The speedometer read 80 miles an hour. Not much time to deliberate. I wheeled sharply off the highway. It was 8:30 Saturday night, almost dark. Hundred-foot pines, silhouetted in the indigo dusk, camouflaged the small brown sign. It had been years since I’d taken this kind of detour.
“They’re plastic.” Aris Evangelinos snatched the komboloi from Peter’s hand and put a match to it. The orange and yellow beads—my gift to Peter less than a week ago—were wrapped in flames. Aris waited a moment, put his nose to the beads and sniffed.