crazy. She thought about the laboratory in Oregon under government contract to make chemical poison.
There seemed to be no connection between those two things, yet they had come together like the words and music of a song. An old song, as old as history. Insanity breeding insanity, the stockpiled weapons of war replaced by new and deadlier armaments, terror giving birth to new terror. An endless cycle, a loop circling from one generation to the next, returning always to the same point. A Mobius strip.
Sow the wind, harvest the whirlwind. And no one learned, ever.
Yet it was morning, and the sun was rising, and it was Easter.
That had to count for something.
Tess stood unmoving for a long time and watched the brightening sky.
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