It turned out she didn't want to go. "But I already bought tickets!" I protested. "I thought we'd been looking forward to going!"

"You mean <i>you'd</i> been looking forward to going!" Katie yelled at me. "<i>I</i> already have plans today, and I told you weeks ago. You forgot, didn't you?"

"Well, fine!" I yelled right back at her. "You know what, I didn't want to go with you, anyway. I'd rather go with <i>Satan</i> than you! So, do you think you could, you know, <i>call</i> your dad, and ask him if he's up for it?"

"Oh, we are <i>so</i> through," Katie said coldly, and stormed out of the coffee shop. I sat there, just kind of staring after her, wondering what her deal was.

Then an old, scruffy guy at the next table, with a scraggly beard and mismatched clothes, came over and sat down in her seat. "Okay," he said, in a rusty-sounding voice. "I'm Satan. Where we goin', hoss?"

"You're what?" I asked him, incredulous.

"The Devil, hoss. You wanted to go somewhere? Well, saddle up."

"You're not the Devil," I told him.

"What, I got to prove it?"

I folded my arms. "Yeah, you do."

The old man got up, lurched over to the counter. He returned shortly with a steaming cup. "There."

"A coffee? This is how you prove you're the devil?"

"I got a barista to serve me, without standing in line, lookin' like this. That's not magic?"

He had a point. I took a sip and spat it back out. "Soy?"

"I told you, hoss. I'm the Devil."

I was impressed. "Let's go."

I paid the Devil's tab (he said he'd left his wallet at home) and we got in my car.

"We're going to see AC/DC," I told him.

"Not really a fan, hoss. How 'bout we go to Cracker Barrel or something instead?"

"I thought the Devil was into rock music."

"Nah, I'm a ska man."

I frowned at him. "Didn't somebody say the Devil has all the best musicians?"

"Sure, if you like ska."

I thought about that while the Devil rolled down the window to spit out of it. "This is a pretty crummy car," he told me.

"Well, what do you drive?" I asked him.

"Oh, big limo. With flames on it, 'cause I'm the Devil. It's in the shop, though. Hey, if we're not going to Cracker Barrel, I'm gonna need some Funyuns."

I sighed and pulled over. I was only in the convenience store a minute when the door banged open and a cop dragged the Devil inside.

"Sir, does this belong to you? You might tell him that relieving yourself in public is against the law."

"Okay, this road trip is officially over," I told the Devil.

"Shoulda stuck with your girlie," he mumbled.

"Yeah, well, what do you know about it?"

The Devil looked at me, and for just a moment he didn't look so crazy anymore. "Hey, you had two choices today, hoss. Spend time with your girlfriend or spend time with the Devil. You think you made the right choice?"

I looked at him in amazement. "You're exactly right. Why didn't I see it that way?" I shook my head at my own stupidity. "Come on, Devil. I'm dropping you at Cracker Barrel, and then I'm going to find Katie and throw myself on her mercy."

"That's great, hoss. You drive. I'll turn the traffic lights green for us."

And he did, too, except for the ones that stayed red. The Devil insisted they were really green, but I played it safe and stopped at them anyway.

We walked in through the door of Cracker Barrel, and would you believe it? There was Katie, and a couple of her friends, sitting there talking and laughing. I looked at the Devil. "Is this why you wanted to come here?" I asked him, stunned.

"Nah, hoss. Early-bird special." He winked at me.

Just then, Katie looked up and saw me. And jumped up and ran over to me, the biggest smile on her face. "You remembered Angela's birthday party after all!" she exclaimed. "But your tickets?"

"Forget 'em," I said. "I just want to be with you today. I'm sorry I was such a jerk."

She actually hugged me. There, in front of the Devil and everyone. "I was mad at you, but I missed you, too. Let's just start over. And...um...who's your friend?"

"Oh, um," I wondered how to explain him. Then the Devil threw his hands in the air and let out a yell.

"Whoa, no, it's true love and sunshine, and, uh, rainbows, and all that stuff! Devil can't stand that! I'm outta here, hoss!" And with that, he ran out the door and down the street, waving his arms wildly, and screaming incoherently at everybody he passed.

"Who was that guy?" Katie asked.

"Not sure," I admitted. "The wisest man I ever met, or the Devil, or some sort of insane hobo. But don't worry about him. He'll be just fine."

Jim stumbled down the grimy stairs to the southbound platform of the 181st Street station. The air blew out of the tunnels as hot as if it came straight from the sulphur and brimstone that were to be his destination. He noticed a faint rank odour. He thought it was the garbage, but it could have been the wino who was sleeping curled around a couple of tiny trees in black bags. Two pigeons pecked at crumbs near him.

He waited for the train. The station was empty but for him and the wino. Suitable company for the end of his life Jim thought. What have I done that hasn't been broken? Even Melissa.

Just thinking about her almost brought him to his knees. Jim shook the tears from his eyes. He was tired of living this grimy run-down excuse for a life. In a few minutes the next train would come along and end it for him. It was on that same train that they had met.

The heat grew worse and he heard the rumble and screech of the approaching train. He glanced at the wino. Poor beggar, Jim pulled the bills from his wallet and slipped them under one of the trees. Somebody should get some good from his miserable existence.

He turned and tensed himself for the jump.

"Wait," a voice said, "This is the wrong train."

Jim startled and would have fallen onto the tracks anyway, but a strong hand held his arm. Jim looked and saw the wino.

"I...."

"I know," the old man said, "you miss her and can't imagine living without her."

His one eye looked Jim in the eyes and the younger man felt like he was drowning in all the sorrow of the world. Jim gasped and would have fallen again but for the old man's hand on his arm. The train rattled to a stop, the doors opened and closed without anyone getting off.

"Next train," the old man said.

"What are the trees for?" asked Jim.

"I am planting Yggdrasil."

"But that is just a myth!"

"It is in the past, and might be again in the future," the old man said with a sigh, "But this time needs a world tree."

"But," Jim looked at the trees. The bills he put there still fluttered in the volcanic breeze. "Yggdrasil?"

"The world is both more and less than what you see."

"That's what Melissa always said!"

"Well then." The old man turned to go back to his motley belongings.

"But she left me." Jim didn't think any words should hurt so much.

"She left the world, Jim, not you."

"But I need her."

"Do you think she needs you?"

"I...I don't know. I thought she loved me, but..."

"Love is a powerful thing. It can span worlds and twist time."

"I don't care about all that, I just want to see her again."

"Why?"

"I need to tell her how much I love her."

"Didn't you tell her before?"

"Of course, but I don't know if she believed me."

The pigeons flew up suddenly and landed on Jim"s shoulder.

"Doubt," said one.

"Certainty," said the other.

"Both false."

"Both true."

"Remember past the words," said the first and Jim remembered the look in her green eyes when he brought her coffee that last happy morning.

"Think past what you see," said the other and Jim saw the wino as an old, old man mantled in grief and power. The pigeons became ravens before the world shifted back and he was a wino and they once again the ubiquitous rats with wings pecking at garbage.

He heard the rumble of an approaching train, but this time the gale that preceded it was icy and tinged with the smell of pine trees. The screech of wheels sounded like the clash of battle. Jim looked at Odin and opened his mouth, but the old man shrugged.

"I don't know what happens beyond that train." He turned his back and went back to where he had been sleeping. With quick movements the old man packed up his gear, putting a tree in each jacket pocket and stuffing the money in his shirt.

"Perhaps we will meet yet at Bifrost." He turned and walked into the wall while the pigeons flew off.

"Perhaps not," his voice said in Jim's ear.

Jim turned to face the tracks. He thought he saw Melissa reaching out to him. Then the train arrived like a huge serpent running under the earth. The doors opened and he saw her again for an instant standing beside an immensely fat carpenter.

"Well boy," the fat man said pushing his hammer out of his way. "Are you coming or not?"

Jim took a deep breath and stepped onto to the train.

"This is an express train," the announcer said, "No stops before Lokasenna."

"Do you like beer?" the fat man said.

"Sure, I guess."

"Good."

The doors closed and the train hissed and rattled into the darkness.

It had been another profitable morning at Lucy's Emporium of the Paranormal, and I was thinking about going to Scully's for lunch when the bell above the front door tinkled merrily.

"You're a charlatan. A fraud."

I turned away from the shipment of books I'd been examining, preparing my response. You meet plenty of nuts in this business. A skeptic from the university, maybe, or a religious freak convinced I was colluding with demons. I had a few well-rehearsed answers prepared.

My visitor was a petite woman in a faded dress. She pointed at me, and an array of bracelets jingled on her wrist.

"You don't have the sight," she said. "Madame Gina knows an impostor when she sees one. You're an insult to the profession."

I hadn't had many of these visitors, but I'd entertained one or two in the six years since I'd opened. This was no skeptic. She was the opposite — a true believer.

When I opened Lucy's Emporium of the Paranormal in a small town by the seaside, I hoped to earn enough to cover my rent for the store and my small apartment above it, with enough left over for frozen dinners. What I didn't expect was a tidal wave of success. In my first year, I made six times as much profit as I had expected. I sold spell books and healing crystals to curious college students ... I performed Tarot readings for divorcees, careful never to reveal that I'd picked up the skill by skimming The Idiot's Guide to Tarot over a weekend. They're paying for the entertainment, right?

"Wrong," Madame Gina said, seemingly reading my mind. "You're a phony. You fool the others into believing that you have the sight, that you have the power to interpret the cards, to commune with the spirit world. You fool them with their tourist dollars, but you don't fool Madame Gina. No, you don't fool me."

"I don't know what you want," I said, "but I think you should leave. I'm about to close for lunch."

"Shame on you. You have taken advantage of the faithful, and you will be punished."

She reached into a satchel and removed a wax-sealed vial. She unstoppered it and splashed the inky contents across the threshold, all over my welcome mat.

"Hey! What do you think you're doing?"

"No more business for you," Madame Gina announced. "Not today, not ever."

I dashed from behind the counter, but by the time I got to the doorway she had slipped into the throngs of people. I scanned the crowd as it pushed past in both directions, but I didn't catch sight of her.

Oh well.

After lunch, I threw out the ruined welcome mat and occupied myself with stocking shelves. I tried to put the whole strange episode out of my mind, and it wasn't until after three that I realized I hadn't had a single customer all afternoon.

I went to the window and made sure I'd remembered to turn the "OPEN" sign around after returning from Scully's. Then I propped open the door to let some fresh air and hopefully a little afternoon trade into the shop.

"Interested in a psychic reading?" I asked a man who rushed past me, uninterested. "Check out our selection of Arabian incense — half price, today only," I suggested to a fanny-packer as she strolled by with her kids in tow, ignoring me completely.

Three mornings later, I was standing in front of the store again. I hadn't had any customers since Madame Gina's pronouncement — no browsers, no window shoppers, not even somebody wanting to use the bathroom.

I spotted Pothead Pete, a fixture in town who had frequented the store in the past.

"Hey, Pete!" I said, straining to peer above the herds. "Got a new shipment of books in! You get the friend discount, of course!"

"Not today, love," Pete replied, hurrying past. "Gotta get over to Tony's before the pizza lines get too long."

"For free," I said, suddenly desperate to get somebody, anybody, to visit the store. "You can have a book for free."

"Another time," Pete called over his shoulder. "Sorry, Lisa."

"How about you?" I said to a teenager who ambled past, seemingly in no hurry to get to the pizzeria or anywhere else. "Want a free book?"

"Nah," he said, shuffling into the café next door.

"The next person who comes into the store gets a free item," I announced. "Sir? How about you, young lady? Can I interest you in a free book valued at twenty dollars? How about if I just give you twenty dollars? Twenty in cash if you come into my store right now."

The crowds kept surging past. Most of them wouldn't even make eye contact with me.

Once I thought I caught a glimpse of Madame Gina, a self-righteous smile tugging at her lips, but when I stepped off the stoop, she had disappeared.

Three months later, a small jewelry store opened where my shop had been. I stood on the sidewalk loading the last of my belongings onto my old Volkswagen bus, and I watched as the new owner propped open the door, checked to make sure she had turned the "OPEN" sign the right way around, and peered hopefully up and down the street, in search of customers that would never come.

Not today, not ever.

There is certainly such a thing as reading too many self-help books. God love Iyanla Vanzant. Her quote is lodged into the frame of my bedroom mirror: “You are the love you seek.” And then taped to my dashboard: “You are the companionship you desire.” But nothing Iyanla could ever have written would have prepared me for the most recent chapter in my life. That began with a knock at the door:

“Hey there, open up – it’s me!”

I open the door. IT IS ME. Wide-eyed, I take myself in. I look great; as good as I’ve ever seen me to be. I can’t speak, so the other me does.

“Well, here I am, your perfect companion. Let me in already!”

There are no words, my mouth seemingly frozen and my body rooted to the floor. In fact, that floor swirls about and … I am grateful to the arms that catch my fall. I am carried to the couch. With feet up and my head on - whose lap? Regaining consciousness only furthers me into this dizzying world of disbelief.

This time, I jump up. And scream. The me in front of me calmly watching all the while. That’s when I shiver with the realization that it is indeed a stranger in the room, for there isn’t a serene bone in my body.

And now my words spew out, “Why are you here? What do you want? Don’t you find it a little strange that we look exactly alike?”

“Well, I could argue that I look a little better. I will tell you that I am here to shock some sense into you.”

“What are you? My twin separated at birth? My higher self? A holograph? Some freak alien? I suppose you can read my mind too.”

Rising from the couch, the stranger’s shoulders seem slightly stooped. With reluctance, comes a response, “Let’s try this again another day.”

“Wait! You can’t leave me like this! How can you spring yourself on me and then walk right out of my life?”

“Oh I’m never far, believe me. I may have taken the wrong approach this time. Perhaps a conversation isn’t the way to go.” And with that, I watched the perfectly coiffed version of myself walk out the door.

I’d like to tell you that my life carried on as it was before, but that would be a lie. Other than for work, I rarely left the house. I was all over any knock at the door. But it wasn’t on my front porch that I saw the not-so-stranger again.

Years of loneliness had led me to enjoy any opportunity to be with others. Even a work conference. I welcomed the masses sifting through booths at the latest convention centre. Eternally on the lookout for a friendly face to connect with, I would scan the multitudes. You’d be surprised at the depth of conversation two strangers might share.

That’s where I saw myself across the room, happily engrossed in a pamphlet. Weaving through the crowd, I was ready to face myself. We made eye contact once, but my elusive twin slipped away. And then again at the subway station two weeks later. On opposite tracks and in opposite directions, our journeys led us further away from each other. It was as though I was losing myself.

I am not proud of the next chunk of time, whereby I was a constant scout for myself. No pun intended. I too began to see the absurdity of this metaphor. Nonetheless, I descended into a deep state of distraction. Running through stop signs, driving into one way traffic – that I was unharmed was miraculous. I did spot myself at the library once. Racing to the upper level, ready for a confrontation, I slammed into the self-help section only to find it empty.

It was when my boss approached me with those soft, downward cast eyes that I knew the jig was up. Something had to give. This job for one. My scatterbrained performance was not limited to my driving exploits: missed meetings, unreturned correspondence, zero productivity. I only had eyes for myself. Driving home with a cardboard box as my passenger, I continued to search the streets. And that’s when it hit me. Or rather I hit the car in front of me. In that moment of chaos, there was clarity: it was time to stop looking outside myself, for myself.

Of course I had all the time in the world now to dedicate to soul searching and self-fulfillment. And isn’t life just like that: when you have the time, the desire shifts. That’s when the doorbell rang and I let myself in.

“What? I finally stop looking and now you’re here?”

“When you stop looking outside of yourself, that’s when I arrive. Now YOU have arrived!”

Not a single word more did we exchange. Rather the warmest of hugs as the not-so-stranger passed into my body. And in that moment of final completeness, I knew that there would no longer be doorbells ringing. I had come home to myself.

I haven’t seen my double at all these days, unless I am looking in the mirror. Smiling back, I see that I will always be enough.

This pain. Something in my head was wrong, ever since I’d woken up on this otherwise uneventful, grey unchanging day. Something was terribly wrong. Even the innocuous whirr of the central air conditioning was overpowering my ears, my head, my mood. Lightning bolts were still flashing through my skull, hours after I’d risen from a slumber that would have survived a rocket launch.

I stared at folded hands and then at the mysterious, ever-changing golden liquid before me. It might, as men have said for centuries, wash away the pain. But do I want it? Should I test the words of my ancestors by putting this glass to my lips? Will this concoction provide some peace to my withered soul?

Before I could answer these questions, one of mankind’s finest specimens entered. Bounce resided in his step, confidence in his shoulders, cheer in his smile. He was smiling. I was shocked. I didn’t think such people existed outside movies. He was, particularly today, everything I was not. My opposite. My nemesis?

“Greetings, good sir,” he said. My shock deepened, but I returned the greeting, albeit warily – people may offer greetings to strangers in the countryside, but not here. “I believe it’s your round,” he said, not looking at me as he casually removed his jacket.

I was still shocked, but managed a dismissive snort. “I’m sorry, good sir, but I don’t normally buy drinks for people I know nothing about. And I’m not even sure I’m drinking.”

“Hmmm, I thought you‘d say something like that. Anyway, though you know nothing about me, I know all about you. Jack. And, that’s a beer in front of you, so I’m not sure what the ‘I’m not sure I’m drinking’ is about.”

Suddenly, everything seemed dreamlike, surreal. This man knew my name and spoke like an old friend. “Do I know you,” I asked slowly.

“Not really. Not really at all. But I know you, Jack. I know you’re unmarried and thinking of a girl who, by your estimation and those of everyone who’s met her, is something special. I know you’re thinking of your career, wondering whether you’re sleepwalking through the prime of your life. I even know you once lived in England. I know a lot about you, Jack… I have superpowers.”

Theoretically, those words could have been lucky guesses from shrewd observations: I looked 26-27, with no ring and a slight accent. Still, I felt incredibly uneasy. “Superpowers, huh?”

“Superpowers like you wouldn’t believe, starting with an otherworldly ability to consume vodka shots…” He trailed off here and glanced sideways at me, waiting for me to say something, to realize something.

And indeed, I realized something that connected the horrible ghost of vodka in my body to the man standing at the bar next to me. Memories of the previous evening flooded my mind, about this man walking in and telling me it’s my round, about my initial shock, my uncharacteristic agreement to buy him a drink, and my decision to change my life based on this man’s bizarre arrival and our ensuing, profound conversation about life: I would ditch my job and whisk away my girlfriend to a far more romantic corner of the earth, and I would ask her to marry me on a starry evening, on a white sand beach, on a Friday. This man was a key part of that decision. My eyes widened, and my mouth opened to offer thanks.

“Pleasure to be of service,” he preempted, holding up a hand. “We met so I could help you out, which I did. Given the amount of spirits we drank, though, I wasn’t sure you’d remember, so I had to come back again.” He looked at my untouched beer. “Don’t drink that or anything else. Wouldn’t want to have to come back for a third time.” He grinned widely. “And I was joking about the ‘your round’ thing – was just seeing if you’d remember.”

“Well, let me buy you a drink, anyway. Pleasure would be mine.”

He shook his head and held up a hand again. “Nope, thanks, I’m out of here.” He held out his hand, and I shook it enthusiastically. Despite the deluge of thoughts and emotions I’d experienced in the last minute, I found some words.

“Thank, man. Again,” I said warmly. “But, how’d you know I’d be here, in this bar, on a Sunday afternoon? I never go to bars. I came here last night to think about my life, and I came here today to test that hair of the dog thing.”

“Superpowers, man, superpowers. And don’t forget your own.” And with that, he began a bounce toward the door.

I smiled, pushed the beer away, then blinked hard as my thoughts of that encounter were suddenly interrupted: I didn’t even ask him his name. Did he tell me his name last night? I should have asked him just now. Then, I looked to my right and noticed a forgotten jacket. I picked it up and ran out the door, happy for another piece of it-all-happens-for-a-reason fortune.

“Hey, man, you forgot your –”

I stepped onto a long, empty, Sunday afternoon street. He was, somehow, already gone. Upon dropping my head in disappointment, I noticed something by my feet: a small mound of white sand. I smiled to the sky and swear I saw something flying away about ten stories up.

The door cricked open, spilling gold light across the mud pools. I peered across, fearing what I'd see there, and my worst fears were confirmed. My family was still gone; the stranger was still here--and so was I.

Worse yet, the old man held a familiar strip of leather in both hands.

The thing came down like a tongue of fire, crossed my back and legs, drew from my throat a scream of desperation. Tearing at the rope which bound me to the post, I begged and pleaded and finally laid still, but in the end the only thing I knew was to expect another blow.

I dared not look up, for fear that fiery blows would cross my eyes and make me blind, so I pressed them shut, pressed myself to the cool, calm earth, felt its rhythm beneath me. I longed for the ancient past, when my kind ran with the wind, knew no chains or ropes, could not be bound by man or by beast. When all things living on the earth had listened to our words.

Days and nights had passed around me. I'd ceased to care about cars, or strangers in the street, or trusting children who saw me as old and toothless (they were mostly right). In the end, most of them stopped caring about me, too. All except for one, who cared enough to see past the skin and bones to the living thing within them.

Long after the lights were gone from the windows of the house, he crept into the garden. He approached me without fear, anger or judgment, and placed his hands on the unbreakable tether. Moments later I felt the pressure on my neck loosening, slipping away.

I ran without thinking. I ran into the thick, heady scents of the wild forest, through cornfields and across abandoned highways. Time went by in a blur which sometimes felt like hours and sometimes like split seconds. I had no real sense of where I was going. When the first light of day flashed across the horizon I was sound asleep in the cover of a hedgerow by a dirt road, far enough from my former home to be sure I couldn't be found.

It was nearly midday when I stirred. Each and every joint throbbed against the weight of the summer heat. A faint hunger had settled over me, and I was beginning to wonder where I'd find food without approaching men when a too-light footstep brushed against the gravel to my left.

I looked around, expecting to see a weapon or a grasping hand. I saw nothing more than a pattern of air, shimmering in the sun's fire.

No, there was something else.

I stretched my ears, straining for a trace of that strange yet unmistakable sound. Instead, a faint, soft whistle troubled the air. The force of it was acute. I resisted the urge to cover my ears, but when I spun around, the space was empty. I called out, despite my fear, hoping to startle the prankster.

A cold something tickled on my head and back, soothing and chilling, unlike anything I have ever known. A child's smiling face swam into view above me, indistinct, iridescent, catching the light and revealing that it contained every shade and colour. In his eyes I saw the twin glow of wisdom and compassion, and immediately knew he was nothing like the beings he resembled. Something about him was older, deeper. It was in the air around him, too faint for the senses of men but very clear to me.

We shared in laughter that could have been the touch of a breeze on branches. I moved from the safety of the bushes, no longer feeling the exertions of the night, nor worrying about the possibility of capture. I moved, entranced, beyond the realm of scent or hearing – so that I did not sense the flame and force approaching at breakneck, irreversible speed.

The frosted features burst into tiny beams and evaporated like dust in a gale.

The air left my lungs in a sharp burst. Suddenly, I was weightless, formless, outside of myself. The brief pain of impact faded like a mirage, leaving me alone again, more confused than ever. I didn't know whether to run or hide, or if either had meaning any more.

A child's arms wrapped around my cowering form—warm, now, and so vulnerable. Tears ran into my fur and I found myself crying too, from the back of my throat, long and low and deep, full of sympathy for one whose life had been cut short too soon. I Afelt whole again, I understood everything. This child had wanted nothing more than someone to share his tears, someone who would listen.

I forgive you, I cried, I forgive you—and he heard and felt my words, as our kind have not been heard in far too long.

It didn’t take a private eye to figure out there was something different about this dame.

Maybe it was the walk, kind of a glide, like she was on ice skates. Maybe it was the veil, a wispy thing that hid her face. Or maybe it was the shapeless red dress that brushed the floor. Whatever it was, the lady was different.

“I am looking for love.” The stilted cadence of her words told me that she wasn’t from Brooklyn.

“Sorry babe, but you got the wrong door. Matchmaker’s the next building over.”

Her head tilted slightly as she thought about my words.

“I do not need to start a fire. I need to find love.”

Definitely not from Brooklyn.

“Then try the shrink over on 11th. Either way, I’m not your man.”

“You are a private investigator?”

“Yes.”

“You find things. I want to find love.”

“Lady, I told you – ”

“I will pay.” A wad of bills appeared on my desk. She must have used some fancy sleight of hand, ‘cause she didn’t seem to move.

“I am a student. I study love. I need you to find some for me.”

She didn’t look like a real student to me; but the green stuff in my hands sure looked like real Ben Franklins – more than I’d normally see in a year.

“Come on, lady, let’s find you some love.”

I headed for the nearest park with her gliding next to me. We stopped near a group of girls, maybe seven or eight years old, who were playing a game of hop-scotch.

“See them?” The veil dipped slightly in acknowledgment.

“Now keep an eye on those boys.”

As we watched, the boys drifted closer to the girls, shooting furtive glances as them. Suddenly, one of the boys broke away. He ran up to a little girl in a pink dress and gave one of her braids a sharp tug. By the time she turned around, he was already running back to the safety of his peers. She made a face, then started giggling with her friends.

“That,” I announced, “Is known as Puppy Love.”

“Puppy love,” she repeated. “Yet I see no dog.”

“Nope, no dog. Just a boy pulling a girl’s hair, a sure sign of puppy love.”

“Strange. Show me more.”

We wandered through the park, past the swings and see-saws, pick-up basketball games and young mothers pushing their babies. I spotted an old man and his wife sitting on a park bench eating their lunch.

“Watch that couple.”

Without talking, they slowly shared a sandwich, then a couple of cookies. I could feel the broad getting restless.

“Wait,” I commanded.

After the last bite of cookie disappeared, the old man turned to his wife. Removing a delicate lace handkerchief from her purse, she gently brushed the crumbs from his face then tucked it back away. His hand reached for hers and gnarled fingers intertwined.

“That’s Silent Love,” I said, making up a name. “Two people who’ve loved for so long that they don’t even need words.”

“Suggestive of psychic bonding and communication,” she muttered. I had no clue what the dame was talking about, so I ignored her and continued through the park.

I was starting to worry about my detecting skills when I spotted movement near an abandoned gazebo.

“Quiet,” I said – then realized it was a futile warning. She was as silent as a ghost. I crept towards the dilapidated structure, the broad floating next to me.

A young man and woman in their late teens were inside, locked in a passionate embrace. She was dressed for afternoon tea, her hands encased in white satin gloves; his clothes were stained with oil, his hands calloused from hard work. When they stepped apart, I could see tears on the young woman’s face.

“Star-crossed Love,” I whispered.

We watched as the man gathered her back into his arms, murmuring in her ear.

“I do not understand,” the dame asked.

“She’s rich, he’s poor. The tears mean that daddy found out. Unless lover-boy gets a lot of money soon, this is probably the last time they’ll see each other.”

“But they love?”

“Sure. But daddy doesn’t. Not without the dough to back it up.”

She remained silent as we watched the scene. I felt for the kids; it's not easy to find that your soul mate lives on the other side of the tracks.

“Money would solve?” she asked. I nodded.

An expensive black car suddenly appeared in front of the gazebo. The lovers broke apart as two men in black suits jumped out. I started toward the gazebo to help even the odds, but a hand on my arm held me back.

“Mr. Rudy Atkins?” One of the suits say.

Rudy squared his shoulders and clenched his fists, ready for the worst. “Yeah.”

“Sir, we represent the estate of Jedidiah Mathias Atkins. You are his sole heir and as such have inherited a sizable sum of money. If you will come with us, please…”

“ I don’t know a – ”

“No mistake sir. You are now a very wealthy young man.”

I watched joy spread across two young faces.

“It is solved?” she asked.

“Yeah, that should do it,” I replied. “Now it’s just love.”

“Excellent.”

I watched the happy couple get into the car. When I turned back, the broad was gone.

Case closed.

I awoke suddenly during the night with the uneasy feeling something was in the room with me. Rolling over, I saw a red creature around 7 feet tall, with leather wings, horns, and a tail.

Not having found anything sensible to say, and still groggy with sleep, I ventured “Satan, I presume?”

“No, I am the ghost of Christmas future,” Satan replied,. “or the tooth fairy, I forget which. Did you leave your brain in your other suit by any chance?”

“What do you want with me, to buy my soul?”

“No, I am here to make you an offer. I have a winning Lottery ticket here from last nights drawing,” he said, holding it up, “I will give it to you if you attend a seminar and listen to my sales pitch in its entirety. No contracts signed in blood necessary.”

“Sounds like a time share in Florida.”

“Yes, except they have you sign a contract in blood. Also they don't offer $390 million which is what this ticket is worth. I am not sure whether I learned the technique from them, or they learned it from me.”

I got up and started getting dressed. Despite who he was, the deal was interesting, and I didn't have anything important planned for tomorrow anyway. “OK, you have a deal. Can you give me any particulars now?”

“Sure,” Satan replied, “Look here.”

I turned in his direction, there was a flash, and I found myself, half-dressed, on the bridge of some kind of space platform. The view was beautiful. I found I could focus on any interesting object and expand it just by thinking about it. I pulled up a nebula first.

Satan sat back without a word, and let me explore.

“Space really is beautiful,” I said.

“In a cosmic way, yes, but I wanted to show you something a little more mundane.”

The screen homed in on a small moon, barely visible. “Not very interesting,” I said.

“No, but this rock has something nothing else you have looked at has.”

“Which is?”

“An intersecting trajectory with Earth on August 18th, 2029.”

“How big is that thing anyway?”

“About half the size of your moon. And it will hit dead center. Since it doesn't reflect well, it will probably go unnoticed until it is around two weeks out from the collision. Something that size will destroy all surface mammals, and probably most other life on the planet. Of course the world will keep on wobbling anyway, just lacking you folks.”

I gulped. “So why am I here?”

“I would prefer that collision NOT take place. I can't stop it myself, you folks have to. Consider that lottery ticket a down payment for your services. I also have a list of investments to turn that into $50 billion over two years. You need to take that money and build the organization to be able to deal with that thing in 20 years,” he said, pointing at the moon.

“But why did you put it there to start with?”

“I didn't, you will have to talk to the other guy about that.”

“I don't understand. He is trying to wipe out humanity, and the devil is trying to stop it?”

“My motives are my own. And I really don't know what he is trying to accomplish. He isn't exactly returning my phone calls lately. He could be testing mankind, you, me, or he might have created another intelligent race and is tidying up loose ends. Take your pick.”

“So all I need is money?”

“No, you need to understand your goal. You will need to build an organization and prod it to do your bidding, you will probably also need to eliminate people that stand in your way. I will supply you with a field of invulnerability, and the ability to kill with your mind. Both these spells will run out on August 19th 2029, so use them wisely.”

“So why did you chose me for this?”

“You have the necessary background and drive to get the job done if you believe it is worthwhile.”

“And how do I know you are not lying?”

“You don't. In fact you will not until that thing does or doesn't come into view in 2029. But this is all pretty elaborate if all I wanted was your soul.”

“Anything else?” I said, contemplating the deal.

“Yes, there is no 'I tried' on this. Either you succeed or you fail, I don't care if you 'gave it your best shot'. I also don't know if it will get you into Heaven or Hell, but I promise you the best accommodations I can muster if you succeed and end up with me anyway.”

“Do I have time to think about it?”

“Not much, that moon is going to keep coming. I will give you until the end of the week. Either cash that lottery ticket by then, or destroy it.”

With that everything faded out, and I awoke the next morning thinking it was a very vivid dream.

On my end table there was a lottery ticket. I had a decision to make...

The air was clammy and stagnant. It felt like the inside of a tin can would after sitting all day in the sun. Trevor inhaled and instantly regretted it. The smell of stale pre-pubescent sweat filled his senses making his nose wrinkle in disgust. “I must be mad” he thought surveying the run down school gym currently being used to hold a ‘smokers anonymous’ meeting. If 46 years of smoking hadn’t already ruined his lungs then a couple of smokers’ anonymous meetings were not going to make them any better. But SHE had asked. He would do anything for her. Those gorgeous wide blue eyes only had to stare up at him and he was putty in her hands. Susan, his seven year old granddaughter. The only person who gave a damn about old grumpy grandpa Trev.

She was a little tiger that girl, fearless in the face of Trevor who could send huge dogs howling away with a look or a sharp word. He remembered one time he was sitting in his old battered armchair, referred to as ‘the tyrant’s throne’ to people who met him. He was sitting there having a blazing row with his son in law about something or other, when Susan clambered up on his lap and fell asleep there. Right in the lion’s den. Of course, Trevor was so astonished he was rendered speechless. “What a little tiger” he thought, smiling sadly at the memory.

Almost a year she’d been gone now. It damn near broke Trevor’s heart. He tried to suppress the stream of unhappy memories which so often plagued his dreams. One managed to escape and filled his mind. The last time he saw her. She was so frail in that hospital bed, looking as meek as a lamb. The lion had almost gone out of her. The watery little smile she gave to grandpa as he walked in the room tore his heart and knocked the breath from him. That knowing and resigned look in her eyes reduced him to tears. “Don’t give in Susan!” Trev shouted at her, unable to stand seeing her like that. Susan only smiled and sighed. Trev had looked away, trying to hide his tears and with a shaking hand tried to busy himself with lighting up a fag. “Screw the no smoking signs” he had thought, but Susan snatched the fag from his mouth and broke it in half. “bad grampa” she said, the glint of tiger back in her eyes. “You should give these up, it will kill you someday!” she admonished. He had laughed at that, his great roaring laugh that was so rarely heard. Susan soon caught herself up in the laugh, but the glint of the tiger remained in her eyes. She was adamant about him quitting. So he promised her, there on her deathbed that he would quit.

After she had gone, lord knows he tried to quit, but the middle of every night after he had woken from those dreams, he had to light up to calm his nerves. The guilt plagued his body, but the need for a fag was so strong. He desperately wanted to keep his promise to Susan, that’s why he was here.

Taking another breath of stagnant air he took a step forward, and another...and then changed his mind and walked straight back out. He wheezed in the fresh air of the outdoors and patted his pockets desperately for a fag. He got one out the packet with shaking hands and felt about his person for a light. “I was that close” he murmered, the fag dangling from his lips. “What sort of a lowlife can’t even keep a promise to a dying seven year old?” he thought distractedly patting his pockets.

The sound of a match scraping across sandpaper filled his senses, he looked up to find a lit match waving at his face. He automatically inhaled as the flame touched the end of the cigarette. He looked up to find the match being shaken out by...no-one. There was a hovering match and brick wall behind it. no-one in between the wall and the match. He blinked. Almost as if he were there all along was a man in a black suit leaning casually against the wall. Smoking a fag of his own. The stranger exhaled a billowing cloud of smoky tendrils.

“Places like these really get to you, don’t they?” commented the stranger to Trevor. Trev blinked again and drew in a shaky breath. For some reason he couldn’t seem to focus on the strangers face. It was sort of like a dark blur. “I’ll be damned if I have to get spectacles. There’s no sense in getting spectacles at my age” thought Trev as he squinted to try and get a better look.

“They sure do” He replied to the stranger nervously, smoke escaping from his mouth.

“I never quite understood the logic of filling your lungs with the smoke of burnt leaves, but it’s rather addictive, isn’t it?” the stranger remarked, staring at his cigarette. Trev didn’t reply. His chest was giving him some pain, he couldn’t quite catch his breath. His left arm started to twinge.

“Time to go” sighed the stranger as he put out the fag with his foot. He reached out a hand for Trevor to take.

“Susan will be waiting for you”

At seven-thirty, Susan Sheppard shut down her computer. She rushed to the street, just in time for the eight O’clock-bus, the last one for the evening.

The bus was empty. Susan sat down, glad for a couple of minutes of forced to rest.

At her stop, as her foot touched the pavement, an eerie sensation took hold of her. She had the distinct feeling of being watched. She quickly looked around, but saw nobody. With a hastened pace she started in the direction of the apartment building where she stayed with her mom. She had to fight the urge to scream and couldn’t help but look over her shoulder every five paces.

“Just two more blocks”.

Then, suddenly, as from seemingly nowhere, she was grabbed from behind. Strong arms held her and a vice-like hand covered her mouth, stifling the shriek that had formed in her throat. She was lifted clear off her feet and found herself being carried into a small alley. The air rushed from her lungs as she was thumped down heavily. Tears ran from her wide, fear-stricken eyes and her heart felt like it was going to explode. She tried to plea for her release, but the futile words were smothered by her assailant’s hand.

“Shut up! Or I’ll snap your neck.” The monster started groping at her clothes.
This couldn’t be happening to her. She closed her eyes and relaxed her body.
“That is more like it.”
In her mind, Susan was focusing on her mother; she tried to picture the loving face, the kind caring touch and warm embrace.
“Help me Mommy.”

Abruptly, her attacker loosened his grip, his body contorted and he twisted to the side. Susan didn’t wait to see what had happened, but ran down the alley and ducked inside the lobby of the closest apartment building. One of the tenants had just emerged from the lift.

“What’s wrong dear?” The elderly man had a warm smile and gentle face. He helped the now shaking woman to sit down in one of the lobby chairs.

“In.. in the alley… he… attacked..” She stuttered and cried, but the gentle man calmly nodded and phoned the police. He comfortingly placed his worn leather jacket around Susan’s shoulders and waited with her on the police’s arrival.

Some time later a police officer was talking to Susan, who was still sitting in the lobby. She had refused to go to hospital, but had gratefully accepted a cup of coffee and some painkillers.

“So, you do not recall seeing anyone else?” The officer was nice enough, and had asked if it would be ok for him to ask a few questions. Susan’s attacker had been found dead in the alley, a huge butcher’s knife protruding from his back. No other apparent sign of Susan’s rescuer could be found.

“No, I really didn’t see anyone.” Susan was feeling a lot better, but suddenly felt very tired.
“I will gladly answer any other questions you have, but do you think I could go home now?”

The officer apologised for keeping her and offered to take her home. Again Susan gladly accepted. As they exited the building, she turned to thank her Good Samaritan, but the elderly man wasn’t to be seen.

Susan’s mother burst into tears when she saw her daughter, the police dispatch had phoned her earlier on. She held Susan, gently stroking her hair and cooing to her as to a small child. Susan basked in the radiance of her mother’s love and, for the first time since her ordeal, felt safe again..
“I have been worried all day. Somehow I felt that something ominous was going to happen. My prayers for your safety must have been heard.”

Later that evening, Susan’s mother picked up the leather jacket where it hung over the back of a chair. Susan had told her about the kind old man. They had decided to return his jacket the following day.
She checked the inside label for a name: “John Meadows”. She would take great pleasure in thanking Mr. Meadows for being there for her daughter.

The following day Susan called in sick and, with her mother, walked the two blocks to Mr. Meadows’ building.

On the way, Susan saw that her ordeal had made the headline in the morning paper. They bought a copy and while they rested on a bench, Susan read to her mother. The story went onto the second page and as Susan turned the sheet, she went pale and fell silent.

“Are you ok dear?”

“It can’t be. It is him.”

Susan held up the paper, showing her mother the picture of an elderly man. It was the father of a previous victim, Sarah Meadows, whom had been raped and murdered, presumably by the now dead attacker, some months ago. On receiving the news of his daughter’s death, Mr. Meadows, a local butcher, had had a massive, fatal, heart attack.

It was the same Mr. Meadows whom had comforted Susan the previous evening.

They sat in silence for a while.

“Let’s return the jacket to his wife, maybe she needs to hear this.”

In a small apartment, less than a block away, Mrs. Meadows was looking at a picture of her lost family. Her lips formed a silent prayer:
“Please send me a sign that you are ok.”