SHEILA FINCH Reach THE FIRST THING HE NOTICES when hes finished dying is that the man and woman whove appearedby the bed are over seven feet tall. They dont look like any doctors hes ever seen. quotWelcome Mr. Thayerquot the woman says. The room is sterile white anonymous. He finds it hard to think coherently. He picks somethingto concentrate on. The womans skin and hair shine molten gold. He shakes away the lingeringfog in his head. quotWhere am Iquot quotSouth California.quot quotNo. I mean --quot He remembers now that his car went off the interstate overpass in a freak storm. He wouldexpect a morgue but these two dont look like morticians. The womans blue tunic hugs her bodyin a designer version of static cling. Not angels either. He finds that reassuring. She lays ahand on his brow. quotYou must expect some cognitive dissonance Mr. Thayer. Try moving yourlegs.quot He doesnt feel her hand. Terror that he might not be dead but paralyzed grips him and hes afraid to find out. quotWhenCole Thayer dances - quot a reporter once gushed in a small-town paper quothes ten feet tallquot Itshype not a view shared by the ranking critics of the dance world but he cant imagine neverdancing again. The tall visitors wait. He takes a deep breath. He might as well find out rightnow. He closes his eyes flexes his toes raises each leg an inch or two. They move withoutpain. He opens his eyes and glances down. Theyre intact. Theyre also obviously not the legshe used to have. His hands start trembling. quotYou have a friend from your own time waiting for youquot the man says. He wears some kind ofmetallic skinsuit that sparks as