#1 He looked down and shook his head.

There has to be an easier way, one that did not involve prison time or death. Yet despite hating this plan, no other materialized.

“Don’t worry,” a voice said, “nothing will go wrong, but if it does, we’ll visit you in prison.”

“Thanks, that makes me feel much better.”

Prison might be bad, but some places are worse and the reason for taking such risk.

“Ok, the system is offline.”

He took out a glass cutter and began cutting along the edge of the glass with one hand, while with the other, he attached suction cups to the center. He had practiced countless times, and with luck, what he was doing now would go as smoothly as in practice. His heart pounded as he cut until finished. He pulled his section up and from what he could tell, the piece was no heavier than any other, but if it proved too much, he might drop it and watch as is shattered below. This would ruin months of preparation and lead to his arrest. Once free, the glass fell, and for a moment, he imagined losing control. But his arm reacted, and he yanked the glass up and away from the newly formed hole. So far, so good, he said to himself. Maybe this will work after all. Next, he tied rope to a metal pipe before throwing the other end to the floor below. For thirty-seconds he looked down, working up the nerve to continue. But the longer he waited, the more difficult movement became.

“All right now or never,” he said before he grabbed the rope and dropped himself towards the floor. He lowered himself slowly to keep control. Inch by inch, he moved closer. His coming and going between roof and floor were the times of greatest vulnerability, and his heart pounded violently as he thought of what might happen. At last he touched down, landing without a sound. He walked to the art and examined all angles of the piece, looking for extra sensors that could cause him problems. The system was offline, he reminded himself. At least that is what the voice said, and the voice understood such matters. As he studied the piece, he remembered the scene out of Raiders of the Lost Ark when Indiana Jones takes the treasure off the booby-trapped stone. Like the ancient stone, what he was taking could be alarmed, and he did not want to endure an escape sequence similar to that of the movie.

“All systems are off, which means no alarm. Besides, tonight there is a showing for potential buyers who might touch the piece, so all is fine. Nothing will go wrong and I will not get caught and spend time in prison,” the man said. No matter how hard he tried convincing himself, he would not be safe until far away. He took a deep breath and lifted the art off the display case. For a moment he heard an alarm, but it lasted but a second until he realized he had imagined the sound. Is this what they mean by hearing voices in your head? Is there normally a ringing in our ears, he wondered, but we never notice until a time like this? Take a second and listen carefully for sounds of ringing, and while doing so, try not to think of pink elephants, he said aloud. When calm returned, he put the piece in a specially designed case and the case in his backpack. Next, he started up the rope. He had little trouble climbing as he had practiced such an assent hundreds of time and with much heavier objects. Despite the ease of his climb, he kept expecting guards to appear with guns drawn and threatening shouts. Did guards here carry guns? That was one detail missing in his research. If they did, would they fire at him and risk his dropping the art? Europeans seemed more cautious, he decided. While Americans would shoot him and his backpack full of holes and collect the insurance money, Europeans value art and would not take such risks.

As morbid as such thoughts are, they kept him distracted, and he reached the top in record time. Once on the roof, he pulled up his rope before walking to the edge. Two taller buildings sandwich the gallery, and is how he accessed the top of this building. This is also how he will leave. A wire ran from this rooftop to a lower floor in the building across so gravity might aid in escape. Instead of hooking himself to the wire, he took off his backpack and removed the case. He attached this to a set of wheels that slide around to the other side.

“I’m ready.”

“Ok.”

With a push, he sent the case in motion and saw a hand reached out from the window and catch it.

“Package received.”

The man removed the cable and informed the other person. “I’m proceeding.”

“Copy.”

He let the hook and cable go and watched them fell towards earth before the person on the other end pulled up the slack. Next, he ran to the other side of the roof where another cable attached to the building alongside. This is his escape route. He hooked himself to the cable and ziplined to the other building. Perhaps him going one way and the art another was overly cautious and time-consuming, but if they caught him, he did not want the piece in his possession. This was not for legal reasons. He is sure they would convict him with or without it, but for another other reason, the reason for the theft and the reason he took this risk.

#2

As he reached the window of the opposite building, he glanced back, but saw no one on the roof. They might get away with this, he realized for the first time. Not that he expected to get caught, but he had to accept the possibility of going to prison. Getting arrested complicated their plan, but the others could manage without him. When he entered the room, he unclipped himself from the wire and let it go back outside towards the art gallery. The police will find it, but there was nothing that helps them with the case. They had planned for this discovery and provided evidence that would keep the police chasing ghosts.

After unclipping, he closed the window and left the room. He cracked the front door open, looking out into the hall, and made sure no one was around. He hoped to exit without being seen by anyone. In order to reduce the chance of being spotted, he took the stairs and a back door. This path minimized possible contacts while avoiding cameras posted in the lobby. There are cctv cameras on the street, and for those he had a hooded sweatshirt and a down-turned face. When he exited, he turned right so he might avoid crossing in front of the gallery, although a part of him wanted to pass and see what they were doing and if they suspected. He imagined rich potential buyers eating caviar, sipping champagne and waiting to view a piece of art that was no longer there. How long before they discover the theft? How far away would he be by that time? He still had half a dozen blocks to walk before reaching the rendezvous point, but the person picking him up will not arrive for thirty minutes. Instead of hurrying as one might expect of someone fleeing a crime scene, he strolled while watching others. Everyone else was in a hurry, and he wondered what important business made them move so. Darkness fell hours ago and these people should be finished with work, yet they had a businesslike attitude as they walked.

The meeting spot is a park and even at his leisurely pace, he arrived first. Once there, he took off his black sweatshirt and put on a red jacket. No cameras watched this section and in the darkness, no camera would see him get in a car. If the police tracked him here, they will conclude that he must have vanished into the ether. After he changed, he found the designated bench and waited, while trying not to think about why his transportation was not there. He was early, and this gave him time for the imagined what ifs. What if the police were tracking the art and had made an arrest? What if the driver had an accident on the way here? And most troubling, what if he was being used, and this was an elaborate ruse to persuade him to break into the art gallery? If the latter were true, he might have fifteen to twenty years to contemplate this question and all possible answers. He asked these and other questions repeatedly until he convinced himself no one was coming. Then he heard a voice.

“Hey, time to go.”

He stood up calmly, but wanted to jump up and hug the person while offering profuse thanks for coming. Unless here to kill him, which he doubted, then what he believes is true, and he is no sucker. They drove in silence as they left London, both afraid of being pulled over. Once they were outside the city, they relaxed but spoke little aside from what was necessary for directions. Neither was English and driving on the left side of the road at night, after a heist was nerve racking. On a positive note, at least they were on major roads (M20 then A20) and did not have to search for some single lane path found based on the number of cows in a field. According to the mapping program, the drive should take an hour and a half.

The closer to their destination, the more they talked, aware that this part of the plan would work. Although the theft was just the starting point, this was the part all else relied on. Without the art, nothing could go forward. When they neared the location, the driver stopped in a secluded area so the thief could bring about his transformation. First, he changed out of the clothes he was wearing before putting on a latex mask that turned his appearance into that of an old man. He put on gloves so he might hide his hands, the hands of someone younger that did not match his face. When he finished, the driver looked him over and said, “Perfect, you look like an old man.”

With the transformation complete, they continued on to their destination, a small dock near Dover. They arrived early, but the boat was moored and a man stood waiting.

“I see you’re early,” a voice said in a heavy Irish brogue.

Instead of replying, they nodded and continued towards the boat. They had decided that the fewer words spoken, the better so as not to give away their nationalities. The owner of the boat is to take the thief across the channel. They hinted the passenger could not enter Britain due to help he gave the Irish. Now his brother was dying in Wales and he wanted to see him a final time. Neither was sure the other man believed the story, but this did not matter. The story was more for the police if they painted the boat’s captain into a corner. He did a bit of smuggling on the side and was not one to help the authorities, even if he discovered the truth.

“You want me to feel sorry for some rich artist and gallery that had his pretentious piece of art stolen? Isn’t that what insurance is for,” they imagined him saying when told of the robbery.

After the old man entered the boat, the driver waited until they pulled away from the dock and headed out to sea. The car now went towards Ashford where it was returned and the driver caught catch a train.

#3

This was the second night of her new life, and Anna Sofia still felt the dizzying effects. How might this moment compare to others? Despite not being married or having children, her elation must be similar. She spent every waking hour working towards today. In fact, she did not remember a time when she was not dreaming of this day. She carried a certain sadness at having achieved the one measurable goal, as now goals grew abstract. This achievement was a place reserved for a very few. The only women who had reached such heights so young had been her own mother and Diana Vishneva. None were surprised by her attaining such success so young as both her parents are among the greats, but hard work not genes ensures success. No one worked harder, so being a principal dancer for the Mariinsky Ballet, or as those who used the old Soviet name, the Kirov Ballet, seemed natural. More than anything, this achievement is a relief, as the pressure was enormous. Her parents are wonderful, but they exercised a number of unspoken expectations.

Being named a principal dancer at 20 was such an assumption as this was the age her mother reach this goal. No matter what anyone said, if she had been older before reaching this point, all would remember. So she endured pressure few ever experienced. Once, when going through a difficult time, Diana tried comforting her by saying she understood because they compared her to Anna Sofia’s mother as well. Anna Sofia smiled, but almost burst into tears. She had to contend with her mother and Diana, so there was twice the pressure. But this was behind her and she would focus on improving until perhaps one day others might regard her as the greatest. The appointment made a few jealous, but none doubted her commitment or talent.

The best part of her new position was the pride she brought her parents, as even now they glowed. She loved dancing, but having them so proud made her life perfect. Her father joked he could die happy, little realizing the prophetic nature of this phrase. Those words were hardly out of his mouth when a truck ran a red light, smashing into their car. They never saw the other vehicle. Either the other driver did not notice the light or did not care, as the collision involved no skid marks, the most obvious sign of breaks. Anna Sofia remembered none of the following minutes except something her mother said over and over about looking for family, but she had no idea what this meant. Her first lucid moment occurred much later in the hospital. Looking back, she felt as if she was not at the wreck but someone watching from above.

The doctors marveled that she woke from the coma so soon after such an accident. Moments after waking, she knew this was the first day of a new, unknown life. Despite the painkillers, she needed but a moment to realize the problem of her left leg and the knowledge frightened her like nothing else. When she recovered her thoughts and emotions, she pushed the call button. Several minutes passed and as she moved her finger to call again, a doctor entered her room.

“How are you?”

This was not a question she had considered, as only her leg concerned her.

“Tell me about my left leg.”

“From the look on your face, you already know. People often accuse doctors of having poor bedside manner. But sometimes the truth cannot be sugar-coated and believe me when I tell you how much I hate saying this. Your days of dancing are done. Walking is not guaranteed, and even if you succeed, you will always move with a limp. I’m sorry. I saw you dance on opening night and cannot imagine a crueler fate than what has befallen you. The good news is that you still have your leg as initially I thought we might have to amputate.”

Tears streamed down Anna Sofia’s face as all hopes of dancing disappeared.

“How are my parents?”

She knew the answer as soon as the words slipped from her mouth and the doctor shook his head.

“They both died at the scene of the accident.”

As Anna Sofia cried, she realized her own selfishness. She had not thought of them until after the news of her leg, and only then because of their imagined disappointment over such an injury.

“If there is anything you need, we are here for you,” the doctor said before returning to his rounds.

She did not remain in the hospital long, as aside from her knee and various bruises and cuts, she suffered no serious injuries. As much as she hated being there, coming home to an empty house was worse. A friend of her mother’s picked her up but dropped her off outside the building as she had other urgent business. Anna Sofia, in her blood-stained clothes and braced left leg, hobbled through the front door alone. Once inside, she cried. Her parents were gone, but their ghosts lingered. She would have moved in with friends and abandoned this house, but everyone she knew was with the ballet. Living with a dancer was as bad as living with ghosts.

Her parent’s funeral was a blur. All she remembered with certainty was the rain. People proffered their condolences, and some offered help, but she was in no condition to place face with name. She started physical therapy and pushed herself to exhaustion with a dance type intensity as she spent her time fighting to recover. This provided her with a goal and distracted her from what was important, mourning. After six months of this routine, she finished. She could walk and most people would miss the limp, but she would never dance as she once had. This was for the best, as what if she had recovered enough to perform but in a lesser role while watching someone else in her old place? At the end of therapy, she focused on a new direction filled with vague hopes, but such were illusions as instead her life careened towards darkness.

#4

“You fucking whore,” the voice shouted, startling her into opening her eyes. A moment later, a fiery slap hit her across the face. K (short for her nickname, Kaelkirjak) was naked and on top of him when the blow struck with such force that she fell off the sofa and onto the floor. The first thought in her mind was not about the pain or the ringing in her ear but, “what is she doing home so early?”

“Ok, I deserved that, but no more, otherwise I fight back.”

“I’ll decide when you’ve had enough and I’m nowhere close to being done with you, whore,” a voice she hardly recognized said.

A moment later, a foot lunged towards her, but K rolled in time to avoid the blow and stood before additional kicks began. She took a boxer’s stance before remembering she was completely naked, a fact that caused her embarrassment, yet she must focus on her opponent and forget all else. Her mother charged and, in a perfectly timed combination, K threw a right jab to the nose and a body blow with the left landing in the solar plexus. Her mother crumpled to the floor as blood streamed down her face and she gasp for air.

K grabbed her clothes and went to her bedroom as Silvio helped her mother. Once she reached her room, she locked the door and dressed before grabbing her backpack, which she place her laptop, jeans and shirts.

Her mother shouted threats and expletives and the word whore before hearing Silvio say, “Put down the knife, let’s take you to the hospital and get your nose looked at.”Next, there was a clang as the weapon landed on the counter and her mother uttered her final message.

“I better not catch you here when I return.”

Despite having never been close, the words stung, and her eyes let loose a torrent of tears. She was partly at fault, but until this moment, she believed in Silvio and that she was the one he wanted. Even now, three years later, she often thought of that night and speculated about what happened to Silvio. Did he stay or realize how crazy she was? Her mother would forgive him and assign K all the blame, regardless of truth.

Such history did not matter now, as stepping outside, her body focused on the cold. On days like this, she questioned what the hell she was doing here. She knew why she left Tallinn (a psycho knife-wielding mother) but with her skills, she could live anywhere. The short answer was she was desperate to leave and when a contact offered to help, she moved to Moscow. Yet whenever the weather was this brutal, she swore she’d find work in Jamaica or someplace warm. But before she looked for another job, she would get busy and forget since she spent little time outside and often went days without leaving her apartment. She missed Tallinn, but was still concerned about knives and psychos. She would return, but when she did, the city would no longer be home.

She realized her exile was self-imposed, but even after living here for three years, each day seemed like her first. She knew her way around and spoke Russian well, but this vast metropolis still appeared foreign. Of course, saying a city seemed foreign when in fact it is in another country is a bit like being surprised water is wet. But Moscow was distinct in this foreignness. She had once worked on a project in Ryazan, a city 200 kilometers (125 mi) southeast of here that could pass for a city in Estonia and she felt at home during her time there. Maybe the reason Moscow seemed so foreign was because of the massive population. There were 12½ million inhabitants living there compared to 400,000 for Tallinn and 500,000 for Ryazan. She only noticed the size because of her job, otherwise she could have lived and known only a small section of the city and fooled herself into thinking she was in a place with the population of Tallinn. If this had been the case, she might have liked Moscow. Unfortunately, she had been lost in too many corners at bizarre hours.

She worked for a consulting firm specializing in computer security, which meant she saw different sections of the city. Despite her best efforts, Moscow remained a riddle, wrapped in a mystery, inside an enigma. The most surprising part of her job was the random locations she visited. One would imagine all equipment locked deep within some giant glass building that housed the corporate executives. Yet there was also hardware in remote parts that seems more like something out of the Tarkovsky film Stalker than real life.

At least tonight she heads to the house of the billionaire who not only owns the consulting firm but countless other companies. Somehow, he can make and manage billions but can’t manage his computer. The call came an hour ago, meaning she’ll start about 10 p.m. and finish whenever. She hates all these Moscow billionaires. Just because a person has a billion dollars does not mean one should get whatever he wants at any time, even if he is the owner of the company. She shouldn’t complain since she is making good money, but she is sick of this guy. She’s tired after a long day of work and this “emergency” visit is so this idiot might upload a video he made involving two expensive hookers. In the name of humanity, we need that available immediately. The world cannot wait until morning for such a cinematic treasure.

She dreamed of maliciously hacking into corporations as a type of payback for wrongs committed. At the top of this list, is the Billionaire and the companies he owned. Someday, if she is ever bold enough, or has a death wish, she might get her chance, but for now, she would do her job. Hopefully she could avoid seeing any fat, hairy, middle-aged naked men chasing after nubile teenage girls. The age of consent in Russia is sixteen and most of the women look that old, but she would hardly say they cheerfully gave their consent. She told the security at the entrance her name and ID number and thirty seconds later, the gate opened and she moved her car towards a giant house, lights ablaze.

#5

Without physical therapy, Anna Sofia’s days lost focus and idleness resulted in depression. Whenever she stopped and considered her life, she ended up in tears mixed with melancholy and painkillers. In theory, her outlook should have improved once she came to terms with her injury. But fate had other ideas. Her mother and father might have been brilliant dancers, but they lacked any sign of intelligence when dealing with finances. Both had lapsed life insurance policies that, if current, would have left her comfortable. There is a letter on the table to be mailed to Lloyd’s of London to insure her when she became a principal dancer. If the accident happened a week later, the policy would be in force and would have protected against this very thing. Instead, her situation is dire. They mortgaged the condo in excess with little money saved. As far as she could tell, no other investments or income of any kind existed. Unbeknownst to her, they lived hand to mouth, with no apparent plan for the future. The bank president, a ballet fan, felt for her. He gave her time before asking about a mortgage payment that, when including the arrears, amounted to more than was in her savings account. This made her homeless once they repossessed the property. This realization led to a panic attack and an even darker depression.

The problem was she had no real friends and no relatives: she was an only child of two only children whose parents themselves were only children. Those she knew were with the ballet company, and she would not move in with someone without prospects for work. What would she do to earn money? She had taken classes, but dance was her focus, as she had never imagined another life. She would go to college if she could afford tuition. If she had been more calculating, she might have found a boyfriend and immediately moved in with him. But she was naïve about relationships as until then, dance had occupied all her thoughts. Then she received a call that seemed like a miracle. A man, claiming to be an old friend of her father’s, had read about the tragedy and wanted to help. He would send her a plane ticket to Moscow where they would meet, and she would work for him. This is perfect; she will leave St. Petersburg and start a new life in the capital.

#6

Jason Tolen looked at the heading and thought he was reading spam. But how did he get this e-mail? The company valued privacy and employees gave such information to clients only, besides there is a whole I.T. department dedicated to keeping this junk out. He was tempted to open it, but decided the office was not the right place. Later, at home, he would log in and read this message. At that moment, his phone rang, and he forgot about what seconds before was a tantalizing mystery. After work, he spent an hour at the gym before heading home. During the drive to his condo, he unwinds, so when he arrives home, the transformation is complete. Work turned him into a different person, a type of Hyde to his normal Jekyll. Although his Hyde never turned into some maniacal monster like in the old 1930s movie. Each morning, he ran before eating a small, healthy breakfast and taking a shower. His desk was immaculate, as was his attire, and he prided himself on being focused and getting an enormous amount done. At lunch, he divided his time between yoga and eating a meal comprising a sandwich of brown bread, a chicken breast, tomato and lettuce. From the moment he woke until he returned home, he appeared a driven, hard working exercise nut. When he reached home, he transformed into a slob who wore sweat pants and tee shirts that the homeless would shun.

He entered an empty condo and, as usual, a barren refrigerator. He accomplished so much during the day, but never remembered his food situation. Ever since his last girlfriend left, there has been nothing inside but Nathan’s pickles. Looks like pizza again, he thought. He ordered one with pepperoni and extra cheese, and when the delivery guy arrived, they exchanged greetings, as by now they all knew his first name. This was the final night he ordered pizza he promised, but he had said that for the last week and a half. Pizza was one food he never tired of, that and wine. He was already decanting a bottle and laughed as he poured himself a glass of Louis Jadot Clos Vougoet ’06. He loved French wines, specifically Burgundy, but especially this vintage. The pizza cost $20 including tip, but this bottle sold for $200, what a contrast. The wine was not a special treat as he seldom drank a bottle that cost less than $100, as money was not an issue.

He worked for a small, privately held oil company, which, despite being unheard of by most, was incredibly profitable. His Christmas bonus was always in the six figures and this, along with most of his salary he made, aside from his wine fund, he invested in the business. Looking at his condo, one would never imagine he made so much, as anyone visiting might suspect he had roommates still in college. The money never mattered to him, nor all the prizes associated with such wealth. He never bothered buying a house because he did not want the headache of home ownership, although he had paid cash for his condo. He did not have time to mow the lawn, nor did he wish to find someone to do the job. A condo was perfect, although some, especially ex-girlfriends, disagreed. Whenever he met a woman at a black-tie event and was introduced as the Vice-President of Strategic Acquisitions, a woman’s eyes lit up. All they heard was vice-president and oil company and assumed he had money, lots and lots of money.

The company, Fallon Energy, had a wonderful niche in the market. Large oil corporations such as Exxon-Mobil spent vast sums on oil exploration. They hoped to discover the next big find, another Ghawar Field, (largest oil deposit in the world located in Saudi Arabia), just hopefully not in the Middle East. While that treasure hunt progresses, Exxon-Mobil raised cash by selling mature oil fields to smaller companies like Fallon. Fallon Energy makes their money by developing better techniques at extracting oil and natural gas out of the ground. No firm, no matter the size, is better at extraction than Fallon. Lately, the company had taken on more risk and potentially more reward by purchasing oil fields in countries outside the United States. The biggest deals have been in Russia with Gazprom, Lukoil and Rosneft, who wished to sell their mature fields. He (Mr. Pizza Eating, Wine Swilling Vice-president in charge of something she can never remember) conducts all negotiations between these Russian companies and Fallon Energy.

Once these negotiations finish, then he began with companies such as Transneft for the transportation of the product, often heading to China, which means negotiating with the Chinese. Although many of these firms are government owned, each deal is negotiated separately, and he must often reach deals with several departments within the same company. Gazprom might own the field and the pipeline, yet this necessitates two separate agreements. So far, all has gone well as the Russians prefer dealing with smaller companies. Exxon-Mobil, Royal Dutch Shell or any of the other supermajor oil companies often make enormous demands and create enormous headaches. With his company, there are no headaches and everybody makes money. Investor’s biggest concern is that the Russians will develop a sudden dislike of the Yankee and kick everyone out without reimbursement. This is where the company’s efficiency comes into play. The Russians would regain the property, but without Fallon’s knowledge, efficient extraction is impossible, and the seized wells become worthless and future investors are frightened away. This creates a losing proposition for all, besides kicking out a minor player does not send the same message as expelling an oil giant.

After finishing the pizza and wine, Jason gets online and checks his personal e-mail. That’s odd, he thinks. One of these is the same as from work. He reads it over twice but is still not sure what to think. The person writing this knows a great deal about him and the claim, if true, provides details of his life that even he was unaware of. He spent several minutes thinking before deciding the information did not contain any deep dark secrets and anyone with half a brain could discover what was written, except for the last part. That must be a hoax, but after an hour, he had no definitive answer. If this was a common 419 scam, he found no sign of others having fallen for it. He discovered that advance-fee scams were not confined to the Nigeria but extended to Russia and the United States as well. If this was a new example, this was one of the slickest he had seen. Could this be a trick, or the truth? Normally, he deleted such information, but this claim, if true, could not be ignored.

#7

Elton Jonas wished he had been driving instead of his wife. But one cannot change the past. Being in management, they required his attendance at the annual retreat in Scotland. Each year, the bank rented a secluded castle somewhere within the United Kingdom where they spent all weekend getting excited about the prospects of the future. He hated these weekends, as most of the people there he hardly knew and did not care to. He interacted with the different managers in London, but what was the use of knowing random people from Manchester, Liverpool, or Birmingham? That year the retreat near his parent’s house. He and his wife took Thursday off (the retreat ran Friday to Sunday) so they might visit his mother. He had grown up in Edinburgh, but after his parents retired, they moved farther north into the Highlands. Didn’t retirees move to warm places like Tampa or Tenerife, not a town colder and beyond Timbuktu? Yet he understood their love of this area that offered such tranquility. When his father died, he expected his mother to move elsewhere else, but she claimed she could never move with so many memories surrounding her.

The visit had gone well, and he needed all his strength to leave the house so he might spend the weekend cheerleading. What a waste. What most annoyed him about these retreats was missing a day of work that then made him a day behind. His Friday workload did not magically disappear because some motivational expert overdosing on crack and caffeine “pumped him up.” When the session finished, he exited as soon as possible to return to his mother’s house, where he immediately poured himself a glass of Tormore scotch. One turned to three and suddenly he was not driving anywhere. This put them slightly behind schedule, but there was still time to reach the Inverness airport before their flight. One downside to being so far north is the roads, as one never knows how travel may progress. Getting behind the wrong, large bus can lead to moving at turtle speed.

The events of that day are hazy. He remembers his wife driving mixed with flashes of memories: the corner, the other car, a moment before impact, and waking in the hospital. The other driver was so drunk that it amazed the police of the Northern Constabulary that this individual could start his vehicle, let alone drive. Although the collision was head on, the other driver swerved enough so the full impact hit the driver’s side. Both drivers died instantly while he survived, despite the odds. This happened two years ago, but the event seems to have happened yesterday and the pain of loss has never abated. These past years he has felt so alone as shortly after his wife died, his mother became ill and died suddenly, leaving him with no close family. There were still relatives, but he had no siblings and his cousins lived in Scotland or America, so visits were infrequent. But now there is this e-mail that, if true, changes everything.