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He finally agreed to no more than ten hours of testing per week.

Then, Thanksgiving weekend came and Allie got sick. High fevers and a cough, the doctor diagnosed “that flu that’s going around” and prescribed “rest and fluids.” He said, “Don’t worry, it’ll get better.”

While she was sick, Allie discovered that she couldn’t make a port. To her dad’s great dismay, when the flu resolved, she didn’t recover the ability. He checked her morning and evening, first in dismay, then in frustration, then in anger, accusing her of simply
refusing
to make ports.

But, as the weeks and then months passed, it seemed that the startling physical phenomenon/ability was likely gone forever.

Allie hadn’t liked her dad’s constant queries about her ability. They’d rapidly gone from exciting, to irritating, to maddening.

She’d begun to dislike
him
.

Then
she started puberty.

Allie was a sullen teenager. Sullen and angry about everything, and
especially
about her lost ability. She locked herself in her room for hours on end, playing electric guitar into headphones. Sarah offered to pay for lessons. Allie didn’t want them, preferring to teach herself by watching YouTube videos.

Years passed.

Her parents had no idea just how good Allie had become on the guitar because they couldn’t hear the sound in her headphones, and she balefully refused to let them listen. If they insisted, she hooked up her amp and thrashed loud distorted pieces with dissonant chords.

They learned not to ask.

Dr. Dans spent long hours going over and over the data that he’d accumulated, trying to find
something
that he had missed that could explain the phenomenon. He spent endless hours searching the literature and the Internet for someone else who may have made similar observations. He felt certain that there must be some physical way to reproduce what his daughter had been able to do for those few fleeting months, though sometimes he wondered if he’d imagined it. When Sarah questioned him, he admitted that there seemed to be little practical use for a port no bigger than 3mm over distances of no more than 20-30 feet, but, if the phenomenon could just be understood, he hoped it could be scaled up.

Allie’s mother gradually forgave her husband for his earlier behavior, but when he occasionally stopped by Allie’s room to ask her to “try to create a port” again, he could count on Sarah being there to tell him to “stop badgering the girl.”

“Surely,” she’d say, “Allie will let you know if she starts to be able to do it again.”

Allie’s teenage years passed slowly and morosely. Though she never seemed to study, her parents couldn’t complain because she got excellent grades. She joined a band and spent long hours at practice with them. They played a few gigs, but parents were never invited, either to practices, or to their very occasional gigs. In fact, they were actively discouraged from attending.

Then, in her senior year of high school, her mother knocked on Allie’s constantly closed bedroom door, first lightly, then loudly. Finally she pounded on it.

Sarah heard her daughter’s angry voice, “Come in.”

Wondering how to fix the yawning chasm between her and her daughter, Sarah opened the door. Guitar on her lap, Allie sat on the floor in baggy jeans, and a ripped t-shirt. She’d apparently cut her hair to a ragged inch long and dyed it black since her mother saw her going out the door that morning. As usual her room was a disaster, clothes strewn everywhere. Gritting her teeth, Sarah ignored the mess. She tried to sound chipper and upbeat, “Hey Allie, I’m hoping that we can plan a trip to visit some of the colleges you’re interested in?”

“I’m not going to college.”

Startled, “What?!?!”

Grimly, “Not going.”

“Of
course
you’re going, what did you
think
you were going to do?”

“Band’s going on the road.”

“You can’t do that! We won’t
allow
it.”

“I’m eighteen, you can’t tell me what to do anymore… Well you could make me move out
now,
I guess. Do you want me to?” Allie raised an eyebrow.

“What!? Where do you think you’d live?”

“Friends, or the homeless shelter.” She shrugged, “I’d have to work it out, so I hope you’ll give me a little warning if you’re tossing me.”

A tear formed and ran down her mother’s cheek. “Never,” she croaked. She turned suddenly and left.

“Close my damned door!” Allie shouted after her. Then after a minute, she got up and closed it herself. She wondered if “never” had referred to the homeless shelter, or to going on the road?

Months of shouting, pleading, arguments and long glowering silences passed without any change in Allie’s resolution. She was a musician, she wasn’t going to college. She might go to college if music didn’t work out, but she was
sure
she was going to have a career in music. Her mother got little support in the battle from Allie’s dad, who, as usual, seemed too distracted to get very involved in the argument.

The morning after Allie’s high school graduation Sarah Dans knocked on her door to ask what she’d like for breakfast, but there was no answer. When she opened the door she was astonished to see that Allie’s room had been straightened up. Not great, but better than it had been in years. Then, with a sinking heart she saw that the guitar and amp were gone.

There was a note on the bed. “We’ve got gigs in Atlanta.”

No “goodbye,” no mention of when she’d be back, no mention of where in Atlanta.

Sarah Dans sank down on Allie’s bed and had a good long cry. When she had herself in control she called Allie’s cell phone, but it went straight to message. Sarah hung up and tried again. This time when it went to message, in a trembling voice Sarah said, “Sorry we didn’t get to see you this morning. Wish you all the luck in the world.” Her voice broke, “Call if you need anything.”

Sarah cried for a while longer.

Several days passed before Albert Dans noticed that his daughter was missing. He asked Sarah about it and, when Sarah said that she was on the road, doing her music, he nodded distractedly and went back to the paper he was reading on wormhole theory. Sarah didn’t think he’d actually comprehended the calamity that had befallen their little family.

In actual fact, Allie’s dad had given up on understanding the port phenomenon for a couple of years, but then recently had awakened in the middle of the night with an idea regarding quantum tunneling and how very low-power electromagnetic fields, such as a brain
could
generate,
might
allow particles to appear at a new location. So his port research was back on, full speed ahead. He spent every waking moment thinking about it.

***

The band was on break and Allie walked out behind the bar to hang out with her bandmates. She sat at the corner of a little deck looking up at the stars while the three guys shared a cigarette over by the door. She knew they smoked dope too, because she could smell it on their clothes, but they knew better than to smoke it around her. They bought what they used in each town and
never
kept a stash in their van.

Allie’d laid down the law. They didn’t drink more than one beer during a set either. Joe arranged their gigs, ran their finances and was their nominal “leader,” but Allie was by
far
their best musician. Her guitar licks and eerie vocals were what commanded the substantial fan following they’d developed so far. They
all
knew that the band would be just another bunch of “wannabes” without her. So, when she made a rule, they followed it.

The back door of the bar slammed open and a large, obviously drunk man stumbled out. “Where’s Eva?” he slurred.

Eva was Allie’s stage name, but she didn’t like talking to drunks so she turned back to continue looking up into the sky.

“Where’s Eva?!” the man said with some irritation.

Out of the corner of her eye, Allie saw the big guy tap forcefully on Joe’s shoulder. It looked like the guys had been trying to ignore the drunk too. Joe looked up at him.

“Where’s Eva?!”

Joe shrugged and turned back to reach for the cig. The big guy shoved him and said ominously, “You know where she is!”

Allie sighed, then said, “I’m over here. Are you a fan?”

“Of you babe! Not the rest of these losers… only you.” He waved a deprecating hand at the rest of the band as he lurched her way.

Allie wrinkled her nose, “We’re a band, not a one person show.”

The man came too close, invading her personal space. His breath stank of beer and garlic. “Hey,
I
can set you up wi’ shum
real
musicians!
You
could really be on your way.” He grasped her elbow.

She looked down at his hand. “Please let go of me.”

“Aw, I’m jes’ bein’ friendly.” His hand stayed put.

She looked up into his unfocused eyes. “Please, let, go!” The other band members were shuffling her way. Obviously, they wanted to help her get rid of this guy, but he was
huge
. Forcing him to let her go would be a pretty dangerous endeavor and they hadn’t joined a band because they liked to fight. Joe turned and trotted back to the bar, presumably looking for a bouncer.

The big guy pulled on her arm, “Lesh go shumwhere an’ talk.” He peered at her. “Heeyy, you’re really beautiful, ya’ know?” His eyebrows went up as if she should be astonished at this revelation. “Why d’ you wear such ugly clothes?”
              Allie resisted the pull on her elbow, but it inexorably pulled her up off the bench she’d been on.  She took a few reluctant steps with him. His grip on her arm
hurt
. Startled she realized that this guy could be a
real
problem.
Not
just an annoyance, but a real honest to god
problem
. She jerked and twisted on her arm, trying to break it loose. He was pulling her out toward the parking lot!

He said, “Heeyy, don’ be sush a downer, we’re jus’ gonna go si’ in my car and talk about your career.”

He seemed oblivious to the fact that Allie was pulling as hard as she possibly could to go the other way. Her feet were sliding on the pavement, and her struggles slowed him not at all. Allie’s heightened senses were focused on the big man including the sense only she had. The one that allowed her to feel the pressure of the blood flowing through his arteries.

Although her ability to make ports had actually returned the week after that Thanksgiving years ago, Allie had carefully kept the secret completely to herself. She certainly hadn’t wanted her dad to know about it! Allie hadn’t made a port in a couple years because they seemed useless except as “party tricks” and she was worried that such a “party trick” would somehow come to the attention of her dad or some other scientist who’d be all over her for more testing.

She thought again of letting blood out of an artery in the big man in an effort to stop him. She had thought of this “weapon” aspect years ago, but “back of napkin” calculations had determined that she couldn’t hold a port open long enough to even weaken a big man like this from blood loss.
Maybe if I make him think he has a bloody nose he’ll let me go?

Allie sensed the vessels in the man’s head. There was a big one in his neck right next to his windpipe!

He suddenly started to cough. At first it was just a little; then big wracking coughs doubled him over. Her bandmates were startled to see blood on the hand he’d used to cover his mouth. He let go of Allie’s arm and she patted him on the back. “That’s a bad sounding cough. Probably ought to go to the ER and have it checked out. Especially coughing up blood like that.” Her tone fairly dripped with false concern.

A bouncer trotted up, Joe behind him. “What’s going on?” he said with authority. Then he stepped back, looking a little apprehensively at the coughing man-mountain who’d just stood to his full height and taken a long gasping breath.

Allie smiled up at him. “I’m not sure, but this fellow has suddenly developed a terrible cough and he’s bringing up blood. Can you help him get some medical attention? We’ve got to get back for another set.” She grabbed Joe by the elbow and tugged, “Let’s go guys.” Shaking their heads the band started back into the bar, turning occasionally to look back at the big fellow who was bent over again, hands on his knees. The coughing had cut back to an occasional wet hack. Just as they went in the door he threw up a large quantity of foul smelling bloody beer.

The next day, Joe bought each of them a can of Mace. Allie’s was a little pink cartridge to go on a keychain. She never carried a purse, but she started carrying the Mace in the front pocket of her trademark saggy jeans.

***

Despairing of understanding the port phenomenon alone, Dans had recently decided to try collaboration. He’d spent months going over the data he had from the past in light of his quantum tunneling idea. Such tunneling over a distance, aided by fields, still seemed promising, but he hadn’t been able to develop any hardware that would make it happen. He started wondering if a fresh viewpoint on his data would shake something loose.

The question soon became, not whether, but
who
to collaborate with.

The other academics in his department were too fusty to be interested. Besides, they were all specialized in their own small areas that seemed unlikely to be related to the porting phenomenon.

People from other universities would be too far away for the kind of intense collaboration that he envisioned. Academics also would want to see the phenomenon reproduced, a first principle in science, before they would be interested. However, Randall Forst, one of Dans’ old graduate students, had established a thriving private enterprise right there in the city. As a grad student, he’d always been better at the engineering than the theory side of physics. He’d demonstrated a real talent for turning out excellent research equipment and was making a very good living doing just that. The man had a phenomenal talent for producing devices no one else had been able to concoct and had written a string of lucrative patents.