I popped myself a beer, and went to sit on the porch with the newspaper. It was six o’clock in the afternoon on a Saturday, middle of July, beautiful day. But, then, the phone was ringing. It was a collect call from Katmandu, Nepal, from Darcy Symonds. I hadn’t seen Darcy in years. “Yes, I’ll take it,” I said. “Judson, this is Darcy. Listen, I’m in a lot of trouble here. There’s a revolution going on, and I need to get out of here. The airports are closed. There’s fighting in the streets. I’m suspected of being a spy and an informer for the government, but I’m not, Judson, I swear it. You’ve got to get me out of here,” she said. “Okay, Darcy, calm down. We’ll think of something. How can I get a hold of you? I need to know where you are,” I said. “That’s the trouble, you can’t. I’m running for my life. The whole town is on fire,” she said. “Call me again when you know where you are. Meanwhile, I’ll see what I can do,” I said. “Judson, there isn’t much time,” she said. She hung up. I took a long pull on my beer and picked up the paper. There was a front page story about a two-year-old boy whose dog had saved him from drowning in the town reservoir. And another about a man who had found a six-foot boa constrictor in his bed. Police suspected that its owner will be found. Why would Darcy call me after all these years? And what was I supposed to do? I tried calling the State Department in D.C., but they put me on hold and then switched me over to somebody else, who put me on hold and so on, until I finally screamed at an actual human being “My wife is trapped in Katmandu. They’re going to kill her if you don’t help me get her out of there!” “Calm down, sir. What is your wife’s name?” he said. “Darcy Symonds,” I said. “And who is going to kill her?” he said. “The revolutionaries. They think she’s a spy and an informer,” I said. He asked for my phone number and said he would get back to me as soon as he knows something. I drained my beer and got another one. I looked at the weather forecast for tomorrow: another perfect day, I tried to read the article about the mayoral election, but lost interest. Mr. Giddings trimmed his hedges until the last light was gone. I ate some cheese and crackers and a handful of grapes. I waited up most of the night waiting for Darcy to call back, and also for the man from the State Department. The phone never rang. I got out my atlas and looked up Nepal. I read about it in my encyclopedia. But, still, my imagination failed to picture anything, just screaming and gunfire and fires, and Darcy’s frightened face I could see, one among the many, running for cover. It was just another bad movie, and, yet, she was my wife, or so I now believed, and it had to end happily, safe but for a few scratches, reunited. I sat there staring at the stars and listening to the crickets, feeling emptier than I had ever known. “Who’s in charge here?” I said, “A few good men is all we’ll need. We’ll need some technical support. You, Jones, take out the Himalayas. Martinez, nullify the Buddha.”