( He is, and so one mystery unfolds with unforeseen delicacy. The man yet walks the world beside her, and that too is a gift, for a man long orphaned. Blood is not bond, but it helps, how it helps.

The game proceeds: red again. For blood or anger or the simple human affinity for colour in the face of the abyss. Red is promise, is marriage. A new year, finely clad. He nods his understanding, coughing once to signal solidarity with her when the wheel seems to want to pry whether she won't choose a number as well —

And holds his breath, burning. Searing.

The ball rolls —

And bounces and dashes along and stills, finally, irrevocably, on — )

...eighteen. ( All eyes turn to the whale. )