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But Jack did not heed them. She helped Jack to sit down, and dragged the jacket off him, lifting his shirt to expose the gash that had sliced across his side. He sprung out of the driver’s side and ran to her door. "Hear me," he cried, restraining himself with difficulty. . . She saw the moonlit waters, the black shadow of the proa, the moon-fire that ran down the far edge of the bellying sail, the silent natives: no sound except the slapping of the outrigger and the low sibilant murmur of water falling away from the sides—and the beating of her heart. She's fine. I decline to waste a single second even in considering the ugly ones. It’s odd how little I know of him, and of how he feels and what he feels.
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