Chapter 21
Savannah, GA
Wednesday morning—early
I GOT UP AT OH dark hundred and was sitting in a rocking chair on the wide porch of the Cracker Barrel by six forty-five. At five minutes before the hour, a fat and balding man of fifty stepped onto the porch, and I somehow instantly knew that he was the other telepath. He must have sensed something as well, because he walked over to my chair and held out his hand.
“Gerald Bowersox,” he said, “and you must be Quentin.”
I stood, said, “That I am,” and shook the proffered hand.
{Shall we go inside and wait for a table?} he sent.
{Sure. As of ten minutes ago there wasn’t much of a line.}
I followed him inside the restaurant, and a few minutes later we were seated at a small table in a far corner of the dining room. During the course of t
