He was quiet for a long time. Then he said, almost to himself, "March sixth."
"Does that mean something to you?"
"I'm not sure." He put his glasses back on. "I'd like to be sure before I say."
Before he left, I made two phone calls. The first was to Tomás Reyna, who was a line superintendent now, with an office and a truck with a lightbar on it and a lot more gray in his beard than when he'd stood in my side yard and called me crazy. I told him the whole thing. He listened without interrupting, and when I was done he said, "You want me to come to a homeowners association meeting."
"I want you to come to a homeowners association meeting, bring the service retirement records, and tell a room full of people that there are no conductors connected to my house."
"Rae, I'd rather climb a pole in an ice storm."
"I know."
He sighed, the long-suffering sigh of a man who'd been my apprentice once. "What time?"
The second call, Monday morning, was to the city electrical inspector who'd signed my final, a woman named Arlette Nakamura. She remembered my house. It was the only stand-alone system she'd ever inspected inside the city limits, and she still used photos of my labeling in a slideshow for contractors. I asked if she'd be willing to come to the meeting.
"Ms. Sundquist," she said, "I would not miss this for anything."
VIII.