Frank found him still on the floor ten minutes later, and John couldn’t blame the foreman for looking alarmed.
His legs wouldn’t work.
His hands wouldn’t stop shaking.
He’d tried to stand twice and failed both times, his body refusing to cooperate with the desperate need to get up, to move, to do somethChaing.
“Get up,” Frank said, not unkindly.
He was a gruff man, but there was concern in his eyes now, along with the wariness of someone who had seen men fall apart before and knew the signs.
“Get up and we’ll talk about this. Whatever this is.”
John managed to get to his feet, gripping the edge of the desk for support.
The calendar was still there, staring at him.
He thought about what that meant.
Ronald Reagan was president.
The Cold War was still a reality.
Cell phones, personal computers, and the internet were years away from becoming part of ordinary life.
And his wife and children had not yet been born.
They might never be born.
The thought made him sick to his stomach.
“Take a walk,” Frank said.
“Clear your head. I’ve got a wagon going to the north field. Pete can take you.”
He paused.
“Just get some air. We’ll talk when you’re thinking straight.”
Frank didn’t know the half of it, John thought.
But he nodded anyway.
He needed to get out of the office, out of the building, away from that calendar.
He needed to breathe.
Pete was waiting outside, leaning against the barn wall.
He fell into step beside John as they walked away from the farmhouse.
They didn’t speak at first.
John’s mind was still reeling, a whirlwind of impossible facts and terrifying implications, and he didn’t trust himself to form coherent sentences.
Finally, after they’d walked past the barn and into the field where the hay had been cut, Pete spoke.
“You want to tell me what that was about?”
John shook his head.
“You wouldn’t believe me if I did.”
“Try me.”
John looked at him.
This kind-eyed stranger seemed to genuinely care what happened to him.
There was nothing to lose.
He’d already lost everything.
“I’m not Sam,” he said.
“I’m not from here. I’m from the future.”
Pete glanced at him.
“How far in the future?”
“2026.”
Pete was quiet for a moment.
“That’s a long way off.”
“You believe me?”
Pete shrugged.
“I’ve seen strange things in my life,” Pete said quietly.
“People who show up where they don’t belong. People who know things they shouldn’t know.”
John stared at him.
“What are you saying?”
Pete looked toward the fields.
“Nothing. Just that the world is bigger than we think.”
He didn’t say anything else.
Pete looked out across the fields.
“You’ve been here for three years, Sam. Or John. Or whoever you are. And you’ve always been a little…”
He searched for the word.
“Off.”
John said nothing.
Pete continued.
“Like you’re waiting for something. Like you’re not quite present in this world.”
John felt a lump form in his throat.
“I can’t stay here,” he said.
“I have to get back. I have to find my family.”
“Your family that doesn’t exist yet?”
“In my time, they exist.”
John’s voice hardened.
“In my time, they’re waiting for me. I don’t know if I’m dead there, missing, or what. But I have to find a way back to them.”
Pete was quiet for a long moment.
The tractor rumbled in the distance, and a bird sang somewhere in the trees bordering the field.
“The thing is,” Pete said finally, “even if you did find a way back, even if you could somehow get to 2026, what would you go back to?”
John looked at him.
“If you’ve been here for three years, or if you got sent here, or whatever happened, your life there might already be gone. The people you knew might have moved on.”
“I don’t care,” John said fiercely.
“I don’t care if I’m dead. I don’t care if I’m missing. I need them to know I’m okay. I need to see them one more time.”
Pete nodded slowly, as if this made perfect sense.
“All right, then. What’s your plan?”
And that was the question, wasn’t it?
John had no plan.
He had nothing but a broken mind and a desperate hope that somewhere, somehow, there was a way back to everything he’d lost.
“I need to get to the West Coast,” he said.
“Oregon.”
Pete looked at him.
“If I can get there, maybe I’ll find something. Some sign that my life was real. Some clue. Some way back.”
“Oregon,” Pete repeated, shaking his head.
“That’s a long way from New Hampshire. You got any money?”
“I…”
John reached into his pockets.
Nothing.
He was wearing work clothes that weren’t his, and his pockets were empty.
“No,” he said.
“I have nothing.”
Pete sighed.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a worn leather wallet.
He opened it, counted several bills, and handed them to John.
“Here.”
John looked down.
“How much is that?”
“Sixty dollars.”
John hesitated.
“It’s not much, but it’ll get you started.”
“I can’t take your money.”
Even as he said it, he reached for the bills.
His desperation was stronger than his pride.
“Consider it an investment,” Pete said with a small smile.
“I want to see if you make it.”
John stared at the money in his hand, at the strange bills with their old designs, at the proof that he really was in another time.
Then he looked at Pete, this stranger who had shown him more kindness in one morning than he’d received from anyone in years.
“Thank you,” he said.
“I don’t know how I’ll ever repay you.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
Pete smiled.
“Just get where you’re going. And if you ever figure out how to get back to 2026, maybe send me a message.”
John almost smiled.
“Tell me what the world’s like,” Pete added.
“It’s a mess,” John said.
Then he looked down at the money.
“But it’s my mess.”
They walked back to the farmhouse, and John found Frank in the office, still sitting at his desk and looking at a ledger with furrowed brows.
He looked up when John entered.
“You feeling better?”
“Not really,” John admitted.
“But I need to leave. I need to go find my family.”
Frank studied him for a long moment.
“You planning on coming back?”
“No.”
Frank nodded slowly, as if he’d expected that answer.
“I figured as much. You’ve been different lately. Distracted. Like your mind was somewhere else.”
He reached into his desk drawer and pulled out an envelope, sliding it across the desk.
“This is your pay for the week you’ve worked. It’s not much, but it’s what you’ve earned.”
John opened the envelope and counted the bills inside.
Four hundred and fifty dollars.
More than he’d expected, but still not enough to get him across the country.
Still, it was something.
“Thank you,” he said.
“For everything.”
Frank waved a hand dismissively.
“Don’t thank me. Just don’t cause any trouble when you go.”
John nodded and turned to leave.
Then he stopped at the door.
“The date,” he said.
“May fifteenth, 1982. Are you sure it’s 1982?”
Frank looked at him as if he’d lost his mind.
“What else would it be?”
“Nothing.”
John forced a small smile.
“Just checking.”
He walked out of the farmhouse and into the yard, the envelope clutched tightly in his hand.
The sun was still high, but he had no idea what time it was.
He had no watch to check and no phone to look at.
He was cut off from everything he’d once known, adrift in a world that was at once familiar and alien.
The farm gate was open.
Beyond it, John could see the road, a two-lane ribbon of asphalt winding through the hills.
A sign stood at the gate, weathered and rusted, with words painted in faded letters:
“SAM WALLACE FARMSTEAD 3 MILES TO THORNTON.”
Thornton.
John had no idea where Thornton was.
But it was a start.
He stepped through the gate, onto the road, and began to walk.
He walked for what felt like hours.
The road wound through farms and forests, past the occasional house, past fields of corn and cows, and through the strange, lonely beauty of the New Hampshire countryside.
The sun moved across the sky.
John’s feet began to ache.
His sneakers were completely inadequate for this kind of travel.
He didn’t know where he was going.
He just knew he had to keep moving.
Around midday, he guessed from the position of the sun, a tractor appeared behind him, moving slowly and loudly.
John turned and stuck out his thumb.
The tractor slowed to a stop.
The driver was an old man in a straw hat, his face lined by years of sun and wind.
“Where you headed?” he asked.
“Thornton,” John said.
“Any chance you’re going that way?”
The old man nodded.
“Not all the way, but close enough. Hop in the back if you want.”
John climbed onto the back of the tractor.
It wasn’t a comfortable ride, but it was better than walking.
The old man shifted gears, and they lurched forward, the engine roaring in John’s ears and the wind whipping across his face.
They drove for an hour, maybe two.
The landscape changed.
The hills flattened out.
The road wound through valleys and over bridges.
They passed through a small town, sleepy and quiet, the kind of place where everyone seemed to know everyone else.
Then the old man pointed toward a lake that gleamed in the distance.
“Squam Lake,” he said.
“That’s as far as I go.”
John thanked him and climbed down.
His legs were stiff and sore.
The lake was beautiful, surrounded by trees and dotted with small islands.
The water shimmered beneath the afternoon sun.
Vacation houses stood along the shore, and a small general store had a gas pump out front.
John walked toward the store, his stomach growling.
The money was still in his pocket, and he needed food.
Real food.
Not the soup and sandwiches he’d eaten at the farm.
The store was small, with wooden shelves and a counter where an old man sat reading a newspaper.
John grabbed a loaf of bread and some cheese.
As he was paying, his eyes fell on a bulletin board beside the counter.
There were flyers for lost dogs and yard sales.
One poster in particular caught his attention.
It was a movie poster.
A simple design with the words ON GOLDEN POND at the top and a picture of an older man and a younger woman on a dock.
At the bottom were the words:
NOW SHOWING.
John stared at it.
He recognized the movie.
He’d seen it on television years later, though he couldn’t remember exactly when.
It had been released in 1981.
And seeing the poster there, real and tangible, made the reality of his situation crash over him again.
He was in 1982.
He was more than three thousand miles from home.
He was forty-four years away from his own time.
He was walking through New Hampshire with a bag of bread and cheese and a pocket full of money that would eventually run out.
The old man behind the counter noticed him staring at the poster.
“It’s a good movie,” he said.
“Henry Fonda’s last film. Came out last year.”
John nodded, unable to speak.
He walked out of the store, the sun warm on his face and the lake glittering in the distance.
He had no idea what to do next.
He had no plan.
No map.
No idea how to get home.
But he kept walking anyway.
Because what else could he do?
The road stretched ahead of him, empty of traffic.
He stuck out his thumb every time a car passed, but no one stopped.
He was dirty, tired, and increasingly desperate, his mind spinning with thoughts of Sarah, Emily, and Ryan, and all the things he’d left behind.
Finally, a car appeared in the distance.
A deep blue Volvo 240.
Its square shape was unmistakable.
John raised his thumb.
To his surprise, the car slowed and pulled over to the side of the road.
The driver rolled down the window.
He was young, maybe twenty-four, with sandy hair and a face that John thought he recognized from somewhere.
“Where you headed?” the young man asked.
“Thornton,” John said.
“Any chance you’re going that way?”
The young man smiled.
It was an easy, friendly smile.
“I can take you as far as Plymouth. That close enough?”
“Yes.”
Relief flooded through John.
“That’s perfect.”
He climbed into the passenger seat, and the car pulled back onto the road.
The young man introduced himself as Kevin.
He was friendly and talkative, asking John where he was from and where he was going.
John gave vague answers, not wanting to explain the truth.
He said he was from Oregon, which was true in a way, and that he was heading west.
Kevin nodded as if this made perfect sense.
“I’m headed out west too,” he said.
“California. I’m trying to make it as an actor.”
An actor.
John looked at the young man’s face again.
This time, he realized why it looked familiar.
The sandy hair.
The face.
The voice.
Kevin Bacon.
A very young Kevin Bacon, years before he became famous, before Footloose, before A Few Good Men, before the countless movies John had watched over the years.
For a moment, John simply stared.
Kevin noticed.
“What?”
John quickly looked away.
“Nothing.”
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
John almost laughed.
“Maybe I have.”
Kevin smiled, apparently deciding not to press the matter.
John looked out the window again.
“I think you’ll make it,” he said.
Kevin glanced at him.
“Make what?”
“Hollywood.”
Kevin laughed.
“That’s the plan.”
“I think you’ll be very successful.”
Kevin gave him a curious look.
“That’s a pretty confident prediction.”
John smiled faintly.
“Just a feeling.”
Kevin laughed again.
“Thanks. I’ll take it.”
They drove in companionable silence for a while, the Volvo humming along the New Hampshire roads.
John stared out the window, watching the landscape change, thinking about everything that had happened and everything that was still to come.
He was in 1982.
He was in a car with Kevin Bacon.
He was more than three thousand miles from Oregon and forty-four years from everything he’d ever known.
But he was still alive.
He’d survived the crash.
He’d survived the farm.
He’d survived the journey this far.
And somehow, impossibly, he was still moving forward.
Maybe that meant something.
Or maybe it meant nothing at all.
Either way, John Bridger kept moving, toward whatever the future held.