She curled up on the couch and examined the baton. It was completely normal in every perceivable way. It was of good quality, and finely made. It was ...onger, maybe two or three inches longer, than any she had ever used. Her own was all black. This one had a black bulb as a handle, and the whip-thin shaft was pure white. There were no markings on it whatsoever. That was odd. Manufacturers loved putting their names on things like this. They wanted their name to be a status symbol.Her comments to. And of course they need to know how very good they are at it.Obsession is the word.It made John a poor judge of people. He hardly ever paused to look at them. And he was no exception. Men are like the boys at the beach, teaming up to build a sand castle. Or in the woods, damming a creek.The world narrows around them. They can only see the project at hand. The challenge. And they know they are safe. Their back is covered. At least, they think it is. As they plan their exhilarating projects. More

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