Mary Jane was speechless. The old woman took her hand and gave her a leather pouch on a string.

“These will help you know who you are looking for,” she said, “It is not your last dance, not your last dance.” The old woman smiled once more and slipped away from Mary Jane. Its not your last dance, floated in her mind, it was haunting, a lyric from her song, it was guiding her again.

She felt slightly creeped out by the experience, but wondered what was reality or if maybe she had listened to The Doors way too much over her lifespan. Maybe it was the coffee that tasted like cheap hotel soap.

She shook the thought from her mind and ran to her room, locked the door behind her, and flopped down on the rusty orange comforter of the bed. She dumped out the contents of the pouch on the bed and pondered them. One was a postmark cut off of an envelope, it was from a few weeks ago somewhere in California. The next object was a silver harmonica with the initials H.R. scratched into the side.