We arrived in Seattle a few minutes before 5:00, which pleased Diane greatly. "We've still got more than three hours of sunlight!" she exclaimed.

Diane overflowed with enthusiasm. Why wouldn't she? She was pretty much starting a new life. True, she'd lived in Seattle before, so it wasn't a new city for her, and sure, she already had friends here, so it wasn't new in that sense either. Eventually she'd have a new place to live, but for now she'd be staying with friends.

What was new was her job as a nurse in a local hospital, and best of all, the new possibilities that came from leaving her old life behind. "What I left behind in California," Diane had said, "was my old life, and that life consisted of a crappy job, a crappy apartment, a crappy boyfriend with all his crappy attitudes and all his crappy friends!"

After we'd unloaded my bags on the sidewalk in front of the ferry terminal, Diane gave me a big hug. We'd already exchanged phone numbers. I said, "I hope everything works out great for you here."

"Hey," she laughed. "I don't need great. I'll settle for just fine, or just plain good. It doesn't need to be great. What I don't want is crappy. I've had enough of crappy."

"Here's to nothing crappy, then!" I laughed, and gave her another hug.

"And listen," she told me with a wicked grin, "You have fun tonight, losing your you-know-what."

I didn't exactly feel embarrassed, but her comment caught me totally by surprise, and I found that I was speechless. Diane looked at my face and smirked. She pulled a small box out of her handbag and put it in my hand. She said, "Here. This is from the nurse in me." It was a pack of condoms.

"Oh, God!" I groaned.

"Hey," she protested, "If this guy gets around even a quarter as much as you think he does, he could be carrying a whole array of diseases, including HIV. Make sure he wears one of those, no matter where he wants to put his thing."

I took a deep breath, and opened my mouth, but still no words came out. I didn't know what to say. She closed my hand around the little box, and said, "Put it away for now. Just make sure it's handy when you need it. Also, I hope you're aware: you *can* get pregnant the first time."

"I know that!" I exclaimed, a little offended.

"Sorry," she said. "A lot of girls don't. You don't want to end up with a bun in the oven."

I huffed and kicked an imaginary pebble, and managed to say, "Okay" and "Thanks" and a few other monosyllables. She laughed and got in another quick hug. Then — much to my relief — she climbed into her Mini and zoomed out of sight.

Why was I relieved to see her go? It wasn't that I didn't like her. I *did* like her, and I'm sure we could be good friends. That, in fact, was part of the problem. Diane is a great listener. Diane excelled at keeping a conversation moving. She'd ask the right questions, remind you of a dropped thread, or respond in a way that made you want to go on. If you think of a conversation as a big, slow-rolling ball, she was always ready to give the right nudge, or sweep some little obstacle out of the way... she took great care to ensure that the ball never stopped.

There is, of course, nothing wrong with that. It's a great skill, and I think I learned a few things from her about how to talk to people. What made it dangerous was the way she made me feel so comfortable and so trusting. Several times I came very close to telling her who I really was and how I came to be this way.

The danger wasn't all on my side, either. Diane could sense there was something I wasn't saying. She had no idea what I was hiding. She was just curious. My secret drew her like a magnet. She never went for it directly; she gently circled around it, looking for a way in. She noticed the holes, the gaps, the changes in the way I told my story, and from that she was able to divine the outline of what I wouldn't say.

I lugged my bags inside, bought my ticket, and boarded the 5:35 ferry. It took off a few minutes after I stepped aboard.

If you've ever been on one of the Seattle ferries, you'll know that it's easy to get a window seat. The ship is big, but so are the windows, so it's difficult to find a place where you can't see the view. In fact, I don't know if it's possible. There's plenty of room outside, too, if you want that. Inside there's a snack bar, plenty of seats, plenty of room, and plenty of big tables where you can eat or read or write. I took one of the big tables, stowed my bags underneath, and gave Arrow a call. He didn't pick up — which was odd. I left a message on his voicemail so he'd know which ferry to meet.

Then I bought a newspaper, a slice of pizza, and a cup of coffee. There weren't many people on the ferry, so I took over the entire table by completely opening the newspaper. You don't get many chances to spread out a paper that way. It was pure indulgence on my part: There was really only one thing I wanted to see, and that was roommate listings. Not that I specifically wanted one; I just wanted to see what possibilities were available.

One of the ideas Diane put in my head was, "If you don't know what you want to do and you don't have any place you need to go, you ought to consider living in Seattle. I love it. You don't need to spend a lot of money, either: you can find a roommate situation and pay a couple hundred a month for rent. There are loads of people our age, or your age — whatever. Seattle's a laid-back city, but it's not like California. It's like California with a brain, if you know what I mean." We both laughed, then she went on, "I mean it. Seattle is sophisticated without being pushy. Seattle isn't a high-pressure city like New York or L.A. It's a much more human place to be."

All of that sounded good. She also told me that Seattle is a healing city, and that called out to the hurt in me — the hurt that had come with Kristy and Carla's rejection of me. I understood their reasons... it all made perfect sense, but still it hurt. Clearly, I couldn't stay with Kristy and Carla any more. It just wasn't an option, and Diane's suggestion was not only attractive, it was also very practical.

After I circled a dozen promising listings, I put the paper away. I didn't need to see any more. It was clear that the idea was feasible. Also, I stopped because there was something else I wanted to mull over; something else that had come up on the trip. You can probably guess what it was. I swear I hadn't the slightest inkling that I wanted to have sex with Arrow until Diane asked me. Let me be clear: I'm not saying I'm attracted to the man; I'm not. And I didn't want any kind of relationship with him aside from friendship. But I knew that he would try to get in the pants of any woman close enough to talk to. I also knew that *he* wasn't looking for any sort of relationship. All I wanted was to try out my new equipment (so to speak). With Arrow, it ought to be pretty simple. Casual sex was practically his middle name.

I folded up the newspaper and tossed it in the bin with my other trash. Then I settled down to look out the window. I may not have mentioned it, but the ferry to Bremerton lasts an hour. It's incredibly peaceful and relaxing, but even so, an hour is a lot of time to kill. I stretched my legs over my bags and leaned back in the seat. Once I got comfortable I began to think about my new life.

You know how people say, If I could go back, be young again... knowing what I know now... Well, that was exactly my position. My age has been reset, and I know "what I know now." So what was I going to do with it?

Theoretically, I could do anything. In practical terms, however, I didn't feel any more free than when I was Fred, just a week ago.

I mean, I didn't really decide to come up and visit Arrow. It was just the easiest thing to do.

Did I have any idea of what I wanted to do? What I wanted out of this new life? Was there anything I felt I'd missed the first time around?

If you'd asked me a week ago what I wanted out of life, I'd have said, "I'd like the three of us — me, Kristy, and Carla — to be healthy again." Poof! That wish had been granted.

After that, I would have wished for a nice vacation. Somewhere warm. A place with hot sand, sun, clean air, a beautiful sea, good food and drinks, and young women strolling around in bikinis. Instead I was in Seattle, and *I* was potentially a young woman strolling in a bikini. Seattle wasn't hot; it was just under eighty degrees. There was plenty of water, and probably there was a beach out there somewhere, but I couldn't see it. And sun? Well, it wasn't raining, but sky looked like it was thinking about rain.

Oddly enough, I found that I didn't mind the weather. I actually liked it. It seemed kind of zen: peaceful, still, unhurried. I mean, this was like a vacation. At least I wasn't working. Outside the window lay the Puget Sound... big, quiet, tranquil. I could live here, I told myself. I would like it. I could stay here for a long, long time.

Just so you understand: In all this musing I wasn't worried about my future. I didn't feel as though I had to figure out the meaning of this second life of mine. There was one thing I *did* know that I hadn't known as a teenager: Finding out what I really, deeply wanted wasn't all that important. I needed a job, sure. And if I wanted a particular job, like being a doctor or a programmer or a dental hygienist (just to pick some jobs at random), I'd have to get some education or training. But this time around I wasn't going to waste my time looking for fulfilment in my job. I didn't intend to do something I hated, but one big item from "knowing what I know now" is that what I do for a living is nowhere near as important as what kind of person I am.

That's not to say that I didn't need goals of some kind. Sometimes I could let myself go where events took me, but more often I knew I'd need to be the active force. There were going to be plenty of times when nothing would happen in my life unless I made it happen. Getting through life is a lot like sailing: even when the wind is driving you, you have to pay attention and steer. When the wind's against you, you need to work harder and tack, back and forth, sliding cleverly against the wind. Or you need some kind of motor. I also knew from "what I know now" that there would never be a one-time-forever decision about how my life would be: Sometimes I wouldn't be able to choose, but I needed to at least define a direction, something or somewhere that I was aiming to be.

I wasn't worried about myself, but by the time we docked in Bremerton, I was a little worried about Arrow. Not *too* worried, but I hadn't heard from him yet, and that was very out of character for him. Usually Arrow would obsessively confirm. It was a holdover from his years in the military, I imagined. I tried calling him a second time, but once again got his machine.

It's strange that Arrow is my best friend. It's always been strange. We couldn't be more different. I've always been — I mean Fred was always was the typical suburbanite: married, conventional, a little out of shape, worked in an office, etc. Arrow, on the other hand, is more rough and tumble. He's fearless, often tactless, and rigorously unconventional.

Since he retired from the Air Force, he occasionally works as a "consultant." I asked him Doing what? and he replied gruffly, "Something like lobbying. Defense." He wouldn't say more. In any case, he seemed to work only occasionally and most of the time not at all.

Arrow is big: about six-four and all muscle. He looks like a brawler, and although he says he "detests" fighting, other high-testosterone men automatically want to square off with him. "It's the whole alpha male thing," he says. "I just walk in, minding my own business. I couldn't care less, but they see me as a challenge to their authority." Arrow says that fights seem to find him.

What is scarier than his muscles, though, is his stillness. He doesn't fidget. When he sits, he sits still. When he stands, he is immoveable, like a rock. He has a kind of animal awareness... I'd say spider sense, like in the comics, but it's something darker and more muscular — something with teeth.

Once, when I was in the Sierras, I saw a mountain lion. Let me tell you, it's a lot different than seeing one in the zoo. There was nothing between me and the animal except for a small scrub. I didn't see it until I was a few yards away and it gave a warning growl. Even now I can feel the electricity of that moment. My hair still stands on end when I recall it. The growl wasn't loud, but it was so deep, it vibrated in every part of my body. I took a few steps backward, then turned very slowly and deliberately, and walked away. Thankfully, it didn't follow, and when I glanced back I saw it walking in a different direction... although walking isn't the word. Picture a cat stalking its prey... graceful, fluid, each movement flowing through its entire body. Then imagine the cat is larger than you and built entirely of heavy, powerful muscles.

That's what Arrow feels like: big, muscular, fluid, animal. When he smiles, it's a relief.

As Fred, I always felt physically intimidated, and thankful he was my friend.

Now — as Dexie — I'm five-eight, and something shy of 120 pounds. The contrast is even greater.

So, picture little me, fresh off the ferry, looking up at that mountain of a man. Scary already, right? I was terrified. Not by his body, but by the look on his face. His expression was grim. Angry. I felt the hair on my arms, the back of my neck, and my entire scalp rise up in physical fear. I tried to not show it.

"Hey, Arrow," I said in what I hoped was a normal-sounding, unfearful voice, and I gave him a hopeful smile. My hope was that he'd smile back.

Instead, he growled, "You bastard."

I looked over my shoulder to make sure he wasn't talking to someone behind me, and then squeaked out a high-pitched Me?

He turned his head and spat into the grass. "Yeah, you. You. YOU! Who are you?" he demanded.

"Dexie," I said. "Who else would I be?" My body was shaking. Had Arrow gone nuts? Was he going to hurt me? I couldn't understand his hostility. I'd never seen him this angry before. He seethed, he radiated danger. He was the personification of imminent peril. My eyes darted everywhere, looking for a way to run. If he lost it, if he got violent, my only chance was to drop my bags and try to outrun him.

He scoffed. "Kristy told me. Now I want to hear it from you. Who are you? Really."

"Fred," I whispered.

His lips tightened. "You talked to me! You LIED to me! You sat there and pretended that you'd never met me! You let me believe you were dead!" That last accusation was shouted so loudly, that everyone in the vicinity heard it, and turned to look at me. I swallowed hard, and by now I was shaking so hard I was afraid my legs would give out.

He fired questions at me: "Is it really true?"

I nodded.

"The flying saucer, the crash, the whole thing?"

I nodded mutely.

"You're *really* Fred?" he asked softly.

"Yes," I said. "I really am."

His face was so close we were almost literally nose to nose. His eyes searched my face; they bored into my eyes as if he could see the truth in there.

And then, suddenly, the spell broke and he clutched me in his arms. My feet left the ground. "I thought you DIED, you goddam bastard!" he groaned. I could feel his tears wetting my left shoulder, and his sobs shook my entire body. I had managed — out of sheer surprise — to take a big gulp of air before his arms closed on me, and now those arms squeezed it back out of me. It was like being caught in a vise. His embrace drove my backpack into my body. My arms were pinned to my sides and my legs dangled uselessly, like a ragdoll.

"Hey! Hey!" I softly wheezed. "You're hurting me! Ease up! Hey!" I wasn't capable of speaking any louder. My fingertips could just barely reach his sides, and I tapped him, as if that might help.

Oh, God, what a way to die! I thought, and suddenly remembered the story Of Mice and Men, where Lennie, a monster of a man, wants to keep mice as pets but can't help squeezing them to death because he doesn't know his own strength.

I don't want my last thought to be about John Steinbeck, I told myself. I tried to kick; I struggled to breathe.

What finally ended the ordeal was an old man who had watched our exchange from the very start. He saw the alarm on my face and walked over to tap Arrow on the back. "Excuse me, son, but I think you're crushing the life out of that little girl."

Arrow realized what he was doing, swore in surprise, and set me back on the ground. I took a huge, loud gasp of air, like a swimmer who dove too deep and just broke surface.

Arrow held me up with one hand on my shoulder, apologizing over and over, asking if I was all right. I gave a mute thumbs up. The old man stood by waiting, smiling, until I was able to whisper a thank you. He smiled, patted me on the shoulder, and moved on.

Arrow, red-faced, scooped up my bag and plucked the backpack off my shoulder. He carried them as if they weighed no more than a box of tissues.

As soon as we were underway in his Porsche 911, I said, "Listen, I'm really sorry, but I didn't tell you because I never thought you'd believe me."

"You could have at least tried," he retorted.

"In fact, I can hardly believe that Kristy told you!"

"Yeah, that was pretty weird. We talked for more than two hours, which is some kind of record for me. She put Carla on the phone for a while, too. I grilled the hell out of both of them, and if you don't mind, I've come up with some questions for you, too. Things only Fred would know. In fact, I don't care whether you mind. I'm going to grill you, too."

"Fire away," I invited.

"Not now," he said. "First let's get some food into us. And to be clear, I'm pissed off not only because you didn't tell me — that's a passive sin, but also because you deceived me — that's an active sin. Were you going to pretend to not know me for your whole visit?"

"Yes!" I exclaimed. "For God's sake, Arrow! Imagine if you'd died and somehow come back as that driver chick—"

"Danica Patrick?" he asked, puzzled.

"No! That girl who drove you to my funeral."

"Oh, her!" he scoffed. "What a mouth on that one. At first, she hardly spoke. I was actually stupid enough to think she was intriguing, but once she open her yap, so help me God, I couldn't shut her up."

"So, imagine if she came to me and told me that she was you."

He turned to look at me. He shook his head deliberately to say That is never gonna happen. "Look, Fre— what do I call you now?"

"It's best if you call me Dexie."

He sighed and shrugged. "Okay, Dexie," he said, with great emphasis on the name, as if I was only pretending, "let's get one thing straight: if I ever die and come back, it isn't me. I won't come back."

"How the hell do you know?" I asked, irritated.

"Have you ever heard the phrase Just say no? Maybe you should practice saying it every day until you get it. I will never come back from the dead. I would never let aliens turn me into someone else."

"You really are a jackass, do you know that?"

Arrow threw his head back and laughed, a deep barking laugh. "Now you're sounding more like Fred!"