Despite both good intentions and a bed which Torquemda might have approved for the Inquisition, come Monday morning, Jeremy slept late. The night before - after Jeanne left, explaining "No way I wanna get grounded now, dude" - Jeremy and Danny had continued for hours, partly just talking, partly reading more of Huckleberry's adventures and quitting only when Jeremy fell asleep in mid-sentence.

For Danny, of course, time seemed to mean nothing. He wasn't tired and had no need to sleep but neither could he do much with the time. As a ghost, the book was effectively out of reach. Not only couldn't he turn a single page but many of the word he could see were beyond his reading level. Still, long after Jeremy's eyes had closed, Danny continued to puzzle over the pages he could see, trying to match what Jeremy had read aloud to the words on the page. For the first time in his life - or death - Danny actually wanted to learn.

Finally, having exhausted the two pages of text ... and virtually memorized them as well, Danny sipped out to look for other interests.

Danny'd found - in the past couple of days - that he could be anywhere that he already knew just by wanting to ... but that didn't include many places with books.

He could also go someplace new ... but that was a lot like when he'd been alive. He didn't exactly walk ... but what he did do was a lot the same ... and it took patience and ... well, you couldn't exactly call it effort, but it was still a lot like that.

Of course, he did know a couple of bookstores ... but they weren't exactly the kind that carried things like Huckleberry Finn - at least, not in any version resembling the original. Further, the books they did carry - even if Danny had been able to handle them - didn't particularly interest Danny ... not any more ... not that it ever had very much. Somehow, being dead made a lot of differences. Not only did not having a body make sex a lot less interesting, but being a ghost also made sex a lot less mysterious.

Oh, Danny still had a purely intellectual curiosity in the matter ... but his curiosity had proved very easy to satisfy - at least, easy for a ghost. After that, being dead, the rest of it was just ... well ... silly.

Still, there were a lot of other things to be curious about - even in Danny's neighborhood. Or, maybe, particularly in Danny's neighborhood ... especially since locks - and guards, knives and guns - no longer mattered ... except theoretically, of course.

* * *

"Hey, sleepyhead, wake up!"

"Huh? What time is it?" Jeremy rubbed the sleep from his eyes. Jeanne was shaking him awake. The office lights were still on but the sunlight from outside was a lot brighter.

"Nearly ten, sleepy. Come on, get up."

"Uh, right," Jeremy staggered into the bathroom.

"How'd you get along with Danny last night?"

"Uh ... he kept me reading all night. We've just about finished Huckleberry. I'll have to get him something else."

"Hey, I know a great little bookstore," Jeanne called through the door. "It's not very far from here, over near the mall. We can go by there later."

"Yeah, fine. Know a good hardware? We've got to get some velcro too."

"Already did, sleepy. While you're waking up, I'll go down and attach it. Oh," she called from the stairs, "there's milk and bananas on the desk. Sorry, I didn't bring any cereal."

* * *

"Mrs. Ashdown, please," Jeanne tried to pitch her voice as low as possible. "No, I'm sorry but Dr. Reisenfern is not interested in speaking with her secretary. If you could tell me when Mrs. Ashdown will be available? ... I see ... Then Dr. Reisenfern will call again - in about an hour. ... No, I'm sorry, Dr. Reisenfern has a conference call scheduled until then. A return call is not practical. Thank you." She hung the phone up.

"Chill, mam'selle, totally chill." Jeremy laughed. "If I wasn't watching, I'd have believed you myself."

"One ice homegirl," Danny agreed. "You one mean babe!" While the two mortal youths were using the phone in the den at Jeanne's home, Danny had drifted toward the bookshelves where he was trying to read titles and trying to imagine what each might contain. The past two days had awakened appetites which Danny had never realized existed and now he was looking at the ranks of books with new eyes, imagining vistas of river rafts, wooded islands, strange people and ... and he couldn't image what else ... but he very much wanted to find out.

"Well, we've got an hour, guys ..." Jeanne crossed to the bookshelves, then hesitated, despite a conscious knowledge that it didn't matter, still unwilling to reach through the spectral figure. "Uh, Danny, uh, excuse me ..." Jeanne apologized, then produced a cassette recorder and a tape. "I've got an audio copy of Tom Sawyer here and I want to know if you can hear the tape - if neither of us are hearing it, I mean."

"Huh? Why?"

"'Cause when you speak to us, you aren't really speaking - I mean not like a tape recorder could pick you up or anything. I want to know if you're hearing sounds or if, I don't know, you're like hearing what we think about saying."

Jeanne started the tape, turned the volume low so the sound wouldn't carry, then led Jeremy out of the den. "Come on, we can raid the 'fridge. I'm hungry. Besides, here there's nothing weird for you to order."

* * *

Jeanne's prediction about 'nothing weird' was quickly disproved when Jeremy found a jar of mango chutney and proceeded to build sandwiches - using the whole-wheat bread her mother preferred - of sliced ham, mustard, lettuce and thinly sliced onions. Hesitantly sampling the concoction, Jeanne was surprised to find the combination delicious. The sliced cucumbers, drenched with vinegar and a sprinkle of salt and sugar, were also welcome although Jeanne grimaced when Jeremy asked if there were any peppers.

Sandwiches and cucumbers finished - both had seconds - and the dishes washed and dried, the pair returned to the den where Danny was thoroughly engrossed in the adventures of Tom Sawyer and friends. When the tape finished the first side - it was obvious that, even as a ghost, Danny could 'hear' perfectly well - it was time to call Mrs. Ashdown again.

This time, the connection was completed and, with Mrs. Ashdown on the line, Jeanne passed the phone to 'Dr. Reisenfern' - a name which Jeremy had concocted for the occasion.

"Mrs. Ashdown?" He pitched his voice as deeply as possible, thankful that he no longer tended to lapse into a youthful falsetto.

"Doctor Reisenfen? The voice is familiar but, I'm sorry, I can't recall. Have we met?"

"It's Jeremy Blume, Mrs. Ashdown. I'm sorry about the pretense but your secretary didn't believe me when I called on Saturday. It's important, I need to get a message to my dad."

"But," the voice on the phone was flustered, "we were told you were dead. I mean, there was a fire and ..."

"It's a mistake," Jeremy assured her. "I mean, there was a fire but I wasn't in it."

"Oh, thank heavens ... but they found your body ... a body."

"I don't know," Jeremy confessed. "But I think it must have been whoever started the fire. That doesn't matter - can you get a message to Dad and tell him I'm all right?"

"Of course, Jeremy. We've been trying to reach your father for several days but he's been up river with a survey crew. I'll cancel the message that's waiting," Mrs. Ashdown assured him, "and make sure he knows you're okay."

"Good, thanks."

"Jeremy, where are you staying? They said the house was totally destroyed. Are you all right? Do you need money? Anything?"

"No, I'm fine." Jeremy assured her. "I'm staying with friends. Hey, look I'll call and check in ... uh, tomorrow. You can let me know when Dad gets back. Okay?"

"Uh, sure. Isn't there a number where we can reach you?"

"Not right now. Phone problems. Thanks. I'll check in tomorrow. Bye." He hung up the phone, grinning. "Okay, that's all right," he addressed Jeanne and Danny, then took a deep breath before adding, "Now what?"

* * *

Jeanne's answer to 'now what' was simple ... she wanted to learn what Jeremy was doing.

The problem wasn't reluctance on Jeremy's part - he was quite willing to be a teacher ... enthusiastic even. After all, what he was doing - and how - was both a source of pride - which he'd never felt free to show to anyone before - and a source of frustration - since he had no way to ask anyone to help him explain. And, of course, that was the crux of the whole problem as well - he was willing to explain but he didn't have the words ... that there wasn't any way to explain what was happening and, even harder, no way to explain how ...

Still, Jeremy tried.

The trio returned to the kitchen where Jeanne produced a wide candle, left over from the previous Christmas, placing it on an aluminum pie plate in the center of the table. Repeatedly, Jeremy ignited the candle and then extinguished it again - turning it on and off as if it were a lamp while the girl and ghost watched.

He even produced the leather-bound diary which he had never shown to anyone, not since he'd first found it, turning to the passage which seemed most relative.

It seems, the diarist had written, that many materials are most ready to burn, needing only a nudge, if you will, to send them from quiescence to ignition. It is rather like rolling a wagon up a hill. The journey up is difficult and needs much effort but, once the crest is reached, the journey down the other side proceeds pell mell and quite beyond one's control. So it is with beginning a fire.

But, if a poor analogy may be used, if a tunnel can be found through the hill, one may avoid the difficult uphill climb and move directly to the nilly-willy downhill slopes. So it is when lighting a candle - the candle is ready to be lit, indeed, almost eager. One has only to help it move from the uphill slope to the downhill run at which time all may proceed apace.

A pen and watercolor illustration showed a hill with a wagon toiling upwards, followed, on the right, with a second hill where the wagon seemed to waver or stretch between the uphill road and, on the other side, a plummeting downhill track., all without reaching the crest.

The writer had continued: It seems almost god-like that one is able - even for the barest, scantiest instant - to challenge and change the very nature of the cosmos. It would seem that no change can have effect for long - a prerogative of decision which belongs only to God - but even small changes or twists of the etheric world produce sudden results which are not undone even though the twists themselves do not and can not last.

Still, it is my greate sorrow that there are no words with which to speak of how this is done. Is it hubris that I attempt such matters? Do I risk the anger of God ... or of the gods ... or is there a deity who smiles on my poor efforts ... or is there laughter in the heavens for this poor mortal fool?

"She sounds frustrated," Jeanne commented when Jeremy paused.

"Yeah," Danny agreed, "but I understan' how she felt."

"Light the candle again," Jeanne requested.

Jeremy complied.

"There," she was emphatic. "Is that what she meant by a twist? Danny, could you see it?"

"I think so," the ghost spoke slowly. "But I can' ... uh ... like it's slippery when I try."

"I could almost ..." she reached out and extinguished the candle with her fingers. "Let me try." She looked at the candle for a moment, then closed her eyes, concentrating.

The candle flame came back to life.

"Did it ...?" Jeanne's voice quavered, her eyes clenched tightly. "I'm afraid to look."

"You got it, homegirl," Danny chortled.

She opened her eyes and stared at the candle, then switched her focus to Jeremy. "You didn't ..."

"Nope. All yours," he assured her.

She took a deep breath. "I don't ... no, I do believe it but ... Put it out, I want to try again."

"With your eyes closed?" Danny teased.

"I was scared!" she snapped. "I know, you don't get scared."

"Hey, chill, homegirl. You done good."

"Sorry," she apologized. "I'm still human ... well, mortal. It's scary doing something like that."

"I know," Danny's 'voice' was also apologetic. "I could taste it."

"Yeah ... here goes ..." The candle burst into flames all over, not just the wick. "Damn!" she jumped away from the table.

"I've got it." Jeremy's voice was calm as the flames snuffed out. "Uh, be careful, okay? Hey, got something cold to drink?" His face was red and sweating.

"What happened," she asked, producing a ginger ale from the fridge.

Jeremy's answer was cut off by the undulating shriek of the smoke detector on the ceiling.

"Let's get out of here," Jeanne suggested. "With the candle!" She grabbed the candle and plate and headed for the back door. Behind them, the alarm continued its undulating cries.

* * *

Outside, in the clear air, the trio had time to laugh and Jeremy had time to cool down, reclining on the grass with the cold soda. "Putting a flame out," he explained, "is a lot harder than starting one. It's like there's a lot of heat that has to go somewhere and I was it. Kind of like trying to catch a runaway wagon," he used the analogy from the diary. "If it's not moving too fast and it's not too big, okay. Otherwise, you can get run over."

Jeremy continued, telling them about the fire at his house and how he'd tried then to stop it, shivering at the memories. Jeanne reached out a hand, offering comfort, then found herself hugging the boy as his body shook, not quite sobbing.

Helplessly, Danny merged with the pair, wishing there was something he could contribute and feeling frustrated beyond words.

"I think," Jeremy concluded when the shakes subsided, "that's what caused the fever and made me so sick."

"I guess I'd better be careful," Jeanne considered, withdrawing slightly but keeping a hand on the boy's shoulder. Then she looked at the partially melted candle and wrapped her arms around her thin frame. The wick flamed back to life - a careful, controlled flame.

"It's easy to start," she complained. "But I can't stop it." Her own voice trembled slightly.

"Yeah, that part's harder," Jeremy agreed. "Here." The flame went out.

"Hey, bro," Danny interrupted. "Why not put the heat som'where else? Y'know, like inta' t' ground ... or som' ice or som'thin'?"

Jeanne lit the candle again. "Try it," she suggested.

The candle went out. "Hmmh," Jeremy looked at the can of ginger ale he held. "It does feel a little warmer. You want to light it again?"

She did ... and Jeremy extinguished it again .. and Jeanne lit it ... and he extinguished it. They continued practicing for several minutes.

Finally, he looked at the can and took a sip. "Kind of tepid," he commented. "Kind of tiring too. Good idea, Danny, but I think it's going to need practice. Why don't you try again, Danny? See if you can light it."

"Hey, bro. I've been tryin'. Don' work, But, fin' me a ghost candle an' I bet I can."

"What do you mean?"

"I'm dead, homeboy. I can feel how you do it but I can' touch t' candle - not like you do. It ... it's like it's too slippery. Y'know?"

"Not exactly," Jeanne considered. "You mean you can almost do it but you can't quite get a grip on ... on ... whatever it is?"

"Som'in' like that ... Like I'm not in the right place," Danny searched for an analogy, then continued. "Like the candle's inside an' I'm outside an' I can't reach through t' glass."

"Sounds like you need a glass cutter," Jeremy suggested.

"Or a brick," Jeanne countered, before changing the subject. "Hey, what about making a copy of that book? I'd like to read all of it."

* * *

While the two were experimenting, a card shark in Birmingham (England) was having the most disgusting run of bad luck. Somehow, no matter how he stacked the deck or bottom dealt or passed seconds, things went wrong and his mark kept coming up with better hands. "Much more of this," he grimaced silently, "and I'll have to go straight. Way this is goin', I'll be broke and on the dole."

The shark's patsy sat across the table, twitching his fingers in an unconscious rhythm, happily enjoying the change in his luck.

* * *

In a small town in Austria, a small child woke from a nightmare, then gestured a funny way. Outside, the tower clock struck fourteen, rousing the entire town. The chimes hadn't worked for decades and the 'miracle' was argued about for weeks.

Eventually, a public subscription was raised to repair the clock.

* * *

Near Osaka, an insomniac woman brewed a pot of tea, then fell asleep after a few sips. She slept soundly for the first time in a week.

* * *

In southern Chile, a railroad worker - in response to an uneasy feeling - walked out to check the switches in the freight yard and found a broken bolt holding a rail switch open. Inside, she called a repair crew and changed the siding assignment for the incoming freight. Her actions prevented a minor accident. By evening, she'd forgotten the entire incident in her enthusiasm over the new movie: "Amore, Amore, Amore."

* * *

After copying the book, Jeanne dropped the two boys off at the warehouse. "I've got to meet Terri back at school and give her the car back," she explained. "And then she'll expect me to tell her all about my 'day'. Guess I'd better think up something good - she thinks I'm seeing some guy. Okay, okay," she grimaced at Jeremy's laughter. "You know what I mean - like she's a total bubblehead, y'know? All she thinks about are guys and she thinks everyone else does too. Okay?"

"Sure," Jeremy promised. "I'll be here." He gathered up the cassette recorder and tapes from the seat.

"If you aren't," she reminded him, "I'll find you. No sweat."

"Ri-i-i-ight," Danny agreed.

* * *

At the back at the warehouse, Jeremy looked at the velcroed opening with more than a little amusement, then pulled the panel open and slipped through the gap.

Upstairs, he took stock of the situation. Jeanne was a fast study. she'd learned how to light the candle much faster ... and more reliably ... than he had. Of course, he excused himself, she was older than he'd been when he started and she'd had a good teacher ... an advantage which he'd lacked entirely ... except for the book, of course.

And Danny - Danny, he realized with a start, wasn't there. Well, there wasn't any reason why he had to be. "I wonder," he asked himself, "what does a ghost do when he's not ... uh ... haunting you? He doesn't have to eat ... or go to the bathroom ... or ... Really weird."

"So, what are you going to do?" he asked himself. "If you were home, you'd be doing what? School would be out, you'd probably be reading? watching TV? thinking about dinner. Yeah, what about dinner. The deli! Wonder if they do a tom yum gai? Ri-i-i-ght!"

"Hmm, leave a note for Danny? Why not." Jeremy extracted a marker from his pack wrote "Bangkok Deli" across an empty paper bag, leaving the bag visible on the desk. After a moment's hesitation, he left the cassette player and tapes in the drawer.

* * *

At the deli, it was too early for evening business and the Teo's - the owner and his family - were sitting down to dinner ... which Jeremy was quickly invited to join. He grinned acceptance, happily.

After fetching another chair, the owner, concerned, was grouping for an explanation, trying to find the words to caution Jeremy that the food was spicier than he might be accustomed to. The man's wife simply grinned and winked, passing the rice and gesturing welcomingly at the assorted dishes.

Jeremy returned the grin, then explained, apologizing for his poor command of the language, that he liked "pet mak mak" - spicy, very very - and liked it very much.

Later, as Jeremy was helping the couple's son with his homework and the couple were busy coping with their evening rush, Jeanne appeared, slipping past the line at the counter. "This I could have guessed," she approached Jeremy at the rear table. "You really like this stuff, don't you. Hey, it's cool. Look, I have to go home. Folks get uptight if I don't make an appearance occasionally. Plus, I've got a couple of finals tomorrow I can't cut."

"Chill," Jeremy assured her. "No problema."

"Yeah ... but ... look, can we practice some more, tomorrow? After school?"

"Sounds like a plan t'me."

"Okay, find you soon as I can split loose. Hey, where's Danny?"

"Don't know, I guess he'll turn up. Wait a sec, what's the schedule?"

"No sweat. Class tomorrow and a half-day Wednesday, then it's break time - two weeks off for Christmas and New Years. Sound good?"

"Sounds fine. Hey, Jeanne, it's okay - I'm fine."

"Right. Look, you need cash? You're not tapped, are you."

"I'm heavy. No problem. Go hit the books and take care of your tests, okay."

"Who studies? If I didn't already know the answers, Mrs. Gibson and Mr. Thomas both use multiple choice - those I can ace without even trying. Math doesn't work like that but no sweat - I like math. Okay, tomorrow, dude."

Jeanne slipped out again, leaving Jeremy busy explaining irregular verbs to a friend whose native tongue was unburdened by these particular encumbrances.

* * *

Leaving the Bangkok Deli - the Teo's had refused to allow Jeremy to pay for dinner unless they could pay him for tutoring - Jeremy shouldered his pack, counterbalancing the load with a six pack of soda and a bag of conome - a collective name for a myriad of Thai deserts which are both healthy and tasty.

At the warehouse, Danny was waiting but he was also rather quiet.

"What is it," Jeremy was concerned. "Something happen?"

"I went back to t' hood," Danny's voice was faint.

"And?"

"An' I was lookin' for ... for m' father. He ... he's still not home. I ... I just wan't see him."

Jeremy listened patiently, waiting for Danny to continue.

"I wen' down lookin' for him. Y'know, checkin' bars and ... places?"

"And?"

"An' I saw a bro get cut. Couple o' Flash Boys ... like what they did t' me."

"What happened?"

"They sliced him .. offed him. ..."

That Danny was upset was obvious. Why he was upset was harder to figure out and the full story took a while to extract.

Partly it was that the boy who was killed had been a friend of Danny's. Partly it was the manner of the boy's death ... and, partially, it was the reason. The boy had been a mule for one of the Flash Boy gang but he'd also been hooked on the same shit he was muling.

Then, when the boy's habit - Danny didn't want to use the friend's name - had grown too heavy, exceeding what his pusher felt was a fair share for his task, he'd ripped of the pusher and hidden ... until the shit had run out.

When he'd come out again, the Flash Boys had found him ... and offed him.

What really bothered Danny, however, was what happened afterwards. "I seen - saw him die," Danny spoke slowly, trying to be very precise. "Then ... then he stood up - I mean, his ghost did - and ... and then he went away ..."

"Are you saying he faded out?" Jeremy had asked.

Fading wasn't it, Danny insisted. And the boy's ghost hadn't simply vanished. What had happened though, Danny seemed to be reluctant to describe.

Finally, Jeremy persuaded Danny to elaborate. "It was like ... like he went somewhere very far away ... very far away ... but I ... I don't know where it was ..." At this point, Danny had stopped, then, after a long pause, had added, "... I guess ghosts can't cry either ...but I wish I could ..."

The boy and the ghost sat there, silently.

Finally, Danny broke the shared solitude. "Do you believe there's a heaven?"

Jeremy couldn't think of an answer.

* * *

"Wake up! Damn it, homeboy, wake up!"

Jeremy sat up, rubbing his eyes. "What?"

"Somebody's outside. I know 'em," Danny's voice was urgent. "You gotta get outa here!"

"How?" Jeremy grabbed his backpack and jumped for the light switch.

Just as the lights upstairs went out, the door downstairs swung open and a voice ordered, "Damn staple's loose. Paulo, next time I tell you to secure a drop, see that you get it right."

"What's the difference. It's only for a couple of days."

"When I want you to think, I'll tell you to," the first voice snapped. "Now, get the damn lights on."

Dimly, Jeremy could see someone fumbling for the circuit box. Then the main lights flared and a half-dozen figures - three uniformly if sloppily garbed in blue 'lumberjack' shirts and blue bandannas, the other three dressed in sports coats - walked into the warehouse. One carried a gaudy zippered bag

"Well, where's the goods? Not in the boxes, I hope." The blue shirt carrying the bad was standing with his free hand planted on hip. "If this is your idea of a safe stash ..."

"Have you got the cash?" The sports coat wasn't amused.

"It's in the satchel," the blue shirt assured him, gesturing with the colorful canvas bag.

The sport coat snapped his fingers, sending one of his companions to move one of the stacked cardboard cartons, placing it out in the clear. "Dump it on the box," the man directed.

"Where's the coke," the blue shirt holding the totebag insisted.

"It's here."

"What? In the boxes?"

"In your dreams, stupid. Let's see the goods, then you can send one of your boys upstairs. Go in the bathroom, stand on the toilet and reach over the wall. There's a bag hanging between the bathroom wall and the outside wall. It should satisfy you ... that is, if the green goods are okay. Well? Go on ... what'd you think I was going to do. Hand you a bag full of junk?"

"Cute, aren't you?" The blue shirt turned to one of his companions. "Go get it." Blue shirt raised the tote bag, setting it on the box.

"Hey, Buck. There's someone up here." The blue shirt ascending the stairs, halted, producing a gun from under his shirt. Down below, both shirts and sports jackets did likewise - torn between facing off against each other and watching for additional intruders.

The two leaders sized each other up, warily accessing the situation. "Then get him, stupid," the blue shirt ordered. "And if it's a stray cat, I'll have your cojones for lunch."

The argument, brief as it was, gave Jeremy, scared as he was, a chance to think. His first instinct was to hide ... except that it was already too late for that.

His second instinct was to confuse the enemy ... and that was one trick he had down pat.

The blue shirt on the stairs was - quite suddenly - unshirted entirely ... as were the three sports coats and two blue shirts below. Unfortunately, each of them was still holding a gun and, now, they were definitely angry ... and the one on the stairs hadn't slowed down in the slightest.

Still, when the stairs vanished beneath the man, the results were a bit more satisfactory ... except, Jeremy reminded himself, he was still upstairs. "About the only good thing," he commented softly to Danny, "is that they aren't shooting yet."

It was definitely the wrong thing to say! More important - it wasn't anything like the movies, where a wall or table or whatever stops all kinds of bullets. Instead, a dozen or more bullets came straight through the walls and at least one through the floor and the only remaining grace was that the shooters couldn't see what they were aiming at ... if they were bothering to aim, that is.

Jeremy squirmed across the floor and into the bathroom. An instant later a puff of air assured him that the back wall - of the bathroom, not the building - had vanished ... or, at least, a suitable section had.

Jeremy reached through the opening, feeling for the metal studs. Then he traced an inverted U between the studs and pushed out and down.

The light through the opening was almost brilliant by contrast. And the air was more than refreshing. Jeremy poked his feet through the opening, turned over on his belly and slid, hanging by his hands from the folded metal and wishing, briefly, that he'd thought about the stacked oil drums.

He dropped heavily, rolled, then picked himself up and raced for the open door, slamming it closed with his shoulder and then, quickly, dropping to the ground while causing the door and frame to become a single metal unit.

As he did so, another fusillade of gun fire came through the door and the surrounding wall. Jeremy half-rolled, half-scrambled around the corner. Coming to his feet, he ran like hell itself was after him ... which, perhaps, it was.

* * *

In Nashville, a pimp paused, looking at the roll of bills he'd been counting. A strange expression passed over his face and he pushed himself away from the silver 'vette, crossed himself and walked a block and a half to drop the bills in the collection box at the Salvation Army.

Returning to his car, he took the freeway south and west, stopping only for gas until he reached New Orleans where he later found work as a chef in a Creole bistro.

Back in Nashville, his girls missed him for a day or two, then forgot about him entirely, joining the his chief rival's stable.

A week later, the rival was dead in his place but the ambitious up-and-comer who pulled the trigger hadn't planned well enough. Too many people saw the hit and the gunman died less than a day later while trying to elude the police.

* * *

In Hong Kong, an antique dealer looked around his shop, regarding the contents with a sense of wonder he hadn't felt in years. He crossed to an old, marble-topped table, caressing the table with his hands, then shook his head and removed the tag. The new price - in code - was considerably less.

He also looked at a small castle, a piece cunningly carved from dark, hard coal and then lacquered. Twisting one of the turrets gently, the castle doors popped open as the front of a small drawer. The cavity revealed was empty.

None the less, the dealer removed the tag, replacing it with a much higher price.

By sun down, he had reviewed his entire stock, slating a number of items for disposal and mentally earmarking others for specific customers. From two small statues, he removed the price tags entirely, before placing them on his desk where they were easily admired. Last, he regarded an old and valuable Aztec sacrificial vessel before carrying it out to the alley and smashing it against the bricks, grinding the pieces into dust under his heels.

Tired, he fell asleep in his chair.

The next morning, when he awoke, stiff but happy, he smiled at the two statuettes, feeling again the age and love and craftsmanship embodied in the two pieces.

* * *

South of Delhi, a transplanted Tibetan monk paused in his meditations, then resumed, adding a new motion to the steady click of his beads.

High in the Himalayas, in a region now controlled by the Chinese communists, in an abandoned monastery, a row of prayer wheels stirred and began to turn, solemnly clicking in time with the monk's beads. Their motion continued, unobserved, for many, many years.

* * *

Jeremy was a block away from the warehouse when Danny screamed in his ear. "Look!" He turned just in time for the explosion ...

Above the burning warehouse, the dancing figure was flaming brightly.

Jeremy ran even faster as the sound of sirens filled the air.