“Some thing else?” she asks. “What, like an alien?” she asks, sarcasm replacing worry as the taint in her voice.

“I don’t blame you for being skeptical. I was at first, too. And, no. I’m not an alien. I wasn’t born in a galaxy far, far away, although it was a long time ago.” She frowns. “Sorry. Couldn’t resist.”

“So, you’re saying you weren’t born in South Dakota?”

“Oh, god, no!” I say, mock horror in my voice. She laughs.

“How do you do that?”

“Do what?” I know exactly what she’s talking about, but when you’ve played a role for so long, it’s hard to slip out of character.

“You always know when I’m tense, and manage to put me at ease. How?“

“Years… of practice.”

“Hold on.” She glares. “What was that.” I open my mouth. ”’What was what?’ Like you don’t know. The pause. You edited yourself, like you always do around me. Truth, now, or get the hell out!” Damn. She’s pissed!

“Alright,” I say, annoyed (at who, I’m not sure). “Years, or rather centuries, of practice.”

That has her attention.