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

know you?”
    â€œMmm,” he says with a slight nod, looking down at his mug. He turns it slowly around in his hands. “But it’s been a very long time since we last spoke.”
    He looks up at me then, and I feel that same nostalgia tugging at me like needle and thread. The same feeling I got when Blue looked me in the eye. There’s something about this man I recognize. Something in the way his laugh lines surround his sad, watery eyes, or the way he looks so very tired and yet so very alive. But the memory is too transparent to grasp in full.
    It hurts my head too much to think about it.
    He gestures to the seat across from him. “Why don’t you sit down? I suppose you came for answers, like the flyer reads, and that’s what I’ll give you. If you want them.”
    I sit only because I feel like I know him from somewhere, even if the memory is a wisp of candle smoke. It’s not like I’m not scared, because I am. Mostly because I can’t remember if the memories I have of him are good or bad. All I know is they’re there, somewhere. Eluding me. Just like everything else having to do with the visions.
    Porter watches me with kind eyes and a smile that almost seems paternal. It’s the same look I’ve seen on Pops’ face when I catch him watching me from across the dinner table. The silent pride of a grandfather.
    â€œYou look good,” Porter says. “All grown up.” He adds that part like it’s some kind of inside joke.
    I don’t get it.
    â€œLet me buy you a drink,” he says. He flags down a dark-haired waitress. “Is Chianti still your favorite?”
    I wrinkle my nose. “I’m seventeen.”
    He laughs. “True. And you may not like it in this body anyway. The taste buds are always different.”
    The waitress approaches, and Porter orders me a cappuccino. I don’t object, even though I don’t like coffee. I’m too curious about what he means by in this body.
    â€œWhat would you like to know first?” He speaks and moves like a gentleman straight out of the classic films I watch with Mom and Gran, very formal and proper, although he doesn’t exactly look like one in his jeans and ball cap. His clothes look out of place, almost like he’s wearing a disguise.
    I think about his question for a moment, pulling the sleeves of my army-green parka over my wrists and gripping them under the table. I have no idea where to begin, and I’m cautious about saying too much at first. I’m still not convinced the flyer was meant for me.
    The waitress sets the cappuccino in front of me. The foam is swirled into a peace symbol on top.
    Porter slides his half-eaten cannoli toward me. “They really do have the best cannoli in town.” He nods at it, insisting I finish it. But I’m too nervous to think about food.
    â€œWhy don’t I talk and you eat?” he says, nudging the cannoli again. “Perhaps I’ll start with the visions. I assume they are why you’re here, yes?”
    I sit up at attention. “How do you know about the visions?”
    â€œYou’ve always had them. And the dried blood in your hair was a tip off. You’ve just come back from one, haven’t you?”
    My hand flies to the knot on the back of my head, the surprise clear on my face.
    â€œI’m sorry you got hurt,” he says. “It can be such a dangerous journey, no matter how old you are or how much experience you have.”
    I don’t even try to figure out what that means. “What are they?” I say. “The visions?” The words tumble out, my voice sounding like gravel.
    â€œThey’re a side effect. Of your ability. No other Descender has them, though. Only you.”
    â€œDescender?”
    â€œA Descender is someone who descends to the past. That is your ability.”
    â€œYou mean, by imagining it? Someone who can visualize the past in their