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TIME
IS
NOT
IMPORTANT
.
’
You
say
?
’
RIGHT
.
Harga
decided
not
to
argue
.
’
Well
,
you
’
re
doing
a
damn
fine
job
in
there
,
boy
,
’
he
said
.
WHAT
is
IT
CALLED
WHEN
YOU
FEEL
WARM
AND
CONTENT
AND
WISH
THINGS
WOULD
STAY
THAT
WAY
?
’
I
guess
you
’
d
call
it
happiness
,
’
said
Harga
.
Inside
the
tiny
,
cramped
kitchen
,
strata
’
d
with
the
grease
of
decades
,
Death
spun
and
whirled
,
chopping
,
slicing
and
flying
.
His
skillet
flashed
through
the
fetid
steam
.
He
’
d
opened
the
door
to
the
cold
night
air
,
and
a
dozen
neighbourhood
cats
had
strolled
in
,
attracted
by
the
bowls
of
milk
and
meat
–
some
of
Harga
’
s
best
,
if
he
’
d
known
–
that
had
been
strategically
placed
around
the
floor
.
Occassionally
Death
would
pause
in
his
work
and
scratch
one
of
them
behind
the
ears
.
’
Happiness
,
’
he
said
,
and
puzzled
at
the
sound
of
his
own
voice
.
