I had just arrived in a small town a few kilometers from where my father lived. I was a little disoriented, uncertain how I would get to my father's house, but when I looked across the street, I saw my father – driving a pink 1959 Cadillac – stopped at a red light. As I ran across the street toward him, he saw me coming. When I reached the car, I saw a brown-haired woman (about 30 years old) sitting in the back seat on the passenger side. I assumed she was a girlfriend of my father's. I opened the front door and slid into the front passenger seat.

I now remembered I had previously told my father what time I would be arriving, but I was 15 minutes early and so I told him how fortunate it was that he had arrived at the same time I had. I definitely felt lucky when he told me he hadn't intended to wait for me. In fact, he hadn't even come there to pick me up; he had just happened to be at the post office. So if I hadn't seen him, I would have been forced to walk all the way to his house.

As soon as we were underway, I noticed a few old books under my feet; my father indicated that he intended to throw the books away. I picked one up – an American history book with a blue cover and a picture on the front. When I opened the book, particles of dust flew into the air. My father immediately began complaining about the dust, saying it would make him sick and that he had already told me he intended to throw the book away. I hated to see the book discarded. I didn't have much use for it – I had other history books in better condition – but maybe I could leave it somewhere where I might be able to use it someday. I might try to save it.

The woman in the back seat seemed friendly. She said something about the book and how she knew how my father was if he decided to throw something way. She said her name was Thalia.

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