There was only one farm left, holding out. She was on her way to see them right now. She'd been contemplating what she could offer them…she wondered what they wanted. She'd have to see their place, gauge their needs…then she would know how to manipulate them.

She'd flown into Kansas City from New York that morning, checked into her hotel, and picked up her car. She'd rented a BMW convertible, Z4 sDrive35is, Valencia orange, 335 horsepower, three liters, six cylinders. It was tearing up the road. The sun was shining, the wind was ruffling her hair. She was en route to swindle some rubes out of their farm. Life was good.

Discovering weakness and exploiting it, that was her strong suit. She'd negotiated acquisition after merger after hostile take-over, and had been enormously successful. She'd always gotten several referrals from every client, and was actually leading the firm in some new directions. She was also working on developing a 'Financial Advising' department, meaning evading income taxes by exploiting every known loophole in the tax code; discovering new ones would be the next step. It was tough getting out from underneath the shadow of her father, founder of the firm, 'The Great One,' as he was reverently but affectionately known, but she was starting to make her mark.

Her client for this mission was a corporate farm, who was buying up land in the area for chicken and hog production and processing. There was no reason why this purchase should not have been as effortless as the rest, but for some reason, the owners were steadfast in their refusal to sell. It was a little bit of an unusual situation—it was a commune, a real, live hippie commune in the Ozark hills of Missouri. But why the drop outs were hanging on was unknown; there were hundreds of thousands of acres up for grabs in the US. What made this dirt special? The client needed it because of the complexity of transportation systems, EPA Regulations, state laws in regard to animal husbandry, and tax liability considerations. Cathy set a goal for herself to get them to sell under market value, thereby endearing herself to the client. Down the line, the client would eventually be sued for polluting the nearby rivers and the ground water with runoff from the animal production, and she could swoop in and grab that business, as well.

Her headset fed her a call. "Cathy? It's Paula. Hey, I hit a wall on this Jaguar, and I don't know what to do." This was another new avenue for the firm, automobile repossessions. It wasn't glamorous, but it was a cash cow. But they had to find the cars, so Cathy had advised her repo supervisor, Paula, to call if she had any problems. "He blew town, Cathy. I had the tow guy, Larry, knock the door where Mr. Jaguar lived. Larry said no one answered the door, so he looked in the windows. The place is empty."

"Hmm…by chance, do we have a copy of the loan application?"

"I'll look. Okay, yeah, here."

"Did he list references? Any with the same last name?"

"Yeah."

"Is there an address?"

"No, just a phone number."

"Do a reverse lookup on the phone number to get the address and scout it out. I'll bet it turns out to be his parents. I'll bet we find our jag in the driveway."

"Okay. The phone number is coming up as a Phoenix, Arizona landline. I'll get a wrecker out there and let you know how it goes."

"Okay. Thanks, Paula." That would be so cool if they found it; I'd look like a genius at being able to find a car that far away. She flipped through the music on her iPhone, Eminem was always fun, J. Cole…Jay-Z, of course…Kimbra…Fiona…hmm, didn't I have some techno, that might be fun…man, I've been driving for a couple hours, how much farther is it? She reached for the GPS unit.

The view was certainly fabulous. The highway wove atop a limestone outcropping, a few hundred feet above the valley. Breathtaking views of deep valleys were on either side. The hills were covered thickly with tall trees, lush and verdant. The air was so fresh…ha! Enjoy that while you can, bumpkins! After these animals come in, you'll never get a breath of fresh air!

Vincent, Mouse, Winslow, Kanin were at the eastern edge of the farm. They had been talking about planting hazelnut trees, and were surveying the land that morning to identify the best locations.

When the deer sprang in front of her car, she didn't even know what it was. She over-steered, and the car flew through the barrier on the side of the road. She flew, airborne, down the limestone embankment. The Beemer flipped not only side to side, but also end over end. The men watched the car tumble through the air then bounce off the limestone bedrock, and fly some more. Without a word, they jumped back into the pickup, and sped to the scene.

The truck kicked up a cloud of dust as it skidded to a stop. The men jumped out and ran to the car. It had fallen two hundred feet from the road above, and lay on its side in the valley meadow. It sickened them to see it was a convertible; the driver was not in it, meaning they'd been ejected. They were probably on a recovery mission, not a rescue. They spread out and started searching for the body.

Vincent held his head up as if listening. "Hey!" he yelled at the others. "This way!"

"Do you see something?"

"No…I just have a feeling they're this way." He ran to the truck and pulled out the stretcher and the first aid kit. They carried emergency equipment on every vehicle; their farm was in extremely remote country.

He ran back to the embankment, and the others followed. Vincent pulled ahead of the others and reached Cathy first. He knelt down next to her immediately, and started assessing and taking vital signs. When the others reached her, they froze. Her arms and legs were obviously broken in several places, with some compound fractures, as well. Her jaw was broken in two places, one on each side of her face and that was the worst. It flapped open, and her tongue lolled out. Her face was hideous. Mouse turned to retch, and Winslow and Kanin wanted to.

Vincent was working on her, so he must've thought she was alive. "Tell us what to do, Vincent," Winslow said. The three of them, working quickly, immobilized her neck and spine, and rolled her onto the stretcher.

She was unconscious for ten days, and she did not regain orientation all at once. She drifted back, a bit at a time, over the course of several days. As she drifted, she was aware of a Friend, drifting with her. She felt as if she was on a raft, floating down a lazy river, dozing in gentle sunshine, and the Friend was with her, steering them both to shore. She felt the coziness and security of an embrace, but no arms were around her. Her next conscious impression was of light; then hands touching her, rolling her, lifting her, holding her hand. Next, there was sound. Voices. Soft, they spoke to her gently. She recognized the Friend's voice. He read out loud to her, as well as sustaining her silently, his heart to hers. Next, there was sight and smell. She opened her eyes one morning, and saw the Friend, dozing in a chair next to the bed she laid in. She smiled at him, and he slowly opened his eyes and smiled back, with his face and his heart. His face was interesting, sort of cat-like, or lion-like. He leaned forward and cradled her fingertips in his huge palm. He was a big guy. She liked his mane. He stroked her cheek with one finger. His hand smelled clean, like soap, and sort of like cinnamon. She thought that must be his scent. It was nice.

A little while later, another man came in, and talked to the Friend. Something about comprehension, and she didn't have any. He had a nice smile, too.

In a few days, she regained her sense of touch. The Friend was sitting beside her bed, reading to her. He'd laced his fingers through hers, and she felt his furriness. She liked it, and made little swirls in it with her fingertips. He looked up from the book, and they smiled at each other. Then she became aware that smiling hurt her face, her jaw especially. Then she became aware of how much pain she was in throughout her body.

The Friend left her side, went out the door, and yelled, "Father!" He returned quickly, and took her hand. That helped. The other man with the nice smile came rushing in. The Friend told him she was in pain, could he give her something? She was starting to pant, and sweat; she heard buzzing in her ears, and her stomach felt queasy. Father quickly picked up a small glass bottle and a syringe, and bent over her.

"No, don't turn your head, Belle. Please hold still, please try not to move," said the Friend. The pain ebbed away, and she relaxed. Maybe it was the Friend asking her not to move, but for whatever reason, she realized she could not move, not even her mouth.

"Belle—I call you 'Belle' because we don't know your name, and you are beautiful," the Friend said, "soon we will talk about how you came to be here, and why you're in pain, and why you can't talk right now. But don't be afraid. Soon, you will not be in pain, and soon, you will be able to talk and move. And you will be able to go wherever you want, whenever you want. But right now, we are taking very good care of you, so please don't worry about anything. You need to get some rest now, so if you feel a little sleepy, just go ahead and relax…" And she was asleep.

One day she woke up from her afternoon nap, and she remembered who she was, and what she was doing there. And in that moment, an evil, black, death star eclipsed the warm golden rays of the Friend's tender attentions; frost gripped her heart. She felt more sadness than she'd ever felt in all her adult life. She'd lost something, something golden, something precious. She'd felt so cherished by the Friend, who she now realized was named Vincent, so protected, warm and safe. Now that she realized it was him who needed protecting-from herself, no less, how could she ever get that feeling back? She wanted it back. She had to have it back. She became distraught, and then Vincent came rushing into the room. One look at him, and she started to cry (or at least turn the corners of her mouth down, sniffle, and gasp; she hadn't cried tears since her mother died, when she was a child). She didn't care about the pain from her broken ribs, cracked vertebrae or from the incision to repair her lacerated liver. Her heart was breaking over losing the best thing she'd ever had in her life, and she was determined to cry about it. Naturally, the more Vincent tried to soothe her, the more distraught she became. In her heart, she cried out to him to hold her close. He lifted her up in his arms with her quilt. She fought down the Snide Voice in her head that snickered she had become the Tin Man, clanking around in casts, back brace, cervical collar; or Frankenstein's monster, yeah, that was a more apt analogy, she'd come out here to cheat these people and here they were, saving her life, pouring their resources into healing her…more than that, cherishing her. Vincent settled in a rocking chair with her on his lap. He laid her head on his shoulder, tucked the quilt in around her shoulders, and he rocked her, slowly, gently. She relaxed a little, enough to hope that he would once again cherish her if she dropped her chicken-slash-hog-factory-farm client. Oh! She could even represent them, represent them pro bono, defend them against the farm. Oh, yeah! That was it! That was the ticket…gosh, she felt like she was melting into Vincent, he was so warm, and strong…maybe she could even put some English on it, a little embroidery, some spin, and tell them that's what she was coming here for in the first place, that she'd become aware…couldn't allow a huge corporation to swallow up…only wish I'd been in time…help your…neighbors… She was asleep.

Father entered the room. "Could you figure out what was wrong?"

"No," murmured Vincent. "Whatever it was, it's gone now."

"Thank God she didn't aspirate. You know, she must be part cat; she seems to have nine lives. Do you need any help getting her back to bed?"

"No, thank you, Father, I have everything I need right here," he said very softly as he closed his eyes and nestled against her.