Bunny thought of Konrad and her drunken night on the beach; he had talked about Libya. She thought of Sofie’s jeremiad. She could never have shown her this document. Bunny understood, logically, that Sofie was right about everything. But it was impossible to reconcile Sofie’s prognostications with the world Bunny saw before her, with all its foregone conclusions. She envied the men like Frank Turnbridge, the young man Frank Turnbridge had been, all the oil men, who had worried only about the bottom line and how they might close the deal. These men ran into each other across the world, on the course at Marsa el Brega, by the pool at Dhahran camp, on the shuttle plane at Bontang, always going somewhere new. As Bunny’s plane banked over Houston she looked down over the miles of cars, the sun glinting off the windshields. She imagined herself a young man, a full moon casting its light over the shimmering oil sands.