The water tower stood brooding over the cemetery in East Arcadia as if it resented what had transpired, without its permission, beneath it. Here Harley had lost his mask and his symbolic identity, and by extension, mine as well, thereby beginning our fool's errand of retrieval. And just beyond the bend of the horizon stood the skeletal remains of the Way Keepers Spiritual Center, where our odyssey had ended in an all-too-literal trial by fire. Surrounded by immutable reminders of our journey, it struck me that I had been guilty, as Harley had pointed out, of safely observing rather than...