It was a bit further south than I wanted to go and still have some reserve gas but I couldn't resist...She was a rich man's toy--a catamaran over fifty feet long. The davits at the stern no longer held a lifeboat. She was the Hermosa Chica, flying a Panamanian flag. I tied off and climbed aboard. I called out but nobody answered. My nose wrinkled as smelled something rotting. I 'followed my nose' to find a guy dead, handcuffed to and lying on the master berth. Someone had tied some surgical tubing around his arm and shot him up with something that really didn't agree with him, from the way he struggled before losing it.There was a stuffed wallet, some change, a ring of keys and a passport lying on the floor. I stripped the wallet of cash and left the papers. The passport looked as much like him as was possible, considering. The name on it was Juaquin Guzman.I started looking around for things to take. There were electronics everywhere, a full bar, a closet full of automatic rifles. He longed to be a girl. He had never felt totally comfortable with boyish things and boyish ways. One Sunday, he learned about the power of prayer in Sunday school. He had a childish view of it, of course; he thought of God as the ultimate wish-giver in the sky. So he went to bed that night, and prayed that he would wake up the next morning as a girl. Of course, it didn't happen. It didn't happen the next morning or the morning after that either. But somehow, it became a habit, and it continued right into Everett's teen years, and even into adulthood. It was the night before his 25th birthday when his prayer finally got an answer. He had climbed into bed; half closed his eyes, and repeated the thought that had become almost automatic with him. "Please God, let me wake up a girl..." He supposed he should say "woman" now, but it had become an ingrained habit, a mantra. Tonight, however, was to be the last night of this prayer; almost immediately, the room was filled with a shimmering.
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