Twyla, a regression therapist and Dolly Parton wannabe, sends marketing executive Jane McBride tumbling through time passages, exposing her to previous lives. One stop recurs. Her arms are locked around his neck. Fully clothed and dancing with bare feet is insanely intimate. Hours later, seated on the back of an Indian motorcycle, huddled against his back, she watches the countryside stream by in yards of dazzling color.

Then he’s gone.
Jane sits in the office, her fingers sunburned, her cheeks flushed. She’s desperate to return to him. Twyla offers only the fermented smile of the Grim Reaper. Can’t help you, Jane, honey. This isn’t real, you know. Regression is only a mind game.