"Are you ready for a journey?" he asked holding the glistening blade flat against my thigh.  His eyes flashed a mysterious knowing as he traced the seam of my jeans. The exhalation that escaped his crooked grin stank of a cocktail bred of stale cigarettes and the wan, aromatic vestige of whiskey greedily downed years before.  Mirroring a distorted image of the autumn stars that shone above, the bone-handled knife pressed my trust, incited my curiosity and blunted my reason.  Had I known then what I know now, I would have answered differently ...