The Fifty-Seven Lives of Alex Wayfare by MG Buehrlen Page A

back. Please.
    I lower my forehead to the cool concrete. It smells like motor oil. I squeeze my eyelids tight until spots dance before me, almost as if that will make my prayer more powerful. I remain there, bowed down, tears welling, until my aching body demands relief.
    At last I sit up and open my eyes to garage and graffiti. More tears blur my vision. Vibrant colors and jagged shapes swim together.
    â€œI’m not going back,” I whisper to the pigeons.
    I heave my backpack over my shoulder and trudge toward the garage door. Once home, I’ll search for Nick’s name online. I’ll find out if October 21, 1927 really was a Friday. I’ll look up the Cafferelli Brothers. I won’t stop looking for answers.
    A breeze kicks up outside and swirls in through the broken windows smelling of fish and chips from the restaurant across the street. An old, weathered yellow flyer taped to the graffitied wall across from me lifts and rattles in the gust then settles again. I glance at the two bold words printed across the top.
    I gasp.
    RISTORANTE CAFFERELLI
    I rip the flyer from the wall. It’s an advertisement for an Italian place in the historic district. But it’s not just the name that takes me by surprise. It’s what’s written in black Sharpie underneath.
    Â 
    Alex,
    If you’re looking for answers, I’ve got a few. Come have a chat with me. I’ll be the old codger in the Orioles cap, eating a cannoli. (They have really good cannoli here.)
    Porter
    Â 
    IN WHICH I MEET SOMEONE EVEN MORE CRAZY THAN ME
    Â 
    I step off the city bus downtown and hitch my backpack higher on my shoulder. I haven’t been to the historic district in a while, and I realize how much I miss the cute folksy shops all decked out for Halloween. The smell of cinnamon and cloves from a candle shop mingles with the briny sea air. A dozen seagulls squawk at me and half hop, half fly out of my way as I cut across a drugstore parking lot.
    I’m not sure what I’m doing, following a cryptic flyer to meet some old guy I don’t know. I know a hundred different ways this meeting could take a turn for the worse, but then again, I don’t think anything could be as scary or dangerous as what I’ve just gone through in my vision. And putting myself in that situation was involuntary.
    Still, I wish I had Dad’s pepper spray.
    Ristorante Cafferelli is quaint and bright, with a wall of windows overlooking the Bay. Murals of grape-studded vineyards cover stuccoed walls, and red and white checkered tablecloths drape over small square tables. The scent of fresh baked bread and sautéed garlic wafts out from the kitchen.
    I spot the worn, orange Orioles cap right away. The man called Porter sits over by the windows, blowing steam from a wide mug of coffee he holds in both hands. He looks to be in his sixties – late sixties? – but fit for his age with only a few wrinkles. He wears jeans, a faded black polo, and slip-on boat shoes. White stubble dots his cheeks and chin, and a bit of short white hair peeks out from underneath his cap around his ears. He’s the only customer in the place.
    I walk right up to him despite every instinct telling me not to. I guess my need for answers, whatever they may be, outweighs all the lectures Dad gave me as a child.
    â€œAre you Porter?”
    He looks up, a little startled at first. Then he clears his throat and sets his mug down. “I am.”
    â€œI’m Alex.”
    He leans back in his chair and folds his hands on the table. “Of course you are.” He pauses, staring at me. “How did you know how to find me?”
    I drop the flyer in front of him and point at it. “Didn’t you write that?”
    He leans forward to look, then a small, knowing smile breaks across his lips. “Not yet. But I guess I will. Soon.”
    Not yet? My brow crinkles. “How did you know I’d be at Johnson’s Auto Garage? Do I