It looked like a white bowling ball with a flat black face. Mara grinned as she set the eight-track player on her work counter and read the label affixed to it: Welltron s.p.a.ceball AM-FM eight-track player.

She played with radio tuner k.n.o.bs and flipped the tape portal with her finger as she got a feel for the device. She picked it up and rotated it to see how it was a.s.sembled, set it down again. A few screws on the sides and the bottom would release the entire mechanism from the casing. The controls reminded her of a c.o.c.kpit, all k.n.o.bs and dials, with a few slider controls. Every one of the external parts appeared to work.

She plugged in the power cord, and the controls lit up. She opened her junk drawer, shoved a few things out of the way and retrieved a black unlabeled eight-track tape, Barry Manilow's Greatest Hits, found at Goodwill. When she inserted the tape, the device made a clicking sound but no music. She dug a screwdriver out of the drawer.

For the next two hours, she disa.s.sembled the radio/tape player, slowly a.n.a.lyzing how it came apart. She had to remember in order to rea.s.semble it. On occasion she would label parts if she doubted her memory. While technologically this device was dated and not that complicated, its electronics were tightly compacted, not ideal for maintenance work. Luckily the issue appeared to be more of a mechanical one. Either a motor had gone on the blink or a belt had worn out. She had just decided the belt was the culprit when she heard a soft thud; the mailman had dropped off the mail out front.

Mara stepped outside to get it.

Buddy stood with his back to her in front of the ceramics store, talking on his cell phone. He seemed upset. As she approached, Ping stepped out onto the sidewalk, hauling a piece of drywall to a Dumpster at the end of the block. After he had flung it over the edge of the metal container and returned, Buddy shoved the phone into his hand. "Here, I don't like to talk to him when he's like this."

"Who is it?" Ping asked.

"My dad. Tell him I will call him later. It's bad to just hang up, so tell him I will call him later."

Ping raised the phone to his ear. "Excuse me. Who is this?... Mr. Jenkins... Yes, Buddy is fine. He just handed me the phone and asked that I tell you that he will call later.... Yes, he's a little upset.... I will tell him. Good-bye." He handed the phone back to Buddy and said, "He said he was just trying to help."

"I know. Sometimes he tries too much."

As Buddy turned toward the fix-it shop, he b.u.mped into Mara.

"So who's Mr. Ping talking to on your cell phone, Bud?"

"Dad. He was lecturing me again."

"Dads do that sometimes," Mara said, raising an eyebrow at Ping. "You coming in for a tune-up?"

"No, the phone works good. I wanted to see if you were okay. I was worried you got hurt."

"I'm doing just fine. I'm working on a really old eight-track tape player. Want to come inside and see?"

CHAPTER 13.

"NO, NO, DON'T use a blow-dryer on them. That will melt the electronics on the inside," she said into the phone, smiling at the elderly lady standing in front of the counter. "Dry them off with a towel. Get a bag of rice.... Yes, rice. Put the phone and the iPod in a bowl and cover them with rice.... No, don't cook the rice. Dry rice will absorb the moisture. Make sure they are turned off first and cover the bowl with something. Leave them covered for a day or so, and they should dry out. Call me if that doesn't work."

Mara hung up and turned her attention to the contraptions on her counter, an old overhead projector and a purple-stained hand-crank printer with a large drum.

"Sorry about that, Mrs. Dalton," she said.

The elderly lady's k.n.o.bby finger wagged back and forth in time with her head and the gray bun on top of it. "Don't you worry, young lady. I'm too old to be in a rush." She smiled and brushed at her lace collar as if to demonstrate her patience. "That sounded like a bit of odd advice."

"A customer dropped her phone and iPod into the toilet. Happens more than you would think. If you dry them out the right way, they'll work like new. You can use those little silica pads instead of rice, but rice is usually less ha.s.sle to get."

"As you can tell, I'm not a big fan of computers and iPods and such." Mrs. Dalton nodded to the machines her grandson had hauled in for her. "Do you think you can get these up and running? I've been asked to take over teaching Sunday school, and I need these to prepare and present."

"Let's see what we've got here. The overhead projector is straightforward. I've worked on one of those before." Mara grabbed the crank on the printer. "This is what, a mimeograph printer?"

"Actually it's a ditto machine, a spirit duplicator. You might say mimeographs were a competing technology. You see, a ditto machine uses a stencil, like this." She opened a stationery box on the far side of the printer that Mara had not seen and pulled out a white sheet. She flipped up the sheet to reveal a connected backing covered in deep purple ink. "You type or write on the white sheet and the purple ink sticks to the back of it. It makes a stencil that you place on the drum and you crank it so that it prints on blank paper. A mimeograph actually has an ink well. A ditto machine does not. I used this one when I was an elementary school teacher, back before I retired."

"I see, and you want to use this instead of a digital printer."

"I don't need a computer to print with this, just my typewriter. Also, if the power goes out, I can still print, and you computer users are up the proverbial creek without a paddle."

"I see." Mara tried to turn the crank, but it would not turn.

"Are you sure this is something you can handle? Maybe we should wait for Mr. Mason to come back. I'm sure he is familiar with it."

"Oh, I can manage. Let me take a look, and I'll give you a call in a day or so. I'll determine what it will take to get these up and running. We might need to order parts or fabricate something. It won't be done for this Sunday, but if we're lucky, we might make next week. Will that work?"

"That would be wonderful. Thank you. I'll leave you this box of stencils and here's a bottle of duplicator fluid. You'll need that as well." She handed the stationery box and plastic bottle to Mara. She set them down, pulled out a work order form and wrote down Mrs. Dalton's contact information.

The bell over the door jangled. Ping and Sam walked into the shop. Ping carried a cardboard box of brightly iced cupcakes, lifted an elbow in greeting. Mara looked up surprised and glanced at her watch. It was already after four o'clock.

Ping and Sam milled around looking at objects on the shelves.

While Mara finished up with her client, she began to dread talking to them. The only thing they had in common was the accident, and she didn't know Ping or the boy well enough to share her angst about it. At some point she would have to sit down and decide what had happened on the plane, but that did not mean she had to do it with these two. Besides, their presence on the plane-especially the boy's-made denial of what she had experienced impossible, and denial was the most direct route to putting this whole thing behind her.

"I'll give you a call and let you know," Mara said as she walked Mrs. Dalton to the door. She closed and locked the door, then flipped the Open sign to Closed. As she turned around, Sam lost his grip on an old lightning globe lamp. He juggled it for a second, reflexively swatted it with his left hand and smashed it into the counter. Shards sprayed across half the floor of the small shop.

Sam looked down at his feet, his face reddening. "Sorry," he said, self-consciously wiping his hands over his Marvin the Martian T-shirt.

"Don't apologize, sweep it up," Mara said. She pointed to the back of the store. "There's a broom and a dustpan in the back."

Ping turned to her after Sam left and said, "Sorry about that. He's nervous about talking to you. He has been through a lot lately."

"Haven't we all?" Mara asked, walking to the counter. "Can you give me a hand with these?" She lifted one side of the mimeograph. Ping helped her move both devices off the counter and set them on the floor behind it. Meanwhile, Sam swept the floor in front of the counter.

"Once Ping gets his bakery open, I can pay you for that," Sam said.

"Bakery?" Mara looked at Ping. "Why a bakery?"

"Why not? It is a lot more appealing than ceramics. Bakeries are warm and smell great. And everyone loves to eat." Ping smiled and rubbed his rounded midsection. "The cold, cold ceramic thing is never going to work out."

Mara looked askance at him. The accident clearly had traumatized the man. The Ping she knew, admittedly not well, was no smiling tummy-rubbing baker. She could not recall him ever being in the shop, much less stopping by for a chat and dropping off cupcakes.

"What do you mean, not work out? You've been there for more than fifteen years. Your clientele includes everything from construction companies to interior designers. Did you knock something loose when that plane went down?" she said, tapping her head. "Don't you think you are being a little rash?"

"Not at all," he said. "Life's too short to spend it doing something you don't enjoy. If I'm going to have a business, I want it to be something I will enjoy. Ping's Bakery will be ideal."

Mara began to ask another question, then stopped herself. "Get some good coffee, and I'll drop in regularly," she said, instead.

"You pick the brand, and I'll make sure we always have some brewed."

She c.o.c.ked an eyebrow at him. "Are you okay? While I enjoy the friendly att.i.tude and everything, you have to admit it's a little out of character."

"It is?"

"Well, yes. Up until now, your only interest in conversing with me was to complain and accuse me of short-circuiting your business. Remember?"

"Let's just say, I'm turning over a new leaf."

She noticed Sam perusing the shelves again. When he reached for a baseball-shaped clock radio, she said, "Hands off, b.u.t.terfingers. You're not going to make enough at that bakery to restock this place."

He turned and wiggled his eyebrows at her, pretending to continue to reach, teasing her. She glared back at him, then turned to Ping and said, "So what do you guys want to talk about?"

"Do you have somewhere we can sit and talk?" Ping asked.

"There's a table and chairs in the back."

She led them to a plastic picnic set in a corner of the bike garage. Bruce was gone for the day, so they had the place to themselves. They sat and Mara folded her hands in front of her on the table.

"So?" she said.

Ping looked up as if trying to catch a thought and said, "What do you remember about the flight before it went down?"

"Do we need to talk about that?"

"Please humor me."

She sighed. "The plane took off. There was a weird light." She pointed at Sam. "I saw him running down the aisle to the back of the plane, carrying something. He got knocked down and something dragged him back up the aisle. He got up and continued to the back. I went after him and when I turned around, I saw..."

"What? What did you see?"

"Nothing."

"You didn't see nothing! Don't be a hag, tell him!" Sam said. Ping put a hand on his arm.

"A hag?" Mara looked at the boy, more amused than offended. She'd been called a lot of names before but never a hag.

"What did you see?"

"I don't remember."

"I was there! Tell him who you saw when you turned around. Who was behind you? I saw her too. Tell him," Sam said.

Ping raised an eyebrow but made a point of speaking at a lower volume. "Who did you see on the plane?"

Mara stared at them trying to decide what to say, what she wanted to say. Sam stared back, slightly bug-eyed. She waved her hands in surrender.

"Me," she said. "I thought I saw me. Satisfied?"

"Not thought, did. You did see her."

"What's it matter to you if I say it or not? You were there, you know what happened."

Sam was about to answer but was interrupted when Ping put a hand on his shoulder. The boy sat back in his chair. Ping leaned in, a little closer to Mara.

"Mara, something very unusual happened on that plane. Something that none of us fully understands, but I think it is important that we try to wrap our minds around it. Now, if you will, instead of you talking about what happened to you, let me tell you what happened to me on that flight. Maybe it will help you to understand some of this. Okay?"

"I suppose. Go ahead."

"The Ping that got on that flight with you is not me," he said, pausing to see if she followed his reasoning.

She stared at him but did not speak.

"I have never owned a ceramics shop."

"Let me guess. You have a bakery."

"No. I'm a professor at Reed College, just down the road. Anyway, I got on a flight to San Francisco to attend a conference, and the flight took off normally. As the flight gained alt.i.tude after takeoff, the entire plane seemed to go into a state of flux where I could see what looked like multiple overlapping versions of the pa.s.senger cabin, sort of like a bad print of something that was misaligned, out of register. For a few minutes, I thought I was having a seizure or hallucination. Everything skewed strangely. It did not appear people around me were having the same experience. Slowly things realigned. At the instant everything synced up, I found myself in the Columbia River with the rest of the pa.s.sengers and the wreckage of the plane floating downriver.

"Sam helped me to the riverbank. You see, I can't swim. From that point on, everything and everyone I have encountered has been out of sync. The world as I know it is different from this one." He paused for a minute and raised his eyebrows when Mara did not speak.

"What?" Mara asked.

"Don't you have anything to say?" he said.

"What do you want me to say? Obviously, you had a traumatic experience on the plane. It's normal to be confused. It will sort itself out eventually."

Sam snorted.

"Mara, do you think I need to sort out things or do you?" Ping asked.

"Both of us. It was a jarring, life-threatening experience. It's not surprising that you, or me for that matter, might be confused about what happened."

"I understand the inclination to dismiss this as a delusion. I did the same, and, if it was just you and me here recalling our experiences, I'd probably agree. But how do you explain him?" Ping asked, pointing at Sam.

"What do you mean?" Mara asked.

"How did he get on your flight? He was not with you when your plane took off. You only saw him after it took off, correct?"

"As far as I know. And I didn't see his name in the pa.s.senger list in the newspaper. Maybe Sam isn't even his real name."

Sam and Ping looked at each other and then back at Mara.

"You know that's not true," Sam said.

"How would I know?"

"Because I'm your brother, doofus."