As a nomad I spend all my time travelling the road, moving from place to place, with little or nothing pulling me back to what could be considered home. That is, until I get a call from my prez, demanding I return. I make my way back to the clubhouse, traversing hundreds of miles and making use of rest stops on the way. At one, I find a discarded book, brand new, with a date, a dedication, and the signature of the author inside. I take it as the owner wasn't around. Then I was schooled that a book so recently purchased, and direct from the author, was likely to be a prized possession, and only accidentally left behind. Not usually one to feel guilty, I have this crazy idea to reunite book and owner. I didn't realise that, for a woman I didn't even know, I'd end up putting my life on the line.