In less than six hours, I’d gone from being just another hungry customer of Beane’s Diner to a fugitive hunted by the closest thing the US has to a secret police. Most likely I would soon be charged with two murders that were actually acts of self-defense committed while in the grip of a strange magnetism that compelled me to rescue a young woman and her grandfather, whom I hadn’t known existed until I drove more than seventy miles and crashed through a barn door to free them. When I brought that story before a court, at trial, I’d probably be the first person burned at the stake in centuries.
