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By Root 405 0

over the water. The red glow of the digital clock on the nightstand told me it was 4:30 a.m. On the other bed, I could hear Kyla breathing slowly, still in deep sleep. It would take a canon going off on the roof to wake her. I slipped out of bed and softly tugged the sliding glass door open and went out on the balcony, then immediately darted back to pull the bedspread off the bed. Wrapping it around my shoulders, I returned to the chilly darkness. The lights from the hotel reflected in yellow rippling streaks across the water. Under its still surface, the Nile was running swift and black and deep. I gave a little shiver, my feet freezing against the chill of the concrete. The eerie wailing of morning prayers, so alien to my western ears, made the little hairs stand up on the back of my neck. The morning chill finally drove me back to bed, but I lay awake for a long time after the haunting sound had ceased. I’d barely drifted off again when my alarm beeped, followed closely by the sound of the telephone with the wake-up call that Anni arranged every morning. Kyla and I dressed in groggy silence and staggered down to the hotel restaurant in search of coffee.

Breakfast was scheduled at the ungodly hour of six-thirty today because we were flying to Abu Simbel, site of the legendary temples of Ramses II. The hotel restaurant had just opened, an ordinary long room filled with large round tables, covered in white tablecloths, and already set with silverware and glasses. A long buffet was ready for us in the middle of the room, loaded with fruit, rolls, pastries, and a wide assortment of traditional American breakfast foods from sausages to Cheerios. Waiters in white coats carrying pitchers of coffee and glass carafes of juice waited for us to sit down.

Surprisingly, everyone but us seemed wide awake, and they were all chattering excitedly about the trip. I hesitated at the door, but Kyla headed straight across the room to join Keith and Dawn Kim and the Petersons, leaving me on my own. Still mad, apparently, although at least not openly hostile. I sat down at the next table beside Nimmi Gavaskar. An attentive waiter immediately filled my coffee cup, and I cradled it between both hands, enjoying the warmth and inhaling the rich fragrance. DJ returned from the buffet with a plate loaded with eggs, bacon, and sausages, and sat down on the other side of Nimmi. He was soon followed by the de Vances and less charmingly by the Morrisons. Looking at his plate, I felt my stomach rumble a little. I rose, deciding to fetch a couple of rolls, but somehow ended up with two croissants, half a dozen sausages, and a strip of crispy hot bacon. Buffets are my nemesis.

When I returned, the octogenarians Yvonne and Charlie were just announcing they were not accompanying the group to Abu Simbel.

“We’re going to walk around the market, see a bit more of Aswan,” said Yvonne, cracking open a hard-boiled egg with a spoon. Her bifocals made her faded brown eyes seem larger than they were.

The group gave a dismayed protest.

“Not going?” said DJ. “But you can’t miss this!”

Kathy Morrison chimed in with her flat California voice. “He’s right. It’s one of the highlights of the tour. And you might never be this close again.” She didn’t actually add the words, “because you’re so old you’ll be dead before you could make it back,” but she might as well have.

From her table, Kyla met my eyes with a delighted smirk, then remembered she was still mad at me and hurriedly looked away. I was pleased. She’d be speaking to me before lunch at this rate and maybe neither of us would have to apologize.

Yvonne and Charlie were not to be swayed. “It will be nice to be on our own,” Yvonne said, stroking Charlie’s arm slowly from wrist to shoulder. “After all, we are on our honeymoon.”

That killed the protests dead, and with a little metaphoric shudder, the group dropped the subject.

After an uncomfortable pause, Nimmi turned to Lydia, who was just putting her plate down on the crisp white table cloth. “And your niece? How is she this morning?”

I’d forgotten all