“Why?”
“The climate,” he said. “It’s bad for little pipsqueaks like you.”
“It hasn’t disagreed with me so far,” I said.
“No, but it will. It’s the malaria, you know. Mosquitoes buzz around at night. They bite you, and the first thing you know you feel sick.”
“Where should I go,” I asked, “to avoid the insects?”
His face darkened. He said, “No more of that, pint-size.”
I fished a cigarette out of my pocket, and lit it. He watched me put the match up to the cigarette and laughed when he saw that my hand was shaking.
I shook the match out, inhaled a lungful of smoke, and said, “Go ahead. It’s your party.”
He said, “I’ve said it. There’s your bag. Pack it. I’m here to escort you down to your car.”
“Suppose I don’t want to be escorted?”