My name doesn’t matter. Just call me stranger. You’ll see why soon enough. I want you to imagine ice fog twinkling and dancing around a streetlamp and that you are standing right outside the front door. You have found an urban legend, a single building right out of the small town 1920’s, parked in the epicenter of Nowhere, North America: The Lost Souls Coffee House. Some urban legends just don’t exist. Others simply can’t be found. But there is a third category. I should know. *** It all started with a cryptic note left on my motel bed stand, in my own handwriting. As a result, I became enthralled by the lingering spell of a dream. I was so obsessed by my note that I burned several vacation days in search of the Lost Souls Coffee Shop. This place was a classic urban myth - no address, invisible to all GPS devices, unreachable without an invitation, a place that reportedly attracts storytellers, sometimes fatally. But all searches must come to an end. Having only three vacation days left, I gave up my search on a Friday morning. Night had fallen that Friday afternoon soon after the premature northern sunset. A low, chill wind was sweeping the sidewalk and I was tucking my parka a bit tighter around my neck when I heard a gravelly voice call to me. “Hey! I’m talkin’ to you.” Startled, I turned to look over my shoulder. The voice was from an antique taxicab parked at the curb outside Bitter Earl’s Pub. “I hear yah need a ride to Lost Souls.” I walked over, bent down and peered into the unlit interior. The driver was a smoke-shrouded figure wearing a film noir felt hat. “I do,” I said. “Can you can really take me there?” “Get in,” he said. The ride took us past all the streets, past the all the lights and all the houses, far out of town. We traversed a foggy prairie on an obscure, ice covered road to nowhere. Eventually, the cab stopped under a single pole. Overhead, two lonely street lamps glowed faintly in their ice fog cocoons. The engine rattled, the heater whirred and the driver stared stolidly ahead. Through the fogged car window, I could make out a single building, a brick storefront with dark, inset windows and a single door. It was the kind of thing you might see on an old town corner, but without the corner, and without the town. “I take it we’ve arrived?” I was in the back seat behind a grated barrier. “You’ll need a ride back,” he said. “Okay. Can I call you?” I asked. “Not possible. Just pick a time.” I looked at my watch. “Say, midnight?” “Fine,” he growled. “Cash, only.” Not another sound came from him until I slammed the passenger door and began reaching for my wallet. From the shadows, I heard, “We’ll settle up later - if they let yah go.” I had been wondering whether this would be my only visit to the Lost Souls Coffee House, but it hadn’t occurred to me until that moment that I might not be able to get back at all. The battered old taxi had pulled away from the driveway, its tires spitting mud and snow. And I was left staring at a weathered door with frost-scarred glass, dimly lit from within. The front door opened easily, followed by a rush of warm air. I was standing inside a tiny foyer in the glow from an old fashioned overhead lamp, facing a row of coat hooks and a small table with a “Sign-in” slate. I could hear muffled laughter from behind the interior door. I shook my coat, hung it and studied the House Rules sign posted next to the coat hooks. Sign in with your username. (First timers - make one up.) The management (DNA to you) reserves the right to open or close this establishment at any time, to welcome or exclude you or anyone else on a whim. Electronic devices don’t work in this space. Why? Don’t ask. Have a seat anywhere you can manage without a fight. Be sure and sign out when you leave. NO EXCEPTIONS. Your secrets are safe here but your stories will belong to us. No refunds, ever. Next I studied the Sign-in slate. Seven names were listed, all time-stamped. The most recent four were, “Bit”, “Byte” and “Bitch”, followed close-on by the arrival of “Mystery Man”. I decided to sign in as Stranger. As soon as I wrote my entry name with the e-stylus, the door to the main room opened. The fragrance of coffee and of an old fashioned fire poured through. Reassured, I dismissed my misgivings and stepped into the main room. The chatter of voices suddenly fell silent. For an uncomfortable moment, all seven guests and DNA, the proprietor, looked up at me. Then everyone looked at the wall behind me. I followed their gaze. The entire Sign-in list was reproduced on a wall screen, including me, ‘Stranger’. The spell was broken and the conversational ripple quickly resumed. Having morphed from the center of attention to social invisibility, I scanned the room for a place to park myself. Three young adults were sitting at a battered table a few feet away, carrying on inside their own conversational bubble. From the screen on the wall, it appeared that they were Bit, Byte and Bitch, probably students traveling together. I spotted an empty table in the corner. As I pulled out a chair, the proprietor made eye contact with me from his perch behind the counter. I nodded and smiled. DNA was a man of indeterminate age with an intelligent, lived-in face. He immediately took a large coffee mug from his rack and filled it, adding cream. I picked it up at the counter, noting its warmth and heft, and wondered if this guy ever asked what the customers wanted. As I reached into a pocket for my wallet, DNA quietly shook his head. “The first visit is always on The House,” he said. So I ferried the coffee caldron to my table, and the proprietor resumed reading his ebook. Had I recognized DNA from somewhere? A magazine article, maybe? I studied his face for a moment. Not possible. Just one of those chance resemblances. I gave it no further thought. Then I spotted “Mystery Man”, the latest arrival before me. He was sitting at the small table nearest the counter. He was a sturdy type, late 30’s, dark hair, neat beard, a pressed white shirt with black slacks. Mystery Man was eavesdropping on the students. Their conversation had just taken a more interesting turn: “Okay, okay. A billion monkeys pounding on a trillion keyboards will eventually write a few decent lines of poetry. That’s it, man.” Byte was speaking - his name on the wall screen glowed slightly when he spoke. “Not all Shakespeare’s plays?” Bit asked. “Need more monkeys, a lot more.” Bitch smiled at her own observation. “By the time you breed enough simian typists, highly intelligent raccoons will be available and monkeys will unionized.” She was a pretty girl with sharply intelligent eyes, wearing jeans and a University of Toronto sweatshirt. “Why so many keyboards?” This was Bit’s contribution. He seemed more interested in the girl than the topic. “You ever see a monkey at a keyboard? You gotta have some spares.” Clearly, Byte was trying to impress Bitch. Clearly, it wasn’t working. “Do you think miracles are like that?” Mystery Man had spoken. The students stared at him curiously. “Are miracles like monkeys at keyboards writing a sonnet?” he asked. “Assuming a proper sonnet results?” “How could any accident be a miracle?” It was Byte. Mystery Man smiled. “Suppose you were an accident?” Byte shrugged, blushing. “Sorry. It was a rhetorical question, no offense meant. There’s a difference between accidents that break something and others that make something new. A very important distinction, don’t you think?” He pulled out his pipe. “You mind if I…?” It was apparent that no one objected to smokers in the Lost Souls Coffee House. The place was littered with used ashtrays and unused matches. Mystery Man took the students’ silence for an invitation. He lit his pipe and appropriated the fourth chair at their table. As if on cue, DNA emerged from behind the counter with a fresh carafe of coffee and a warm mug for Mystery Man. As DNA filled four cups, Mystery Man leaned back, savoring the fragrant pipe smoke. “Suppose the monkeys wrote something that would be remembered and repeated forever. Suppose those very words had the power to change the way we all look at life. Would that be a miracle?” “Still just a chance event?” It was Bitch. “And with truly stupid, un-evolved monkeys?” “Assume that’s how it is. How would you answer my question?” Mystery Man was addressing the three of them, but Bitch preempted the boys. “Yes, I think that could be a miracle. Just consider the sheer scale of the improbability, and your distinction between breaking and making.” “You fellas agree with her? That a seemingly chance event can be a miracle?” There were two nods. Whatever Bit and Byte really thought, the boys were not prepared to disagree with Bitch. Mystery Man took a sip from his mug, pausing, . “So, is my example functionally impossible?” “By that you mean, almost impossible?” Bit said. “Not strictly impossible, but so out of the ordinary run of chance that it turns your head, makes you rethink your assumptions.” I almost jumped in at that point. I’d had a bizarre dream a few nights before, one that prompted me to seek out this place. But there are some things you just don’t share. Mystery Man continued: “In my world, miracles don’t need to cancel the laws of chance or nature to qualify. I see miracles as real events. They are wonderfully benign occurrences, often with cunning timing, that put the very laws of chance and nature to the test.” “You mean, taking natural law right to the edge?” It was DNA behind the counter, now fully engaged. I just noticed that DNA had a British accent and wondered fleetingly – Just where have I seen his face before? “To the very edge,” Mystery Man said. “and sometimes I am compelled to suspect more.” “You mean over the edge?” That was Bitch’s question. She was also fully engaged. Mystery Man smiled and nodded. His comfort level with these students was effortless. I wondered what he did for a living. “You’ve identified the big question on my mind tonight. And that reminds me of a story.” Then I remembered the last line of the House Rules: Your stories will belong to us. “Beautifully set up,” I said. “Did you hire these kids?” The students looked at me as if I’d arrived from Mars, but Mystery Man gave me a knowing smile and winked. “Just another happy accident. I wasn’t even going to tell that story tonight.” At that, the room fell completely silent. “The perception of miracles in the world depends on our suspension of cynicism. But how much can a modern mind accommodate to any miracle?” Mystery Man tapped his pipe against the table for emphasis. “Now that depends on who you’re talking to. As to that story of mine: everyone in my neighborhood believes the last part of the account, but almost everyone has problems with the first part. You might say people are split on the miracle question.” “What was wrong with the first part?” Bitch asked. “Wasn’t it credible?” “I guess you had to have been there. I was probably too close to the situation to have the same doubts. You’ll need to make up your own minds.” This is Mystery Man’s Story as he told it that night. Did I mention that I counted seven customers when I first walked in? I noticed the other three moving in closer when Mystery Man started talking, but they chose not to participate just then. More about them later.