An annoying drip from the ceiling onto the tarp stretched over their bed awoke him. The roof leaked. A silver flash in the bedroom window, then somewhere off toward Mount Lemon, thunder grumbled in the distance. Soon a trickle ran off the shield and began to plunk-plunk
into the tinned pots. The drum of the storm grew heavier outside, until finally the roar swept down the Santa Cruz River Valley.
Burt Green threw his legs off the bed, and his bare soles touched the cool tile floor. The outline of her shapely form, asleep on her side, was barely visible in the bedroom's darkness, then lightning illuminated the white...