Russell Long stood in the shadows of the giant live oak as he watched his wife Katherine sobbing at his gravesite. His coffin was empty since he had been lost at sea and no body was ever found, only flotsam from the sailing craft. This was only the fourth ‘own’ funeral he had attended, all the other times he simply disappeared, leaving her alone to wonder what had happened or where he’d gone.

She would find him again, in the next generation, presuming she lived another forty-five to fifty years, then twenty more to mature into a woman again. She would find him like she had over the last ten or twelve centuries. She wouldn’t remember but he would know it was ‘she’ and they’d live twenty or perhaps thirty years of happiness, until the questions started like they always did.

“Goodbye Love,” he said as he turned to walk away. “See you the next time around.”

Russell (at least that’s what it said on his new drivers’ license and all other forms of identification) opened the door to his new apartment. It wasn’t exactly new, he had maintained to for a year now preparing for today. He looked down and saw an envelope lying on the floor.

Dallin McCracken It read.

“Now there’s a name I’ve not heard in a long time,” he said picking up the letter and ripping open the envelope.

Inside was an invitation to meet in the small Bolivian city of Potiosi, also a map, and a photocopy of a sword with some information.

Well, he thought. What else do I have I got to do for the next sixty years.

He spent the next two days making preparations for Bolivia, airline tickets, some quick research on the local Geographic’s of the area, some shopping for appropriate clothing. The evening of the third day found him on a Pan Am flight into La Paz International. He pulled his fedora down over his eyes and lightly napped for the duration of the flight. As he disembarked, he could feel the thinner air in his lungs. Collecting his luggage he stepped from the terminal to hail a cab, the street urchins mugged him almost immediately, begging him for handouts. He had been through this type of scene before, in other parts of the world.

“Mire, hay un turista rico gordo detrás de mí,” he said in perfect Spanish.

All the urchins scrambled to the door for the rich fat tourist, while Russell tossed his bags into the cab and climbed into the back seat.

“Hotel por favor,” he said to the driver.