Max Duncan shifted from foot to foot while muttering obscenities and glaring at the crowd squeezing against him. Cars swept past, slinging stifling, muggy, Houston air in his face. Infernal stoplight, could it take any longer to change? "I don't have time for this," he muttered louder as a couple people frowned.

When the signal finally changed, Max was the first across the street. A few feet from the bank, he caught a glimpse of his reflection in a window. With a stubby forefinger, he dabbed at a smudge on his forehead. Lately, it was as if the years were melting away, like a River Birch's curling bark peeling away to reveal the pristine white trunk beneath. If it weren't for that hideous tag of skin growing under his jaw, he could be on the next cover of People's "Sexiest Men Alive" issue. But that tag. It had only appeared recently. It was just a flap of extra skin, ridged like a gill, but with no color. He shrugged. Youth and energy, the two greatest forces in life, it was all that mattered. Lately, he seemed to have a lot of each. And though he didn't understand why he'd been blessed with such gifts, he never questioned the generosity of any giver.

Max glided through the brass-trimmed doors of the old bank and into the marble-floored, cavernous lobby, and sniffed. Despite artificially cooled air, he could smell it; money, old money. It was like slipping into a favorite pair of jeans, comfortable, comforting. Odd, he didn't remember being around it before.

At the teller's window, Max pulled a sheet of paper from his pocket, glanced at it and then said, "Uh, a Mr. Gerald Humminger, please."

"May I tell him who wishes to see him?"

"Yes," Max said, as he patted his tie. "Tell him Max Duncan is here."

Soon a tall gentleman in the dark, cut-to-perfection uniform of the business world approached and extended his bony hand.

"It's Max now, is it?" Gerald Humminger grinned. "What a pleasant surprise! I certainly didn't expect to see you again, at least not so soon." He gripped Max's elbow and spoke close to his ear. "But, I must say, you're looking better than ever--at least ten years younger. You must tell me about this youth potion you've obviously discovered!"

Max's fat fingers encircled the man's bony ones as they shook hands, but Max's brows knitted into a frown. Who was this guy?

Moments later, seated in a leather chair in Humminger's office, Max studied the man. How could Mr. Humminger be surprised to see him again? He had never met the bony banker before.

As the thought traversed the cranial paths of Max's mind, a small chisel started hammering inside his skull. The throbbing was moderate, just enough to make Max grimace. He pushed the heel of his hand against his forehead.

"Are you all right?" Gerald leaned forward and squinted. Max nodded. "Want some ice water, perhaps, something stronger?"

Max shook his head. "No ... thanks."

"Well then, what brings you here today? Last I knew you were in some federal prison. It seems I heard something about an inmate stabbing you." Humminger giggled. "I believe it was with a fork! Even heard you didn't make it. But, looks like not only you resurrected yourself, new name and all, but you shaved a few years off while you were at it. If it wasn't some magic youth potion, then it must've been one incredible plastic surgeon!"

Max stared at Gerald, his expression blank. Gerald's smile faded. "Look, we're old buddies. I've held your hand through the worst of them. This room is safe. You can tell old Gerald what's really going on."

"Going on? Nothing's going on. I'm fine, far as I know." Max shifted in his seat and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and swiped it across his forehead. "Look, I need to make a transfer. I've got to split twenty million between three accounts. One's in the Grand Caymans. The others are in Switzerland."

"Twenty million, you have that much left? I thought our 'I-feel-your-pain' Uncle took all your possessions, you know, the IRS and all."

All his possessions? He was simply transferring money on behalf of his new employer.

"It's not mine," Max said as he pushed a sealed envelope across the polished desk. "It's my employer's. The authorization's there," he added, pointing at the envelope.

"New employer, huh? You not only flirted with death, cheated and won; you're also not wasting any time getting new work, are you?" Gerald tore open the envelope and quickly read the single sheet inside.

"Says here this is your money, and you want it split between three accounts opened nearly five years ago." Gerald dropped the sheet and stared at Max. "Want to tell me the real truth? What's going on, Milo?"

"Milo?" Max frowned. "I tell you, nothing's going on. Never in my life have I had money like that!" The chisel in his skull morphed to a jackhammer.

"Milo, Max, whatever. You've never had that little money in your life. You're used to handling many times more than a paltry sum of twenty million. You controlled accounts the world over. The Grand Caymans was just play money. That's why you can't remember!" Gerald grinned as he patted Max's shaking hand. "Sure, it must be hard giving up what you had. Looks like you're on your way back, though. Pull a few wise investments and in no time you'll have all you had before, plus some."

Max tried to swallow, but so much saliva had accumulated, it threatened to overflow and dribble down his chin. Without warning, a wave of nausea slammed into him, sending a sweat river down his cheeks. Somehow, he managed a smile as he nodded at Gerald.

"Very well." Gerald stood. "You must sign the proper forms and all that. You know the routine." He rounded the desk and started for the door. "Sit back and relax. My secretary will take care of everything." The door shut behind him.

Max tried to stop shaking but couldn't. Ringing echoed in his ears. A frantic urgency pushed and pulled at his insides. He started pacing. It felt as if he would die if he stopped moving. Back and forth in front of the wall of windows, he paced. On the street below traffic and pedestrians flowed. Heat shimmered off the pavement. Max stared at them and wondered why he envied them.

Soon, Gerald breezed through the door, a small stack of documents in hand.

Max pointed at the papers. "Where do I sign?"

"Here and here, and wherever you see yellow highlighting." Gerald pointed at the various blanks. "These forms authorize this bank to move the money you requested to the accounts you specified. Soon as they're signed, we'll enter the instructions and wait for confirmation. It shouldn't take more than a few minutes."

The signing completed, Max shoved the papers back to Gerald who then took them to someone waiting outside the door. As suddenly as it had come over him, Max's urgent energy vanished. His muscles, no longer tight and hard, crumpled into a limp mass. Yet, the pounding in his head jumped to double-time. He had to get out of there. He didn't know why, he just had to do it. Right then. Aiming for the door, Max staggered as the room tilted then straightened.

Gerald gripped his elbow. "You're looking a little pale. Sure I can't get you something?" Max shook his head, unable to answer.

A young woman in a form-fitting suit pushed through the door and smiled. "Mr. Humminger, the confirmation just came back. I'll have the hard copy in just a moment."

"Thanks, Bonnie dear," Gerald said. His eyes lingered on her shapely form, and she glared at him as she backed from the room and slammed the door.

The pounding, the ringing, the nausea, all of it closed in on Max. He lunged for the door and reeled through it.

"Wait! You don't have your papers!"

"I'll ... get them later." Max rubbed his temple furiously. Without warning, he gagged, but only saliva streamed from his mouth. Max pushed himself through the door and half ran and half staggered toward the elevator.

Once inside, Max leaned against the wall and panted. Swirling images crept across his vision distorting the light and the area around him. When the doors opened, he nearly fell into the arms of a waiting woman. Instead, he caught himself and stumbled past, aiming erratically for the outer doors and the bright light beyond. If only he could make it to the light.

The pounding and ringing intensified, shutting out all sound. He didn't hear shouts behind him, nor car horns blaring before him. Instead, he searched for the light. When he pushed his palm against his ear, he felt something warm and sticky. Staring at his hand, he gasped at bright red blood dripping from his fingers. He pushed his feet faster, desperate to find the light.

When Max finally found his light, he didn't see the car to his left. He couldn't feel the crunching and cracking of his bones, the scraping and tearing of his flesh. His world wobbled and spun, dragging him with it. By the time he hit the pavement, his world was black. The ringing stopped, and the pounding slowed, thump ... thump ... thump ... thump