The air was crisp on this cool February morning as Roger ran on the service road through Riverdale Park. Surrounded by tall trees and singing birds, he was momentarily transported to his youth in Arandas. It was hard to believe he was in New York City.

The mansion he had learned last night was a cluster of four houses nestled in the trees on Palisade Ave. He was living in one of the houses which they reserved for guests. The largest of the four was Claire's grandfather's dwelling; she now lived there alone.

The other two belong to her mother and younger sister, but they were essentially abandoned. Both of them preferred to live in the Hamptons.

He stopped in the front yard of his "home," took a deep breath, and started to walk off the run. After a few minutes of cooling down, he began to perform the K'at Balam forms his Tata had taught him.

"Our greatest warriors moved like jaguars; silently, precisely, deadly," Tata would tell him as they practiced the subtle moves.

As he moved rhythmically, habitually, he remembered Claire's stunning entrance. The woman was dangerous. He could see her derailing his life if he became fascinated by her beauty. Not that she hinted that she was willing, but still, last night, as they talked, he had yearned for the hunt.

It seemed that Chester had been busy before and after their encounter. Claire had found a file with his family's details that had been compiled two weeks before their meeting.

It highlighted his Mayan descent and not much else. Perhaps the chance encounter wasn't so chance, after all, they had concluded.

There wasn't much else in the file except a curious piece of paper with the words "Dr. Marquéz" handwritten in pen and circled in red. Claire had promised to look further at the office and her grandfather's computer.

He, in turn, had told Claire about the meeting that night and how her grandfather had only said, "Run."

He dug up the forgotten card the old man had left for him, and they read the message together.

"Roger, thank you for the healing. Please see me as soon as possible. If for some reason I'm gone, find my granddaughter, Claire."

The word "healing" hung ominously in Roger's mind. When Claire asked, he only said he had bandaged the wounds to stop the bleeding. He was not willing to reveal his secret.

Had the old man known about his gift? Had the meeting been on purpose? Had he been attacked, or was it a test? The questions swirled in his mind.

As he finished his forms, he noticed Claire to the side, watching him shirtless with a wide smile. Embarrassed, he quickly put on the sweaty T-shirt he had on while running.

"Good morning, Roger. Do you drink coffee?" She asked while holding a 12-ounce paper cut toward him. Her smile is dazzling.

"Good morning, Miss Williams. Yes, thanks." He took the cup.

"I tried to make some this morning but couldn't figure out that contraption in there!" He added sheepishly.

"Roger, we've shared a meal and a bottle of wine and are married; I think you can call me Claire. Aren't we at least friends now?" Dangerous! There was a slippery slope toward closeness he didn't want to get near.

He thought about the night before.

They had chatted about their lives while drinking wine until they finished the bottle. Claire had gone to Wharton and worked her way up to CEO. She had also lost her father during her teenage years. She loved her grandfather very much and missed him deeply. She wanted to follow in his footsteps since she was a little girl and now felt lost without him, alone in a huge house full of ghosts.

Roger had told her about his journey from Mexico, the loss of his family, and subsequent aimlessness. Then, he had told her about how he had been able to fix his status and study. Perhaps it had been the wine, but he found himself for the first time telling another human being about how his Tata had instilled in him the joy of healing and how much he yearned to become a Doctor.

"Yes, Miss Williams. It isn't a lack of friendship; it's respect." She frowned girlishly as if disappointed but unwilling to argue.

"Are you going to school?" She asked, changing the subject.

"Yes. I have Biology at 9 a.m."

"Do you want a ride? It's on my way to the office," she offered, the smile returning.

Roger weighed the options. He hesitated for a second, unsure of how to proceed. "Dangerous," he murmured. She smiled wider.

"Thank you, Miss Williams. Although Mr. Doyle said I could use one of the cars, the reality is I never learned how to drive." Just keep it business-like! Yesterday, this woman had been all thorns. "Females are unfathomable enigmas the male mind cannot help but try to crack," his Tata would tell him.

She loved the quiet of predawn, the stillness before the avalanche of light. "It's a moment to be alone with your ghosts," Gramps would say. They would sit quietly in this kitchen, each in their thoughts.

For her, it had become the moment to analyze and plan.

A tear came unbidden. She missed the sound of his breathing so much.

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, bidding the air to give her strength and dispel the piercing ache of loneliness. Minutes of deliberate breathing passed until she shook herself and opened her eyes.

She sat on her favorite kitchen chair in the dark. Sipping an extra hot ristretto of a Colombian blend she had received as a gift from one of the many bankers that paraded through her office. His flowery language and pitch already forgotten.

The perfect bitterness of the coffee pleased her palate. At least he got this right.

She absently noted that the mornings were slightly less chilly as the days passed.

An internal debate stirred. Before Gramps's passing, she would have plowed head-on, but now she had consciously become more methodical, analytical, and deliberate.

The last week had settled into a routine. She would deliver coffee as he exercised. Guiltily, she admitted to herself the view of his naked torso was fine! They would share a ride afterward with hardly a word between them, and it would repeat the following day.

She didn't know what he did with his day and frankly didn't care. However, she had checked, and he did attend his classes. When she asked Mr. Doyle about his spending, to her surprise, his only spending had been a MetroCard and daily lunch at City College.

She didn't know what to make of that. It was apparent to her that he needed clothes and shoes, a phone from this century, and a laptop from this millennium. Yet, presented with essentially unlimited wealth, he had not spent.

His behavior intrigued her and gave rise to a begrudging admiration. It poked holes into her theory that he had orchestrated this whole thing to get close to Gramps. Maybe he's just biding his time?

He stubbornly called her "Miss Williams," and when pressed, he said it was cultural. And she had recalled that the night they had shared the wine bottle, it had been her drinking. He had barely touched his cup.

Even when she had openly flirted, his answers shut her down. Sometimes, she could hear him muttering the word "dangerous."

He was nothing like what she had envisioned. He was quiet, courteous, helpful, and unassuming, unlike any of the men she worked with or had ever dated. It was like he was from another, more caring planet.

This was all the more reason she thought it was all a con. No one was this good! The New Yorker in her was suspicious.

One more test. Temptation will show his true colors. If he falls, I'll show Mr. Doyle that it's a con and end this farce. If he passes, I'll share what I've learned about what Gramps was doing.

Even after six months, he had not been able to change the habits ingrained from working the graveyard shift. Thus, he fell asleep as soon as he got home from school and was now, close to midnight, wide awake.

He didn't mind. He had plenty of homework to finish, and the peaceful silence of the night helped him concentrate.

Sitting at the kitchen table, he enjoyed the refreshing taste of an agua de jamaica - hibiscus tea, as they called it here - he had prepared it like his mother had taught him when he was young. "The secret," she had whispered in his ear like it was the most closely held truth, "was to add the juice of a lime." He smiled at the memory of her love.

He had on an old pair of cutoff shorts he had made from a faded pair of jeans a few years back. My legs are getting bulkier. It's the difference having access to good nutritious food and an extra forty-minute trek from the bus stop to the house make.

His attention was drawn to Claire as she walked down the service road toward Palisade Ave. How strange. She's never up at this time of the night.

The Mayan Moon illuminated the sky, tinting everything an eerie red. It spoke to him. It warned him. He got up and went to the kitchen door—apprehension in his chest.

A man in his forties, dressed in a suit, waited for her. The feeling of foreboding grew stronger.

By the time he walked out, Claire had reached him, and they seemed to be arguing. They shouted, but it was unintelligible at this distance. The man pointed his index finger at her as if in accusation. Even at this distance, he could see the man's ominous scar down his left cheek. A deep cut did that.

As the conversation seemed to be getting more heated, a black van with tinted windows screeched to a halt in front of them. The side door slid open.

Without hesitation, Roger sprinted toward them. He pushed Ch'ulel into his legs and intoned, "B'alam K'at." A surge of energy coursed through him. He felt his connection to the earth, and the grass deepened. They smoothed his way, helped him along, pushed him, and his running became a blur.

The man turned and ran down Palisade in the direction the van had come from as three men got out of the van. They tried to grab Claire. She struggled momentarily, fighting off their advances, but one of them flanked her and hit her in the head, and she went limp just as Roger reached the group.

Roger heard the crack as Claire's head hit the pavement. Blood pooled underneath her. I need to get this over with.

With uncharacteristic savagery, he punched the one that had hit Claire in the kidney. His body flew and crashed on the side of the van. Roger whirled and kicked the thug on his left in the knee; it cracked, the leg bending unnaturally.

A curdling scream drowned the sounds of the night.

The third thug punched at Roger's head from his blind spot but was surprised as he blocked him without looking as if he sensed the incoming blow. Then, faster than any human should be able to move, he made a half-turn and jabbed into the assailant's spleen. The impact sent the man flying into the van.

Having been met with fierce, deadly opposition, the two remaining men seemed to think better of it, dragging themselves back into the van and speeding away.

"Vamonos," He heard. Were they speaking Spanish?

Roger took Claire's wrist and scanned her. She was on the brink; part of her skull had been crushed, and she had lost almost half her blood. He took a deep breath and stilled himself.

He took her in his arms. Cradled her head on his left arm and placed his right hand over the wound, then, with reverence to the moon, he intoned, "K'ux."

The soft, azure light enveloped Claire's head as Roger concentrated with all his strength. Minute after minute passed. Sweat dripped from his forehead. His body started shaking, but he continued. He stubbornly held shaping Ch'ulel to his will. Claire's wound slowly closed, the bone visibly knitting back together. Still, Roger held until he had almost passed out. Then his self-preservation kicked in, and he breathed.

Exhausted, he sat with Claire cradled in his arms. Her breathing steadied. He felt her pulse return to a normal rhythm.

The feeling of connection he had felt with Chester was one hundred times stronger with Claire—a sense of shared destiny, of inevitability.

Long minutes passed as his strength slowly returned.

He hesitated but ultimately picked her up in a princess carry and took her back to the house. The crickets returned to their song as he walked with Claire in his arms.

In the living room, he set her on a couch. As he did so, her phone fell out of her pocket and landed on the floor.

He left to get towels and warm water. As best he could, he cleaned the blood from her hair. He changed her blood-soaked clothing for one of his sweatpants and sweatshirt.

Then he carried her to the spare bedroom and put her in bed.

He sat on the floor next to her in vigil as the effects of the healing worked their way through her organism.

Every hour, scanning her to make sure everything went well. Head injuries were problematic, and she had lost too much blood.

Four hours later, she had stabilized enough that he went to the kitchen and ate a light breakfast. He made orange juice, adding beets, ginger, and spinach to replenish her blood.

When he returned, he gently nudged her, "Miss Williams... Miss Williams." Then again, "Claire."

Claire opened her green, unfocused eyes. She looked at her clothes and him. Uncertainty and fear showed on her face, replaced by anger, "What did you do to me?"

Anger bubbled in him, "Hey, Lady, don't go blaming me. Some guys tried to grab you and ran off when I got there. You almost died. I healed you the best I could. There's a juice to help regain the blood you lost. I'm going to my room!" The gall of this woman!

Her phone beeped, and a message displayed. He glanced at it.

[Give us the file. Next time, you won't be so lucky!]

Roger stormed off. Once again, proving the adage that no good deed...

I need to find a job and get the hell out of here. What do I care about corporations and inheritances? He seethed as he stormed to his room.

She'll see the video surveillance and know my secret. Crap! But I couldn't let her die. Maybe it won't show.

He plopped on his bed. Were they talking about his file or something else?

Who could be after Claire?

Do you think Roger should find a job a leave?

 What would you do?