Publisher's Synopsis
They all knew him by the trick of his trade-called him Fiddler. He was Jeremiah John, age 61, Texas as they come. If someone spied the gold discs hanging on his ranch house walls he'd grin, "Lucky guesses, every one. All goin' back to dust one these days anyway you know, no big deal." Dust. The kind that rains from rafters. The kind it's all goin' back to. Now, his fiddling days were through, so he'd taken up contemplating dust, wondering if there was something in there, anywhere...that was...that knew. Something he too would soon know...be. And if it was true, as he'd heard it said, that a man dies alone with his faith, whatever that might be...well then, he'd best make contact with that something, and make it fast. There was something else life was taking back from him. It was time.
