Anne Marie now sat, looking out of the window, staring at the movement of the traffic. From time to time, she turned her head toward the distant steeple of the church that rose up through the foliage of breadfruit trees and the tin roofs of Morne-à-l’Eau. A fall in the temperature by several degrees would have been welcome. There were a couple of clouds away to the north, but they promised no relief from the stifling heat. Anne Marie was sweating profusely. She was hungry. With the tips of her fingers, she scratched at the back of her left hand.