Odds : A Love Story (9781101554357) Read Free Page B

easily?
    Spotlit flags flapped atop the tollbooths. As she remembered it, the plaza was smaller, and there was no modern-looking glass cube in the middle, no fancy rock fountain. They angled their way past the lines of stopped cars to an empty lane dedicated to buses. As they slowed for the jersey-walled slot, he shoved the bag under the seat in front of him, sliding a foot on either side. He raised his eyebrows and gave her a clownish grimace, as if he knew how useless this was.
    They stopped, the bus releasing a pneumatic hiss, and the cabin lights snapped on. The door opened, letting in a few flakes, and a customs agent in a baseball cap with an embroidered gold badge climbed the stairs. He conferred with the driver, jotting something on his clipboard, then turned to the passengers. Hefilled the aisle, blocking any escape. The bus went silent, awaiting instructions. Marion couldn’t tell if he had a gun, but he was fit. She pictured him tackling Art, their bags ransacked, the money confiscated. They would lose it all anyway, but, after everything, to never have that chance, slim as it was, seemed wrong. Was that how he rationalized what they were doing? Because, for the first time, she could see it.
    “Welcome to Canada, folks,” the agent said. “We’re going to ask you to disembark for just a couple of minutes. Please have your passports and customs forms available for inspection.”
    They filed off, braving the cold for a moment, then standing in a switchbacked line in a bright office. The agents here were hatless and sat behind high counters like bank tellers.
    An agent waved them up together and inspected their passports. “Where are you coming from today?”
    She let Art answer, nodding confirmation.
    What was the purpose of their visit? What hotel were they staying at? Did they have anything to declare?
    She waited for Art to stumble over the last one, but he just shook his head as if the question was moot. “Nothing.”
    “Enjoy your stay.” The agent gave Art back both of their passports, and they went outside and got on the bus again.
    The bag was still there.
    “That’s terrible,” he said. “They didn’t even stamp our passports.”
    “You want to go back?”
    “No, but…I kind of wanted a Canada stamp. I don’t have one yet.”
    “Okay, settle down,” she said, because he was too pleased with himself.
    “I’m just saying.”
    “And I’m just saying.”
    They let it rest there, a stalemate, but as they rode along, the lights whipping past beside her, she realized they were actually going to do this, that there was nothing stopping them, and had to admit she felt an illicit thrill, as if they’d gotten away with something.

Odds of a U.S. citizen being an
  American Express cardholder:

        
1 in 10
        The driver took them in via the scenic route, curving with the river, the rapids adding to the suspense. On the American side, disembodied headlights glided through the night. Somewhere on the dark water separating them bobbed a line of buoys beyond which rescue was unlikely if not impossible. Art kept this information to himself, watching for the first glimpse of the Falls. Ahead, an orange halo rose from the city, silhouetting a long black lump.
    “Is that Goat Island there?” he prompted.
    “I hope so. I’m ready to jump out of my skin.”
    “It must be,” he said, because just ahead he could see a pink column of mist boiling up, spritzing the windows, turning the streetlights blurry. The river surged, sluicing ice chunks past snow-topped rocks, throwing off foam. Beneath the dieseling of the bus, subtle at first, then insistent, came a deeper rumbling, as of a great engine. The tremor grew to a muted roaring, enveloping them like the mist, vibrating in his chest as if the whole earth were shaking, and then, in an instant, the river dropped away to reveal the famous panorama, a mile wide, colored blood-red for the weekend.
    Oooo
, everyone said.
    Marion had