Was that a pan-flute she heard, lifting a sweet and tranquil melody in the air, or was it only the sound of the cars thirteen stories below fighting their way through the grueling Houston morning rush hour traffic? It really didn't matter to her just now--she closed her eyes and allowed the sound to carry her back to La Villa de Buen Suerte, the Village of Good Luck, where she and countless generations of her family had lived in peace and contentment for hundreds of years. A few chickens, a plot of maiz growing beside the small thatched-roof shack, fresh coca leaves to chew to ward off the hunger until the dinner hour--that was all she knew or needed then, and she had been happy, oh, so happy . . .

• edward2