when my fingers made contact , a tingle spread up through my digits and through my wrist and up my arm . receptive white light once again strung between the spokes . i wondered : is this what the red haired womans father had felt every second of every day ? by one o'clock in the morning , they were finished . this is brit , over at red rock . `` good , '' he said , giving me a little push backwards . playing his guitar was not what she had in mind . 