What happened on that tiny island off the coast of Cuba called Flowering Cay at times seems like a half-remembered dream, one of those groggy remembrances that you're never quite certain you didn't just imagine. Other times I can recall it with such clarity it is as if it happened yesterday. Sitting in front of my typewriter as the palms sway gently at the urging of the trade winds, I almost wish I could forget everything. But then I think of Faith.