“So,” she adds, “did you get what you wanted from Phil's version of the story?”
        I had Phil tell the story for you, I start to object. But she's right. Already, she knows me too well.
        “I think so,” I reply.
        In 1979, two or three years after the Elephant Gang invaded our lives, I told my version of that night in front of a TV camera in a studio on the campus of Bowling Green State University in Ohio, where I was a graduate student. The words on the videotape sound little like the story I have told inside my head tonight. Although I took care with every detail, the Bowling Green story was a different story altogether. A story of escape, of good fortune, of neither endings nor beginnings.
        Traces of the silver moon spackle the black water. Tonight is a chance to start over, I want to say, this time to Sheyene. But I don't.
        Perhaps sensing a new story forming inside my head, Sheyene pulls me toward her, and together we move to the beat of waves along the beach. To anyone who happens to see us, I'm pretty sure this looks like dancing.

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