The man said nothing for a moment. “Aye,” he finally replied, a tremor in his voice. “I suppose the Irish made the best o’ what a bloody mess they were served.”
Mentioning The Blast unsettles him, Jake thought, looking at the man from the corner of his eye. The man’s vague features said he was from anywhere, everywhere and nowhere. Looking at his face was like trying to grab an oiled window. One glance and Jake slid off to memories of walking through Rio de Janeiro. Another glance, and his mind saw statues of Buddhas in the city shrines, all topped with the money-green flag of the Independent City-Nation of Hong Kong. The only thing he could lock onto was the intense gaze of the man’s brown-black eyes. They were like the nighttime sky, an ocean at midnight, brown rushing rivers, the bark of ancient trees and fresh-tilled vibrant black earth, all at once.
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