#178250 - “I love you too, Maggie” George said, also genuinely, emphatically. It was an 8x10 inch glossy original of her modeling an indiscreet blue bikini for the celebrity swimsuit edition of a sports & fitness magazine last summer on a remote South Pacific island shore 2 minutes after sunset: she was spread wide and low on froggy all-fours and pointed toward the ocean and tropical twilight – her knees planted firmly in the sand and granules spilling through her fists, holding onto the planet and the soft crack of her luscious tush a gaping shadow beneath the sheer blue fabric of the tiny bikini bottom. 357 magnum – and a box of hollow-point rounds – that he knew she knew how to, and had before, fired, egregiously so, one time years ago when they were kids in defense of themselves, after money for which they’d performed, for food and a room, had been denied them and their mere survival was in question.