"Damn," Princippi complained.

"Everyone wants to know how to change his life for the better." The voice was closer now and more insistent. Near his ear.

Princippi continued working. "My life is going to change," he grunted. "And when it does, the Secret Service won't let nut jobs like you within a country mile of me."

He yanked harder at the little metal thing hanging off of the larger thing. It snapped off. As it did so, there was a rumble of an engine.

For an instant, Michael Princippi thought he had fixed his car. He realized momentarily, however, that the sound was coming from farther down his driveway.

The ponytail kid was standing next to Princippi. He was looking around the hood. "Ah, our ride," he enthused.

Princippi glanced around the other side of the hood. A dark blue, windowless van was backing up the driveway. One rear door was open. Princippi could see a pale forearm holding the door ajar.

This was ridiculous. The Brookline in which Michael Princippi had lived when he was governor had not allowed this kind of riffraff to drive around willy-nilly. Sure, on his watch other nearby towns might have had more nightly gunplay than a spaghetti Western, and convicted murderers had been given the keys to their own cells, but, dammit, Brookline had always been safe.

Princippi ducked back beneath his hood. "Look, I am in the middle of planning my triumphant return to politics, so if you don't intend to vote for me, get out of here before I call the cops."

The young man didn't leave. Instead, he said something strangely enigmatic.

"I'm sorry, Governor, but I'm about to change your life. Whether you want me to or not."

Princippi was almost going to lift his head from the grimy engine to ask what the kid was talking about when he noticed something odd. Through a gap beneath the engine, he suddenly saw a pair of sandals as the white robe rose a few inches around the man's ankles. The kid was standing on his toes for some reason.