The moment the spirits of the sloughs surrounding Sacramento became aware of Amphibian Johnson, the moment the Green-eyed Woman called out to them through the muck and reeds and brackish water and announced his coming, excitement clouded their judgement. It had been centuries since a new dawn had risen, and during all that time the spirits had waited — patient, hopeful, and ravenously hungry. But from the little girl’s standing room only view along the concourse of the Mad Popes’ pivotal game seven in the Doubleday series against Portland, she saw the deceit. Amphibian’s deceit. And the Green-eyed Woman’s.
The little girl squinted, focusing on him. She wanted to be sure.
##
The bubbles stopped. The water calmed.
And the woman closed her eyes.
He was here.
##
The little girl weaved through the crowd, not cheering as they cheered, not groaning as they groaned. She only stared at Amphibian. She saw the artificial shimmer on his skin when he moved too quickly. She noticed the flicker of green darkness in his eyes when he tracked the ball.
She knew he wasn’t the one they’d been waiting for.
It was Camacho.
