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the passenger seat, and in the dim light I could imagine what lay on the seat was nothing more than a plain envelope with no faint, pencilled names or dates, but I knew better. I supposed some sort of microscopic testing done would confirm the "June 4, 2007," and "November 17, 1933," were written at the same time, but by looking at them, I had no doubt about the truth, and somehow, my signature had been put on the envelope almost 72 years ago.
    This whole situation was puzzling, but also a rather exciting mystery, too. Would I, sometime in my future, travel back to 1933? Time Travel stories had always been my favorite sci-fi to read, starting in about the fifth grade when I read a book about a two kids who travel back to the seventeenth century. I don’t remember the title of the book, or its author, but I remember being completely captivated by it.  A more recent book, a love story, told from the perspectives of a time traveler and his wife had been both a joy and a heartbreak to read. Driving through the darkness, I realized  maybe my interest in the concept of time travel had played a big part of this mystery, at the same time fearing it might be some sort of psychosis brought on by that very interest. I reassured myself it was only an interest, not an obsession at all, but I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t started to doubt my sanity.
     
    The miles slid by as I again passed Indianapolis, and I finally got my thinking sufficiently organized to call Gary, probably the most analytical person I know. Not surprising to anyone, Gary has a tolerance for New Age concepts of approximately zero. After catching up, I told him the day’s entire story, start to finish, needing three different phone calls to do so because he was driving on some cross-country trek to the East Coast, never flying when driving a Jeep would get the job done. Cell coverage can be spotty outside the big cities, and since his Jeeps are Gary’s main source of amusement outside of work, many of our conversations go this way.
    My friend listened, obviously looking for the scam, and after the basic outline of the phenomenon had been related, he asked a number of questions that showed he too was skeptical of Annie and Liz and what they stood to gain by all this, but he admitted, any possible angle eluded him. The women hadn’t asked for my phone number, address, social security number or anything, so how they would profit from this? Neither of us had an answer. But then, my friend shocked me.
    "You really need to read ‘The Yoga of Time Travel’ by Fred Wolf," Gary told me.
    I was unfamiliar with the book, but the author’s name was familiar. "Fred Wolf?" I said.
    "He was the physicist in What the Bleep Do We Know!?” Gary answered.
    "Oh yea, the guy with the beard,” I said, astonished. "You HATED that movie," I reminded him. I had sent Gary a DVD of the controversial documentary, which he watched, trashing it in an email to me, calling the movie a bunch of metaphysical hogwash trying to legitimize itself with a little bit of science.
    "Fred Wolf is a brilliant man," he said, his cell signal breaking up, getting ready for another dump. "But to be in a movie with a woman pretending to channel a 5,000 year old warrior is a bad career move." Gary can compartmentalize quite well when he needs to.
    "Read the book," he continued. “Something might resonate. You really think your signature is on the envelope from 1933? Any possible way they might have forged it?”
    "I can’t think of any way for them to have gotten my signature," I said, “and it looks just like my signature today. A month ago, I came across something I signed 15 years ago, and it was different. This one wouldn’t be out of place at the bottom of a check I wrote yesterday.”
    "Wow." Never before, when faced with a problem had I seen Gary at a loss for words.
    A few seconds later I sensed the connection had again terminated, and unable to get anything but an immediate voicemail pickup,