The thing about people from the future is you can’t tell they’re from the future by looking at them. When I first met Mike, I had no reason not to believe that he was who he said he was.
Mike the F.B.I. Man.
He was standing outside the door of my apartment when I opened it on my way out to get stoned...or not...just standing there, and he caught me off guard, and I jumped.
My first thought was that he was trouble, showing up like that in the middle of the night, and I should duck back in my apartment and slam the door shut. Before I could do that, though, he shouldered himself between me and the door and shoved a badge in my face.
“F.B.I.,” he said softly, like he didn’t want to wake the neighbors. “Mike Rafferty. Can I come in? I’m here about your son.”
I had the feeling I didn’
