Jameson was prepared to run all the way to the airport. At least his brain was. His legs, however, not to mention his lungs, had no such plans.

At the corner of 12th and 49th, he collapsed at a bus stop. He struggled to catch his breath, surprised that flames weren’t spouting out of his mouth.

“Got …. to keep … moving,” he muttered as he massaged a cramp in his leg.

As he bent over his leg, a dark shadow fell over him. Jameson lifted his head wearily, fully expecting the wrath of Sassy.

He was surprised to see a small dark woman standing there. Jameson shielded his eyes from the sun, trying to get a better look at her face.

“Can I help you?” she asked in a lilting accent that reminded him of Prandi. As Jameson’s eyes focused on the woman his curiosity mounted. She had one of those wise old faces you see in Buddhist monks or rain-washed statues. She could’ve been 38 or 92. He couldn’t tell. All he knew was the power of her profound eyes.

He stood up on unsteady feet. “Help? Lady, I need a miracle.”