I am a judge. Most of the time I listen to other people’s stories, but now I feel the need to share one of my own. Silence in the court, please. It happened the other day, when I knocked on a door.
“One moment!” called a pleasant female voice. Then the voice continued, “Actually, a moment is hard to define. What is a moment? Is it a second? A minute? An eternity?”
“I have no idea,” I said, startled.
“The question was rhetorical.” Her laughter rang in my ears.
I was standing on the front step of a lopsided cottage, tempted to leave. But I waited as the heavy wooden door cracked open. I saw a crooked nose, one dark eye, and half a smile. Then the door opened all the way and she appeared. Thin with narrow features, cavernous nostrils like an egret: Adelaide Musgrove, eBay seller of a matchbook collection, stood in front of me wearing a white embroidered peasant blouse, a pair of denim shorts, and black high-top sneakers. She appeared to be about my age, with fine white hair cropped short around her head.
“Deer Spirit,” she said. Her smile stretched. “Don’t you know who I am?”
I looked hard. I knew I was standing on the property of my childhood best friend, but I hadn’t been expecting this. Not at all.
“I’m Dancing Elk,” she said.
“I don’t understand,” I said. In an instant, fifty years collapsed, and a sense of outrage flooded through me. “You tricked me. You’re Annie Moskowitz.”
“Welcome back, Deer Spirit,” Annie said.
“I can’t believe you’d do something like this.” I...
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