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of matching identification and ticket.
    Then the name clicked. His eyes widened. Involuntarily, he looked up at its owner. He quickly looked back at the forms in his hands. With trembling hands, he stamped the paper, his scribble illegible over the official stamp. He handed the documents back. He mumbled,
“Gracias, señor,”
and bowed his head.
    Francisco never missed an opportunity to capitalize on fear. This man’s revelation of his own fear would save his life after his rudeness. Francisco reached over the guard’s stand and grabbed the guard’s name tag. He tilted it and studied it for a moment. Without emotion he said,
“Muchas gracias, Rodrigo Villaramos. Buenos días.”
    The airport experience was new. He had never flown commercial. So many lines. So much waiting. His air force, mostly helicopters, was unequipped for traveling the distance to Miami without stopping several times to refuel. The family’s Boeing 747 was impounded by the government twenty years prior. He would check into it; the government should give it back. If they didn’t, certain officials might start to dream of explosions once again.
    In the United States, Francisco and Alberto would find an untraceable car waiting in the parking lot. They’d use it to enjoy Miami before driving to Savannah. There, he would upgrade his air fleet. Three Gulfstream Vs awaited his review. Forty-five million dollars, wired via a Caymans account this morning, sat with the escrow agent. Once he selected the G5, he would board it and seek out what America’s War on Terror referred to as
soft targets
.
    Revenge. A degree of personal satisfaction. More important, an advance reminder to his soon-to-be business associates of his timeless memory. With his revenge complete, he’d then return to Savannah,drive back to Miami, and fly commercial to Bogotá. The G5 would travel from Savannah to Bogotá directly, with his new crew and any luggage aboard.
    Francisco very much looked forward to the week ahead. He could not help but wonder whether a long-ignored arsonist and pilot foolishly did as well.

5
    IT’S A WONDERFUL Life
was wrong. The George Baileys didn’t trash their lives when disaster struck the savings and loan. The Potters didn’t either. (The Potters chose a different path anyway.) It’s those somewhere between Bailey and Potter who fell apart
.
    Three good actions: picking up litter, putting the neighbor’s dog back in its yard, and listening to a homeless man’s story. One bad action: not stopping to help the old woman with the flat tire in the rain. Or one small deception, initiated or accepted
.
    “I’m sorry I didn’t …”
    For pride. Convenience. Fear. Each of us our own faults. A run on the savings and loan brought the best out of old George. For the rest of us … flip a coin
.
    A profound thought? Maybe, but as Cale switched from dreaming to being semiawake, he lost it. He could still see George holding his little girl. Was that confetti in the air, and if so, where did it come from? A bell rang for Clarence. Was George laughing or crying? The memory wasn’t clear. If he’d kept the thought, he was sure it would change things. Silver bullet, that improved it all. Could even get his knees back to where he could dunk a basketball. How proud he was of that at fifteen. How he took it for granted at twenty-five. With fifty in the windshield closer than forty in the mirror, he’d like to do it again
.

    CALE FELT THE sunlight through the screens, heard gulls, smelled marsh, and intuitively knew he was at home but not in bed. Each heartbeat resonated in his temples. A cheek stuck to the hardwood floor, the tingle of pins and needles in a leg. He shook the leg. Something was wrong. Adrenaline stoked by the fears of men with long memories from his earlier life woke him.
    Oh, right. Jimmy’s head was on his calf. He pivoted his leg from the hip. Jimmy stood, circled, and laid his spine against Cale’s.
    Cale heard
SportsCenter. Dun-na-nunt,