With a pit stop in the kitchen, we headed out to the balcony with a bottle of wine and two
plastic cups.
“We agreed that it's logical for every action to be a consequence of another action, not that
everything is cosmically orchestrated,” I said.
“We agreed that there is an underlying order to all events because nothing comes from
nothing. It was you who designed a destiny that aligned you with consequences that sometimes
didn't happen; the only logical explanation is that you had help.”
“Goodbye damn-near killed me!”
“Damned near is still a miss,” Bonnie said tranquilly. “Remember that your screenplay
story just filled your head, and that you just knew your father would not live to come home?
Same help.”
“A real apprentice, and our audience, might see your claim as an example of how faith
bends facts,” I said logically, “which reinforces the idea that teachers are manufacturing their
student’s consent.”
We sat down in the aluminum chairs.
Bonnie consulted the horizon, then turning her head so that the sun reflected off her glasses
as pinpoints of light, she said, “A teacher would recognize this as one of those crossroads
moments and ask the student to review the incident in detail. Hopefully, the apprentice’s lessons
to date would allow them to set aside self-interest long enough for an omen to jump out at them.”
She brushed hair away from her forehead, took a sip of wine, and watched the waters of English
Bay.
With occasional prompting for details, I told her the full story:
Chapter 35
I had finished six weeks of an open ended contract when Sean gave his notice to our bureau
chief, Lucy. Four weeks were understood to be a fair freelance stint, but most of our friends were
there, so the extra time wasn't a big deal to me. Sean said I should go home with him because he
always missed the big trouble by only a day or two; six months earlier, his regular soundman had
stayed behind and was badly wounded, which is what created the job opening for me. I was
considering leaving with him when Sammi's soundman was hit, so Lucy sent Sean home early
and shifted me over to work with Sammi.
“We thought Sean’s plane coming under fire was something that would be over by noon,” I
said,” but his flight turned out to be the last to lift off for months. That night,” I explained the
lead-up events, “some of us were intimidated at the Hamra-Skeller restaurant, not that threats
were unusual, but these guys knew where we had gone to school, where our parents lived—
things like that. The next morning, all hell broke loose.”
“What were the threats about?"
I looked into her eyes to see if she was kidding. Apparently not. “They suggested it would
be wise to not report on a faction’s activities?”
"Right—got it,” she nodded.
“Shelling from the east fell downtown, and there was heavy fighting around the Green Line
which meant they weren’t just trying to pick each other off; someone intended to cross it. There
was no fighting around the Corniche, so the touring crews decided to wait out the shelling, but
