Rickards thought it over.  “I don’t know that for sure, do you?”

“Why would he?”

“Off the top of my head, he may have a better understanding of what is actually occurring in that canyon of yours.”

“We told him everything!”

“True, but in light of the physics dissertation he just gave us, I’m starting to wonder.”

Angela crossed her arms.  “About what?”

“About that whole electron thing.  With that much energy flowing through one single spot, are those electrons still operating in our world or the quantum world?”

She stared at him without replying.

“Seems like maybe you’re starting to think about it, too.”

“What I’m also thinking about is getting thrown in jail again.  If it weren’t for Mike Morton, we might still be there today!”

“Perhaps.”

“Perhaps?”

“The guys who were behind all that are dead, Angela.  And the second time I went, with Kathy, no one seemed to notice me.  There weren’t any hassles at the airport, and no one followed us.”

She remained quiet, searching for an argument but couldn’t find one.  If he’d been followed, Joe of all people would have noticed.

“What if you slipped through by accident?”

Rickards rolled his eyes.  “What if I didn’t?  Or what if I get killed by an angry chicken?  Playing what if is a pointless exercise.  You can speculate forever, and nothing will be solved.”

“Fine.  So, your answer is just to go and hope nothing bad happens?”

“I’m not trying to convince you, Angela.  All I’m saying is this depends on how much you want the man’s help.  Everything in life is a tradeoff.”

She remained steadfast on the porch, frustrated.

She didn’t want to go back.  She’d had two traumatic experiences in Bolivia, both of which she desperately wanted to forget.  She didn’t need to add a third.

“The place between,” Rickards said after a long silence.

“What?”

“What you said before.  Being in that space between what your life was and what you’re supposed to do now.”

She glared at him in irritation.  “Sometimes I hate telling you things.”

***

When Townsend strode through the front door and down the hall again, the nurses glanced up at him in surprise.

“Mr. Townsend.”

“Good morning.”

“You’re early.  Is everything all right?”

He slowed before the entrance to his wife’s room, staring briefly inside.  “I hope so.”

“Who are you?”

“I’m your husband, Florence.”

“My husband?  I’m not married.”

“Of course, you are, dear.  To me.”  He began unwrapping another small box of truffles and, when finished, handed it to her.

“I love truffles!”

With only a slight grin, Leonard Townsend retrieved his phone and pulled up his list of songs and placed it on the small table next to him.  He pressed the play button and relaxed as Save the Last Dance for Me from The Drifters began.