AD 2003, and the second year of the presidency of George W. Bush, Monterey, California

"Jesus!"

A brilliant shaft of orange light, as brief as a camera flash, hits the windshield, making it opaque, like a blank, glowing movie screen. In split-second blindness, I hit the brakes. Squinting, I strain to focus. Painful brightness. Then suddenly, like a magician's reveal, the light's gone. Sight returns.

As the heavy Benz skids, a rabbit darts out of the pine and oak forest to my right.

"Shit!"

It stops dead in front of my car, takes a frightened look at me, and then bounds across the road. I wrestle the wheel to the right. In hot pursuit of the rabbit, a golden mountain lion veers so close that its tail whacks my left headlamp as the car slides on the pine needled asphalt. I avoid hitting the lion but almost slam my front end into the thick trunk of a live oak.

The rabbit's pause to look at me was enough to make the difference between life and death. The lion's jaws lock onto its neck, quickly executing the kill and then swinging the limp corpse twice, the rabbit's lifeless legs quivering as misfiring nerves play out their last gig. It's now become a lion's breakfast, and I'm shaking like a plucked guitar string.

"What the f —"

I left my house only a minute ago. I grew up in this area, but I've never seen a mountain lion before. Rangers post warning signs on all the hiking trails up and down the coastal range, but strangely, the first one I ever see nearly dances with my Mercedes in a gated golf community.

Without missing a beat, dead prey firmly locked in its jaws, the lion stands there, pinning me with a fierce focus. Without hurrying, it moves up the hillside, vanishing perfectly into the scrubby bushes beneath the oak trees. The quick life-and-death struggle is over before I can register my near wreck, but my heart pounds furiously. I feel the adrenaline pouring into my hands, and they tremble as I keep my death grip on the steering wheel.

Whoa! Am I blacking out? Was there some chemical or drug laced into my coffee?

Last night's dream was like that. My memory cancels out most dreams when I wake up, yet the residual feelings remain. Especially the disturbing ones I've been having lately. Yeah, I remember now. A leopard was chasing me through woods like these, and I went diving for safety in a black hole near a stream, like the adrenaline-junkie spelunkers who go freefalling into those yawning, massive caves in Mexico. Yet, chased or not, I wanted to dive in. Had to.

Mountain lions, rabbits, dreams — what kind of batshit-crazy, Alice-in-Wonderland crap is going on here?

Now I'm drenched in sweat, my breaths pumping in and out of me, mouth caked-clay dry like Death Valley in summer, and I take a gulp from the bottle of Fiji resting in the square cup holder I had made for the car. Still shaking, I decide to get back on the road and discover that I've absently turned the ignition off.

When did that happen? Snap out of it, Jack!

I start it up and edge onto the road, slowly making my way to the community entrance. When I reach the gate, I wave to the young guard and roll my window down.

"Morning, Mr. Castro," he says, way too cheerful for this time of day. He's studying to be a minister. "How 'bout those 'Niners last night?"

"Yeah, good game. Hey, just saw a mountain lion, Josh. Damn near had a wreck. Hit my front headlight."

Okay, my voice sounds normal. Jack is back.

Josh looks shocked and then eyes my car's front end. He moves closer, runs his hand over it, squats, and looks underneath.

"Car's fine. Not a scratch. But I'll report that. Never seen one around here!"

He asks me for specifics, but I cut him off.

"Later, Josh. Meeting in San Jose."

"Go!" He waves me off, and I make the requisite left onto the highway leading to Starbucks where I'm meeting my assistant, Tyler. We are heading up to San Jose for the conference I'm speaking at this morning. I'm in crop insurance. My firm handles most of the gigantic ag-business policies in the sprawling Salinas Valley and California's Central Valley beyond. A dry cough takes me out of my thoughts, and suddenly it feels like liquid lead pumping through my veins. Starbucks is not happening for me right now. I need a few minutes alone.

My eyes land on a familiar sign for the small wilderness park where my two teenage daughters and I often hike on weekends. Ordinarily, the words teenage and hike aren't two words that go together, but the girls do trek along with Dad on a regular basis. Other weekends, my non-hiker wife, Sharon, joins us as we sail Monterey Bay.

I try to distract my thoughts and think of my family as I struggle to chill out a bit. It's not working.

Impulsively, I veer sharply to the right across the lanes to the exit. The guy behind me slams on his brakes and lays on the horn as I rumble onto the narrow road leading into a small parking area. Even though there is no one else around, I move neatly between the white lines of the first space. I leave the car idling, and even though it's fifty degrees, I turn on the air conditioning. I try to lengthen my breaths, but short gasps are all I can manage. My clammy fingers still grip the steering wheel like it's a goddamn lifeline. I lift them off, and the joints respond with pain. Then I force them to unlock my noose of a tie. Allowing the lids of my eyes to close, I decide I just need a minute. I reflexively gulp some air and smell the forest.

Man up, Castro!

When I open my eyes, I am surprised to see that I am not alone after all. Close by, there's a homeless man rummaging through the trash containers for his daily bread, which consists of cans and plastic bottles.

Why am I here? My actions are unpredictable, and I like predictability — and logic and probability. Everyone admires that about me. In fact, they rely on it, which is why I'm invited frequently to be on boards. Even the Roman Catholic bishop recently asked me to help with the restoration of the old mission church in nearby Carmel-by-the Sea, and I'm only nominally Catholic — barely nominally.

Come on, Jack. Get it together. I'm okay. I've got fifteen minutes to kill before meeting Tyler.

Mindlessly, I grab the slice of cold cheese pizza wrapped in wax paper that lays on the passenger-side floor. It flew off the seat during the dance with the mountain lion. My wife passed my favorite breakfast to me as I bolted out the door this morning. I brush off the paper, good as new. Maybe I'll take a bite or two in a minute. Pizza in hand, I get out of the car.

As I approach the homeless man, I see that he is barely more than a boy, maybe twenty-five — twenty-six, tops. Under a ragged woolen cap drawn partially over an unexpected pile of thick blond hair, I see his deep-blue eyes pinning me. This guy's carrying a load of Viking DNA, that's for sure. His skin's the color of rust, weathered beyond his years, and I can see that his brief life has been tough. He backs up a step, guarded, as if I'm there to take him in.

Seriously, kid? I mean, am I a ranger in a German luxury car?

I check my self-aggrandizing thoughts and muster up some humility. There's a tragedy standing here before me. I raise the palms of my hands, thumb across the wax-paper-wrapped pizza, showing that I mean him no harm.

"I...