The exhausted wash of time travel comes over your concave face as I stumble and ram into your missus through the abruptly open door. Five years? More? Not a tick has matured your memory of me --my head pickled like a prize cabbage consigned to a clay Kim Chee pot in the plot out back. A ramshackle string of Xmas lights blinks the shape of Texas around an untenanted yard all tall weed.