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We haven't had a fix in five days and we're getting anxious.
Satisfaction for our addiction must be obtained at any cost.
In town, we inquire about a local connection. A dark man directs
us to the local supplier, who lives down a narrow lane in
a green house.
We follow the lonely street out of town and past an unkept
graveyard. Should we be walking in this neighborhood, we ask
ourselves? But our need is strong and pushes us forward despite
our misgivings.
At the end of the street, we find a shack surrounded by a
gated fence. The antenna on the roof assures us we've arrived
at the right place. Two Rotreiller-ish dogs lounge in the
dirt inside the fence. Flies swarm around the dog pen; the
smell is pungent and earthy. The door to the house is inside
the gate where the dogs are watching us with curiosity. Nick
starts to open the gate, looks at the hefty canines and reconsiders.
Instead he pulls out the VHF radio and calls the supplier
on Channel 69.
Soon a tall, smiling black man in a pointy hat emerges from
the hovel. Introducing himself as Perez, he assures us that
if the dogs don't bark they won't bite.
"So how much do you need?" he inquires. "A
day, a week, or a month?"
"Give us a week's supply," we reply, relieved to
know our need will soon be satiated.
Nick hands over the money, and Perez slips a white card out
of his pocket. On the card is an ID and password. We sigh
with relief. We'll once again have WiFi on the boat to satisfy
our addiction to Internet, e-mail, and Skype. We hurry back
to the boat to get online.
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