As he turned away from Boone, he shifted his weight to the right while whipping the belt off his arm, then launched into a counterclockwise spin on the opposite foot, gripping onto the tongue end of the belt and flinging it like a bullwhip.
Until that summer, the childhood event in the Snake River cabin gun closet had been sealed in a time capsule somewhere deep in his neurology, shut in and cauterized to keep it from infecting the rest of the organism. It had been explained to him by the same navy psychologist who taught him the term “lacunar amnesia.”