It<em>is</em>her - and despite the fact that any reasonable person would be completely unnerved at finding a stranger stalking them in the bathroom of a secure office suite<em>and then</em>showing up at the precise right moment at the curb in midtown Manhattan just before lunch, I am unquestionably relieved.  This only serves as another small mental confirmation that I have probably gone completely off the deep end. And you know what?  I think I'm ok with that.  I feel a hell of a lot more comfortable in the back of this cab listening to a strange woman's crazy talk than I did upstairs discussing the technology that was supposed to make me very rich with my boss.<br/><br/>Maybe make that<em>former</em>boss, as it's really not clear to me if I'm still employed. Or, given the state of things in VRS, if I was ever employed there in the first place...?<br/><br/>I can only nod distractedly as I try to make sense of what Mystery Woman (as she will now be referred to ever after in mind. I did briefly consider dubbing her 'Carmen Sandiego', but then it occurred to me that Mystery Woman is really the antithesis of Carmen Sandiego, in that she seems to show up in the unlikeliest places, and, hopefully, is<em>not</em>the villain.<em>Ironic Carmen Sandiego</em>seems a bit verbose. I may be going crazy, but standards must be maintained) is saying.  I am almost ashamed to admit that what it seems she might be trying to explain, in the most paranoia-inducing way possible, is starting to sound not only the likeliest explanation but also the easiest to swallow.  This goes against everything I have ever believed in as a rational, logical human being.<br/><br/>I don't know whether to be relieved or not when she assures me I am not hallucinating or dreaming.  I decide I am going to remain neutral on the subject, and just making a decision of some kind that doesn't involve ducking executives or escaping fire-regulation-violating lab security systems<em>does</em>make me feel a bit better.  I settle back in the cracked green vinyl seat, searing the image of a stylized dragonfly into my mind.<br/><br/>If I am going to go full-on crack pot, I intend to do so with<em>purpose</em>.<br/><br/>I'll admit - the option to ask a question catches me off guard.  Not because I don't have any questions... I have a million of them.  It's simply that I can't possibly, in the span of just a few moments, determine<em>which</em>question is the best one to ask.<br/><br/>At that moment the decision is made for me, as some part of my primitive brain asserts itself while the higher functions are still whirring through massive amounts of conflicting and confusing information.  I feel like I'm 6 years old again, caught up in events that far outstrip my naive and immature ability to comprehend what is going on.  I sound like it, too:<br/><br/><hr/><br/>Question:<br/><br/><strong>"Who are the good guys here?"</strong><br/>