We had been in Indonesia long enough to start to learn how time works, or stops. So when Jason’s friend asked him to visit his village with him one Saturday, telling him it would be 2 hours, I knew to double it, then add another one or two just to be safe. But when he still wasn’t back after 6, and then 7 hours, I started to panic. I didn’t know the name of the village Jason was going to, which cardinal direction it was in. I didn’t know the man’s name, just that he went by Mr. Balloon, because he sold balloons. I didn’t know Jason’s license plate number, just that he drove the most popular motorcycle in the most popular color in the country. Even if I could scape together enough words in my new language, what could I tell the police? I called everyone I knew in language school but nobody had any information. I made up my mind that I was a widow, and would go through life never knowing for sure what happened to my husband. Right at 8 hours after he left, Jason came home, wondering why I wasn’t at the birthday party we were supposed to go to. Well, because I was a disaster! The next morning, Jason went to do what he said he would never do, buy a cell phone. He was willing to sacrifice feeling permanently attached to something and always on call to preserve my sanity, to love me sacrificially. And we learned that Mr. Balloon meant it was a 2 hour drive to his village.