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I stepped out of my car and approached the house slowly. A few uniforms were keeping the crowd at bay, and I didn't want to look either like a reporter or a ghoul. A city CSI van was on scene, which might mean that Lillian was there – that would help, as I could get straight information without having to dance around being at a crime scene where I was, to the best of my knowledge, not expected. I hoped for greater sympathy from a fellow therian, so I stepped up to the young-looking lepine doe and flashed my credentials.

“You're a Charonite?" the doe asked. I nodded. She flicked a covert glance around her and asked quietly enough that, very likely, the humans didn't hear us. “Were you called in?"

“Indirectly," I said, equally softly. “If anyone asks, tell them Capt. Messenger assigned me. He'll back you up."

She smiled at me warmly. Messenger's name was well and happily known among our kind, for reasons neither of us needed to mention. “Thank you, Ms. McLeroy," the doe said in a more normal tone of voice. “Please join the team inside; I'm sure Capt. Messenger will want a full report."

“Thank you." Thus graced by the a disciple of the blue cloth, I sauntered past the humans similarly clad, knowing that they were unlikely to stop me, with the boss' name hanging resolutely in the air. I caught a look from one of them that, translated into any proper therian tongue, would have been a low growl; another human officer offered a nod and a careful smile, as one should never look too jolly at a crime scene. I noted his features as best I could from a distance (it's unkind to say that “all humans look alike," but I've always preferred scent as a proper back-up), hoping that he might be one of “the good guys" and went inside.

I didn't have to ask where it had happened, for several reasons. CSI had cordoned off the living room; it's where most of the action was taking place, and it was also where the smell of blood was horrifyingly fresh, abundant, and unmistakable. The body of the deceased had been removed, and the team was taking their photos, measurements, and so forth. Earlier, they'd been wearing masks in case the blood had something transmissible by air, but clearly, they'd found nothing; therians were rarely carriers anyway, but Lillian had (as always) been properly cautious. She saw me and came over to the tape.

“Who caught it?" she asked.

“Anderson Pelletier."

Lillian nodded. “He'll be down later?"

“Figures I'm closer to the CSI than the direct detection. He's not wrong, although I think this one is connected to the others. Andy…" I smiled. “He's got a nose for this sort of thing."

“Teaberry?" she grinned.

“Got it in one."

“Two good detectives on the case." Leaning a little closer, she whispered as softly as possible into my ear. “I don't have your senses, kitling, but I'd take a look at the bedroom office upstairs. Can't say why. For one thing, it's not a crime scene; for another…" A shrug. “Just a woman's intuition."

“Makes perfect sense to me."

Lillian went back to assembling the various clues and evidence, and although I'm not particularly squeamish, I certainly didn't mind leaving what was an overpowering quantity of blood, in the carpet and on the walls. Movies have gotten more accurate in their depictions, but it can't possibly prepare you for the real thing. I made my way to the staircase, trying desperately to ignore the squelching sound of plastic-covered footsteps made by the humans who, by this time, literally couldn't help stepping in it.

The house was small, two bedrooms and the bath upstairs – nice enough for one, if you could afford it. The back bedroom was the sleeping quarters, neatly kept, made in calm, soft colors; the front had been turned into an efficient office and library, equally neat. It was there that I found the former owner. The weasel was shorter than I, about a meter and a half in height, his coat still brown with the warm weather, his small round ears perked as far forward as they could get, given a limited range of motion. His clothing was casual, probably what he'd been wearing when his murderer caught up with him in the living room below. His black eyes regarded me mildly, as if I'd been expected.

“Naomi McLeroy," I said, by way of introduction.

“Michael..." he said, then paused for a moment, looking mildly confused.

I allowed myself a little smile. “You're a real estate agent."

“Was." He seemed more confident about this answer. His face registered some regret, but only a little. “You're a… what's the correct term?"

I was about to tease him by saying vixen, but it seemed rude. “Charonite. That's my preferred title, in any case; something about Greek Mythology makes everything seem classier."

Something like a laugh sounded very softly in my ears. “I'm not sure if I need your services, but I suspect you could use mine. Not real estate, of course."

“Of course. Unless you've got a good tip on the market."

“That's what got me into this." The weasel shook his head slowly. “A confession can't save me now, but for what it's worth, I'm sorry." He jutted his chin toward me, as if he couldn't draw the strength to raise his arms. “Take notes. I feel like I'm forgetting already."

I took out my notebook – the kind that uses paper and a pen, rather than the modern term used by children and kits these days. “Go."

“I was a broker. Worked hard, did the right thing, most of the time, but I got greedy. I got caught, stripped of my license, lost my money, my possessions… I could barely get work mopping floors. I'm no longer greedy, I promise you that. No more shady deals, nothing like that… but I couldn't work doing what I knew best. I found a young human who was trying too hard to get on the fast track. He found out that I used to be a broker, and he wanted to learn what I knew about fixing the market. I stopped him, or at least I didn't help him. I taught him how to do the job right, without the fakes and the fixes. He did well for himself… he was starting to, anyway. He had enough conscience to help me by giving me some of his commissions. That's how I got the cash for…" He paused, looking faintly confused again.

“Mr. Barfield?" I prompted.

“Who?"

My first thought was that he was right, that he was already forgetting, already letting go. I'd seen it happening any number of times. It's a strange combination of understanding and letting go, all at the same time, like a final personal reckoning before giving yourself permission to go. This was different. His black-tipped tail seemed agitated, even as the rest of him couldn't seem to bear moving. Before I could ask about it, he went on.

“I don't know who the others might be. I only know who I did business with. It was very anonymous transactions. Anyone who was involved in this sort of business couldn't survive long – one way or another – by talking about it. I knew that I wasn't the only customer he had, but I don't know who the others were. I only know one name. Daryl Nobles."

“Who's that?"

His smile was soft, fading even as he did.

“Me."

* * * * * * * * * *

I waited for Lillian to finish her work and met her outside. I gave her the information quietly, away from other ears. She shook her head. “We stupid humans still haven't figured out how to identify therians properly, and frankly, I don't blame you all for trying to prevent it. We're already at the point of trying to nail every crime on someone who isn't human. It's why defense attorneys are pushing for not just fingerprint but DNA evidence. Adds new meaning to 'hair and fiber' evidence."

“Therian paw-printing is pretty much science fiction, at this point, and you can't insist on DNA typing unless you do it across all species, including human."

“We're not far off," she said wryly. “If we go by the paper evidence, he's Michael Barfield. There's not a scrap of anything to prove that he's… what was that name again?"

“Daryl Nobles." I put my notebook away again, shaking my head.

“Easy, Namoi; we'll figure this out."

I looked at her curiously as she smiled.

“I'm learning to read your tail. That's one helluva frustrated flick that you just made."

“No playing poker with you," I laughed. “I should thank you; it's nice of you to learn the language."

“Wish I could shake my booty that good," she quipped. “I thought you had a theory about all this."

“Not anymore. The idea was that all of these people are linked by attending a high school in Mexia, Texas. The only thing out of line was that the person in charge of the accounting LLC was also supposed to have graduated in the same year, but he's listed in other paperwork as being twelve years older than the others. Ren has been trying to cross-reference them, but she's had no luck getting pictures or background. I've been working on the theory that something from all those years ago linked them, but I can't get that puzzle piece." I sighed heavily. “And after our Mr. Barfield not being Mr. Barfield…"

“Don't jump too quickly," Lillian observed. “You've said yourself that spirits get confused sometimes. Add in the new name to the rest, see what Ren can make of it." She looked around carefully. “Any more news from Philip?" she murmured.

“Not yet, although…" I frowned gently. I didn't see or smell any trace of Philip in the area (I often could scent a spirit before I see or hear them, or even before they acknowledge me), yet I had the strange feeling that I might be getting further information soon. I looked to Lillian. “What, did my tail twitch again?"

“I wouldn't presume," she grinned again, “but I'd make a fat guess that you were thinking about Philip in a way that you'd not likely discuss in public."

“Yeah, he still has that effect."

She elbowed me gently. “Lucky vixen."

* * * * * * * * * *

“Give it to me straight, girlfriend."

“If I gave it to you that well," the voice on my phone smiled, “neither of us would be straight."

“No objections on principle, but we're on company time."

“Spoilfun." Ren nearly giggled. I was never sure if the ocelot's flirtations were entirely innocent, and neither of us seemed willing to take just one more step in either direction. She did once joke about worrying if Philip would want to watch… “I'm still having trouble getting any information from the Mexia High School, but I do have some general information that might be relevant. The local population has not exceeded 8000 over the last 20 years; even counting population outside the city limits that might use the local high school, and factoring in ages and the mentality of micro-town Texas, what are the odds that three people here not only graduated from Mexia High School, in the same year, but are also therians?"

“Any hard data on that?"

“Semi-hard, if you'll forgive the obvious jokes. The source is questionable, but I'd tend to think that it's more likely true than not. Searching on 'therian' and 'Mexia' brought up a few reports of violence and arrests that the particular website was trying to turn into species-based propaganda. Black-skinned humans are still persecuted, even hunted, in some towns in Texas – Paris, Vidor, a few others I could name – so I don't think our kind would stand much chance."

“Okay – Barfield has Mexia High School on his papers." I put a paw to my brow, trying to think it through. “What about our new name – Nobles?"

“Nothing in Mexia." Clicking noises in the background. “Database of real estate brokers doesn't come up with anything current, but a Daryl Nobles was listed. License revoked, umm, about seven years ago."

“He told me he'd been caught fixing the market, something like that…"

“Real estate has its own variation of insider trading," Ren informed me. “Often involves a bit of bribing local pols to leak zoning changes. Looks like Nobles was trying something similar – not big-time, but enough to get someone upset with him. There's nothing on Barfield; his record's clean."

Something started to click in my head, and I could have sworn I smelled a touch of wintergreen. “Take a look at our first vic, the LPN. How long had he been a nurse?"

Rapid clicking. “Rickman, Jasper… looks like about five, no, closer to six years."

I opened my muzzle to speak and was cut off.

“Ahead of you. Dunston, Alex… very little on him until about seven years ago. He was drawing a paycheck as a bookkeeper for a small firm. Got a better-paying spot with Pennington-Steele. Almost triple."

“Meteoric rise. When did that happen?"

“Started about there about a year ago."

“And the LLC was formed…?"

“Same year."

“Bingo," I whispered.

“You're Catholic?"

“Hok nit keyn chainick," I huffed, grinning. “Get in touch with Andy and tell him to expect my call. I've got a feeling I'm going to be testing perfume this afternoon."

* * * * * * * * * *

My hindpaws, bare as always, were crossed at the pivotal ankles upon the desk. The chair was ergonomically designed for a hunchbacked subspecies of two-legged animal that probably didn't exist, but it would have to do. I leaned back in it, forepaws behind my head, carefully balancing myself to ensure that I didn't fall tail-over-turnip-patch onto to the freshly-laid cheap carpeting. The cliché would be a fedora tipped low over my eyes, a bottle of rye on the desk, and a cigarette hanging loosely from my lips. Unfortunately, hats mess up my headfur something awful, and therians, as a rule, are smart enough not to get hooked on genuinely unhealthy habits. Some can't be avoided even in these enlightened times, such as being easy prey for predators… but even humans fall into that trap, so it's not truly species-specific after all.

The analogy was apt, I thought, a smug smile touching my muzzle. It's difficult not to feel smug when a mystery comes together and presents itself in a reasonably neat little package. Not that I had all the answers; just enough to make me think that this could be wrapped up into a fairly neat package soon enough. It would depend upon just what a certain skunk had to say, but if I was right… The smile changed a little as I thought of what Philip would say about trusting your gut. He and Leroy Jethro Gibbs would have gotten along well, I think.

I took out my notebook and did a quick review. Japser Rickman, badger, LPN; apparent overdose about two weeks ago. Several days after that, Alex Dunston, skunk, bookkeeper; shot and killed along with a human secretary whose name I didn't have, since she was important enough (being human) to have had her case assigned to a “real" detective. (But I'm not bitter, nosireebob, not a bit.) Missing, but no indication of being dead, Cyrus Pennington-Steele, human, CPA and business-owner of the company (an LLC, mind you) that Dunston worked for. Most recently, Michael Barfield, weasel, real estate agent; throat slit in his home. And somewhere out there, the murderer was still at large... unless I could get one more puzzle piece to fit.

“Naomi?"

I looked at the human male perched casually in the doorway and smiled. “Shall I make a Pepe LePew joke?"

Philip grinned at me. “Not necessary, my leetle passion flah-wer," he said in ersatz French. “Zee skonk, he has come for you."

He gestured to the office room behind me, and I had to give up my shamus imitation. Hindpaws moved from desk to floor, with neither any particular grace nor lack thereof (the clunky chair didn't help matters), and I stood and padded into the back office. There, looking out of the window that he came close to using as his escape, stood Alex Dunston, happily whole-looking in his appearance. I had only seen crime scene photos of his body, and that was quite enough. Shotguns are powerful proof of the level of human incivility.

“Damn window's painted shut," he said softly. In the room, a scent like cinnamon, for a reason that I dared not guess.

“You should speak to the building's maintenance crew. Or perhaps Mr. Pennington-Steele."

The skunk offered me a withering look. “As if," he said.

“What's your name?" I asked, folding my arms across my chest. “The one before you got your new identity?"

Slowly, the look turned into something more appreciative. “Not bad, foxy."

“Be nice to the lady," Philip admonished. “She can't touch you, but I can still do something nasty to you."

Just for a moment, the skunk looked as if he were ready to challenge that idea. He thought better of it. “Even dead, cops are bad news." He looked back at me. “How'd you put it together?"

“Arithmetic, geography, and a real estate agent who was just trying to live his own life. You put a stop to that."

“Hey, I didn't kill him!"

“No... but your identity broker did, and it was because of what you did. I want a name."

“I don't have one!"

“Like hell you don't," I growled, garnering a grin from Philip. He taught me how to question a subject well. “You had contact with him, enough to know his sources if nothing else. You transferred money to something or someone, and no matter how careful someone is, they still leave a trail. So give me a name."

“He never used one!"

“You paid money to someone, now give me a damn name!"

“I don't need a name, Charonite."

I pivoted toward the new voice, realizing that I was no longer the only corporeal body in the room. The human wasn't tall, but what he had, he wore well. Blond, hazel-eyed (interesting change), strong and compact, he stood with his arms hanging to his side, the look on his face calm, almost frozen, calculating.

“That's the guy!" the skunk shouted.

“I figured," I replied.

The human smiled. “Talking to ghosts?"

“That's my job."

“Here and you've been doing so much detective work lately."

“That's my job, too." I unfolded my arms slowly, in case he thought I was reaching for some sort of weapon. “Helping souls includes finding out how and why their bodies were killed."

“Who knew animals would have souls?"

“More, apparently, than you. You didn't even mind killing a human when necessary."

“Collateral damage," he said, shrugging. “Couldn't be helped."

“Four people murdered, couldn't be helped?"

“One," he corrected with a sneer. “No law against killing animals."

I forced my temper to cool before I showed him the origins of the phrase, “nature, red in tooth and claw." Both Philip and Dunston clearly wanted a piece of him as well. “Or exploiting them, I take it?"

Another damnable shrug. “Take money where you can get it. Lots of folks need a new identity, for all sorts of reasons."

“And you provide them, by creating a past based on names from as small a town as you could find? Mexia, Texas, for example?"

“Seemed fitting to me," the human grumbled. “Had to get the hell out of there myself."

“So your old yearbook came in handy."

“Hard life down there. Lots of folks die before their time."

I assembled the pieces. “Dunston, Rickman, Barfield... those are the names that you provided them. All good at their jobs until something cost them those jobs. Barfield was a smattering of real estate trading. Rickman?"

“Hospital needed someone to blame who didn't have M.D. and 'medical board' in their name. Blame the registered nurse."

“So he passed the requirements for an LPN without having to raise any flags about being an RN any longer. I know that Daryl Nobles got caught passing bribe money; you turned him into Michael Barfield, and he took up handling real estate without being a broker. I take it that Dunston had some similar crime on his paws?"

“Hey!" the skunk shouted his protest with only me and Philip to hear it. “Those charges were never proven!"

The human shrugged again, a bit more sulkily, or so it seemed to me. “A little embezzling and covering up. You furry types are good at protecting your tails."

“It's why we, unlike humans, still have them."

“Watch your mouth, bitch," the human growled.

“Properly, it's vixen," I dared, watching the murderer's muscles start bunching. “But Dunston stuck his gum in your gears."

“He'd have blown the whole operation, greedy little rat."

“Skunk, pink-skin!" the ghost spat, tail flipping in a manner that, had he been alive, would have had me planning to buy large quantities of tomato juice. It wouldn't help to shush him, so I just kept going.

“I'm guessing CPA, another field that requires credentials; once they were taken from him, he had to settle for mere bookkeeping."

“And it pays crap, next to the big time," the skunk spirit let fly.

“Probably didn't like the basics," I filled in for the living. “Wanted real money again. But he couldn't get there on his own, and he didn't want to have to split the bill with anyone else. So he created an LLC, with a fictional boss, who had the CPA credentials."

“One cloak to a customer," the human grumbled loudly. “Has to be done right or somebody might notice."

“Cloak? Is that what you call it?"

“Cold world out there."

I nodded, working out the next move. “So why the nurse first? And how were you able to sneak up on a badger enough to get drugs into him?"

“Who says I did?" Humans know how to smirk from birth, I think; we therians have to learn how, and sadly, we often do. In keeping with my shamus identity, the term slimy grease-ball popped into my head. “Just a quiet chat with a client is all. Brought a bottle with me to make things go down better – just a little wine, nothing too strong or too fancy."

“Laced with what?"

“Trade secret. Let's just say it was the first of all the rest that he swallowed that night. Little fag would have swallowed me too, but I'm not into bestiality."

I felt an involuntary shudder run through me, even as I sensed the skunk rush past me to lunge at the human… who, of course, felt nothing at all. The skunk's rage was enough to cause something physical to happen, like a poltergeist attack can move physical objects, but the human was so utterly insensitive in every way that he was all but invulnerable to anything a spirit could do. The skunk, to my subtle vision, appeared to pass right through the increasingly ugly meat-bag in front of me. In other circumstances, his emergence into the front office could have been comical. His language was sufficiently foul as to make up for any lack of physical effect.

“So you came after the accountant second. Why?"

“Because I got away with the first one so well," came the matter-of-fact reply. “My idea was to make this look like an accident, at first, but there was too much in the way – that nosy secretary, to start with. So maybe a robbery gone wrong, or maybe a very unhappy client… either would work, as long as no one looked too close." He paused, his eyes locked on mine. “You looked."

“But why the nurse and the real estate agent? They were no threat to you. It was Dunston who'd threatened your operation by creating a false identity without you."

The human nodded. “And this fake person had to have credentials. Dunston created an LLC; do you have any idea how many flags that would raise, if he didn't file the paperwork or taxes right? And worse, he had to have the LLC run by a CPA – more credentials – and if anyone got wind of that, the whole thing would blow up, and to save his own smelly tail, he'd rat me out… if I could find me. Couldn't take the chance."

“I'm not a rat!" Dunston screamed. “I'm a skunk!"

“Why go after Barfield? Or Nobles, as he was once known. He was no risk to you."

“Couldn't chance it. Better I should close up shop on this operation. I've got four other towns, after all, and I can always pick up a new one. No loose ends.

“So four people had to die—"

“One," the grease-ball grinned nastily. “One person. Three uppity animal types who're no better than scum anyway. And after you, I've only got one more to take care of, and then I'll be long gone."

“One human, three therians…"

“Soon to be five." He pulled out a cutthroat razor which, for a moment, seemed such an archaic item to me that I thought it couldn't be real. “And no one to know the difference."

The sudden and surprising scent of wintergreen accompanied the sound of a Glock being cocked. Philip looked at me, still concerned, but smiling a little.

“Nice confession," Anderson Pelletier said, his sharp raccoon's eyes riveted on the human. “Drop the hardware, Sweeny."

My muzzle gaped slightly. “Are you serious?"

“Of course not," the detective said, still not looking away. “But it'll do until little Johnny Doe-boy's prints pop up in the system."

“I'm not goin' to the pound for you animals!"

He spun toward Andy, but he'd hardly made it halfway through his turn before the 'coon had fired a bullet into the human's shoulder, throwing him to the ground. The human shouted a string of obscenities almost as good as Dunston's, one arm useless, the other clutching it close. Since the murderer's back was to me, I moved in to get the cutthroat. I'm not sure if I actually heard Philip's admonition to be careful, but I approached carefully, as the blade had come partly out. Picking it up by the hinge point helped ensure that the human's fingerprints wouldn't be disturbed, and the blade itself would surely have traces of Barfield/Nobles' blood on it. I may be a Charonite, but my CSI qualifications were not “honorary." I had evidence bags in my carryall, and I moved into the front room to get one.

“Nice shot," I said to Andy.

“Why do they think they're faster than we are?" the 'coon asked.

“Should I call for an ambulance?"

Andy, his gun lowered but still ready, looked impassively at the human writhing on the floor. “I can't seem to remember the number for 911."

I patted his shoulder carefully. “I think I can manage it."

“Too bad."

It took the pudgy guard from downstairs another few minutes to show up to the office where the “shots fired" incident had taken place. Had he been armed, he might have tried to draw-down on us; I took the precaution of calling down the hall to him when I heard the elevator's chime announce his arrival on the floor (not to mention the loud chatter from his company's dispatcher on his radio). The ambulance wasn't far behind, and a call to Messenger assured that we'd have backup quickly. It still rankled that Andy was here on his own, but I can't say I'm surprised. Another name for therians on the police force is “cannon fodder."

The scene was wrapped up quickly enough; no CSI needed, so I'd have to brief Lillian separately (she'd want all the details, probably over coffee). Eli Gentry – the human from whom I had learned so much particularly useful Yiddish – took the on-the-scene statements from me and Andy. He paid Andy the compliment of saying that he (Eli) needed to spend more time at the range, given the precision of the 'coon's shot. I wondered, not for the first time, if a persecuted people recognizes other persecution with more sensitivity. Or maybe he just liked “animals" around him.

Once the human's identity had been verified (one Dino Christian by name), his apartment was well searched, and a variety of interesting evidence turned up. Details of all three of the false identities were found, as well as records of where the money was stashed. The prosecution would have a slam dunk.

It was a few days later that Lillian and I had a chance to share a coffee and talk. “Three victims, three identity scams." Her eyes regarded me over the rim of her cup. “A shame that they never found the yearbook."

“Didn't they?" I did my best to keep my tail still.

“It would have been a little easier to nail the lid on Dino's coffin." Lillian had said that she couldn't bear to call the grease-ball “Christian." “The Mexia High School sent a copy at Ren's request, so that will help."

“Good."

“I was surprised that it took her so long to get the guy's identity," she said, a small smile creeping around her lips. “She's usually a lot faster. It took her several hours longer than normal."

“Computer issues, no doubt."

“No doubt. And of course, his house only had his own fingerprints. No visitors or anything; didn't seem a very sociable type."

“I wouldn't doubt it."

“Your and Andy's statements confirmed that Dino only had the three clients. Sorry we couldn't help them, but at least he won't be providing new identities to anyone else."

“Just so."

The smile grew. “Good control of your tail, kitling."

“Why, whatever do you mean?" I responded with a coquettish smile.

“Second chances are rare, aren't they?" Lillian observed. “And not everyone deserves one, I suppose. Dunston, for instance. Just couldn't leave well enough alone, could he?"

“I suppose not." The pad of one finger traced around the rim of the cup. “Barfield and Rickman seemed to be doing all right for themselves. I talked to Barfield before he left; I didn't have much time to get a good reading on him, but he seemed like he was a good sort."

“Recommendations from satisfied clients, including referrals. Good indicators, I think." Lillian supped her brew thoughtfully. “No one seems curious to know why Dino stopped at only three clients, and from so long ago. You'd think his success would have gone to his head… what little there was of it."

I was quiet for a moment. If any human could be trusted to see things from a therian's viewpoint, it was Lillian. “I hear that Ren is working on a special project. Probably unofficially. After all, now that she's got the yearbook from Mexia, she should be able to check out the names, make sure that everyone is who they should be."

“A lot of names to go through, even for a small town. Any way she could narrow down the list?"

“Probably would have helped if the grease-ball had kept more notes. Or if we could have found his own copy of the yearbook. He might have made some sort of indication of what names he used. You know, circled them or something." I took another sip from my own cup. “Of course, unless those names in the yearbook pop up with some sort of suspicious activity, I suppose it would mean that everyone is accounted for and staying out of trouble."

“So there would be no need to worry them with calls or investigations, would there?"

“None at all." I smiled at her. “You think like a fox."

“Compliment accepted." She raised her cup in salute to me. “You and Andy are fine additions to the force. Anyone says otherwise gets a free autopsy, without anesthetic."

I had to laugh, clinked my glass to hers. “Here's to letting sleeping therians lie."

We drank the toast, each with her own thoughts. I suspect we both were hoping that the world at large would be smart enough to learn when it's better not to look too closely at those of us who need second chances.