The ghosts of a hundred Pawnee warriors glared eerily from the ancient Indian burial grounds. Kid Colt, senses alert, the sound of motion whipping his head, was advancing into a phantom ambush, the oil-black rain sky alive with the possibility of psychic death. Suddenly the Kid’s mind flashed back to the strange events which led to this fateful encounter. Lightning bolted through the window onto the Kid’s crib bars, dancing about, then shot into a light socket, leaving the Kid peacefully sleeping, the room empty of fury, while outside it rained, inside, the Kid’s parents in shock had looked on, helpless to rescue the baby, it all took place so fast, and there was no need, strange child! A mystery to be unfolded! At eleven, strange currents said, Ask God to strike you dead, ask; at nineteen, Philosophy 101, some girl stood up saying, Who am I, so everyone laughed, everyone except the Kid then spreading his hands out into the inscrutable, while now, now, high above the clouds the unseen moon rose orangely over the earth, thus the evening found Kid Colt taking it all back home, hurtling through déjà vu, BAM! What was that? Ghosts, the Kid thought, looking back, don’t make noise. Something there was melting into the shadows. Wind was howling over the mesa. Then it happened! The Yamaha seized up! The back tire skidding out, screaming, he slid! Quick as a flash the Kid kicked it out of gear, controlled the slide, popping the clutch, headlight flaring dimly in the rain. He stopped and stomped. It wouldn’t kick over. He tried again. Voices floated to him: Kid, Kid, the spirits of the Pawnee were with you tonight, white brother, we saw you fight with the weapons of warriors long dead, all are grateful. The Kid dismounted, pushing up his visor, his breath fogging the air. He started rolling the bike off into the brush, the search for America breaking down, his real journey about to commence. Desperately, he longed for a Standard Station.