Matthew Lickona 2:45 p.m., Dec. 10
She stood up, disturbed by the sound of the red cubes on the glass tabletop. Stretching slowly, her back puffing up then sliding, arching up and tucking slowly. Kit Kat jumped down, so lightly she was almost floating before she hit the floor and slalomed her way across the room to where the die sat, perched precariously on the edges, seven facing up, a four and a 3, seven facing north, a five and a 2, double sixes to the east.
Leaping onto one of the upholstered chairs, she thought, what does it mean? She bent her front legs slightly and moved a bit closer to get a good whiff, jumping back a few inches when her nose made contact with one of the translucent cubes, flipping it over, upsetting the symmetry of the dots.
A green expanse, like a golf course, only flatter with banked edges and a carousel in the center. A delicate hand, unblemished, with perfect red nails cupped the die, swaying slowly to Barry Manilow’s Lola, back and forth, back and forth, let em roll. Vito slid another stack of chips to her bank as the numbers came in. What was it now?
Two days, three? She’s flown in from Chicago, separate planes.