled. Even carrying a passed-out, possibly dead, stranger on his back. He crouched down to see the person more closely, gave the body a pat, then stood up. Jane unlocked the door.
    Just drunk, he said, and shifted into gear.
    They weren’t far from Beryl’s. She thought about the bed waiting for them there. When they got back, there was a delicious curry dinner and a smaller group at the table. Leonard, however, had not returned.
    Beryl’s guest Damian turned out to be not only a paleontologist but an environmental consultant who flew around East Africa. He and Harry were discussing wild dogs. Jane was surprised to learn that when Harry had worked for a couple of years he’d become rather an expert. The wild dogs were, like most every other mammal on the continent save the human, on the decline. Weeks were spent tracking dogs to locate their dens so they could be coaxed out and transported to areas where they’d less likely vanish. There was a movement among those trying to save them to call them by a less off-putting name—painted dogs.
    Either way, Harry said, wild dogs are a lot cooler than people realize. Like all dogs, they are a submission-based species, but it’s not to do with sex. Females rule some packs, males rule others. The packs hunt for food together and never fight over it, even when they’re starving. When they want food, they beg for it from each other. They don’t fight.
    Jane looked across the table at Harry. Maybe she looked at him a little longer than usual. He winked, unsmiling.
    Later they fell into bed like trees and she lay beside him motionless. She listened to his quiet breathing, asleep. Her leg under the covers against him felt alert. The longing had started. She wanted to wake him but didn’t. Mustn’t let them know you need them.
    Before dawn, he woke her. They were out before sunrise, carrying their bags off the terrace. Beryl was up to see them off, holding on her hip the youngest boy, chewing at her gold necklace. As they drove away Jane watched her figure in the murky light, her brown arms around her son, still standing as they drove down the alley of eucalyptus trees, still unmoving when the truck crossed the fields and turned out of sight.
    An unpaved road took them up small hills where in the dawn light the ground looked sprinkled with pale blue sand between ghostly bushes. The sun rose and the road became pink then turned to pavement and the truck slammed the potholes.
    On a steep hill the motor started to sputter and buck. Everyone stirred from their drowsiness. The truck strained upward, slowing to a crawl. Harry’s expression showed no concern. He stopped, put the car in neutral, revved the engine, then put it back in gear. It