Chosen Prey

AFTER the sailboat, after a salad of roasted chicken breasts and walnuts and lettuce, after a bowl of wild rice soup, after a beer or two, he was puttering in his study, the whole case still tingling at the back of his brain. After a while, he sighed and walked down to the bathroom. The door was shut and locked.
    “Weather?”
    “Yes. Just a minute.”
    “That’s okay, I can run down—”
    “No, no, just a minute.” He could hear her moving around, and tried the door. Locked.
    “What are you doing?”
    “Uh . . .”
    “Okay, I’ll run down to the—”
    “No, no . . . I’m, uh, I’m just, uh, peeing on a stick.”
    “What?”
    “Peeing on a stick.”
    “Weather? What . . . ?”
    “I’m peeing on a stick. Okay?”
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