Paulette drove in tight-lipped silence. Finally, during a moment when they were stationary at a traffic light, she said: “Why me?”

Miriam considered for a moment. “You don’t know my mother.”

“That’s—oh. I see, I think. Anything else?”

“Yeah. I trusted you to keep your mouth shut and not to panic.”

“Uh-huh. So what have you gotten yourself into this time?”

“I’m not sure. Could be the story of the century—the second one this week. Or it could be a very good reason indeed for burying something and walking away fast. I’ve got some ideas—more, since I spent a whole day and a half over there—but I’m still not sure.”

“Where’s over there? I mean, where did you go?” The car moved forward.

“Good question. The straight answer is: I’m not sure—the geography is the same, the constellations are the same, but the landscape’s different in places and there’s an honest-to-god medieval village in a forest. And they don’t speak English. Listen, after I’ve had my shower, how about I buy supper? I figure I owe you for dropping this on your lap.”

“You sure do,” Paulette said vehemently. “After you vanished, I went home and watched the tape six times before I believed what I’d seen with my own two eyes.” Her hands were white on the steering wheel. “Only you could fall into something this weird!”

“Remember Hunter S. Thompson’s First Law of Gonzo Journalism: ‘When the going gets tough, the tough get weird’?” Miriam chuckled, but there was an edge to it. Everywhere she looked there were buildings and neon lights and traffic. “God, I feel like I spent the weekend in the Third World. Kabul.” The car smelled of plastic and deodorant, and it was heavenly—the stink of civilization. “Listen, I haven’t had anything decent to eat for days. When we get home I’m ordering take out. How does Chinese sound?”

“I can cope with that.” Paulette made a lazy right turn and slid into the slow-moving stream of traffic. “Don’t feel like cooking?”

“I’ve got to have a shower,” said Miriam. “Then I’ve got a weekend of stuff to put in the washing machine, several hundred pictures to download and index, memos to load into the computer, and an explanation. If you figure I can do all that and a pot roast too, then you don’t know me as well as I think you do.”

“That,” Paulette remarked as she pulled over into the parking space next to Miriam’s house, “was a very mixed metaphor.”

“Don’t listen to what I say; listen to what I mean, okay?”

“I get the picture. Dinner’s on you.”