The Volvo pulled away with a wave from Kevin Bacon’s hand, and John stood at the edge of the road watching it disappear around a bend, its taillights winking once before the trees swallowed it whole.
Dust from the gravel shoulder settled slowly around his feet.
He stood there for a long moment, the envelope of cash still warm in his pocket, the sixty dollars Pete had given him folded separately in his front pocket like a talisman.
“Thank you” he’d said.
If we ever meet again.
It was a stupid thing to say.
He knew that.
But it was the kind of thing you said when you had no idea what else to say, when the world had tilted so far off its axis that every ordinary word felt like a lie.
Kevin had just smiled that easy smile and said, “You’ll make it. I’ve got a feeling about you.”
John almost laughed at that.
A feeling.
If only Kevin knew.
He turned and walked into Plymouth.
The town unfolded before him like a photograph from a history book, except it wasn’t a photograph and it wasn’t history.
It was real, and he was in it.
The main street was modest, a few blocks of brick and clapboard buildings with awnings striped in faded red and white.
A hardware store displayed rakes and shovels in the window.
A diner had a neon sign that buzzed faintly in the afternoon light.
A woman in a floral dress sat on a bench outside the post office, reading a newspaper with her legs crossed at the ankle, her hair styled in a way John remembered from old yearbooks from his mother’s generation.
The cars, my God, the cars.
They were everywhere, parked at angles along the street, their shapes so square and boxy they looked like toys.
A pale green Ford LTD with a vinyl roof.
A brown Chevrolet Caprice that had to be fifteen feet long.
A yellow Volkswagen Beetle, its rounded form almost comical among the angular giants around it.
John watched them as if they were animals in a zoo, and he had to remind himself that to the people here, these were just cars.
Ordinary.
Unremarkable.
New.
He walked slowly, letting his eyes take in everything.
The Town Hall was a stately brick building with white columns and a clock tower that read 3:47.
The Plymouth Public Library was housed in the old Daniel Webster Courthouse, a modest historic building a short walk away.
Its steps led up to a set of doors, and a simple sign identified it as the public library.
Nearby, Speare Memorial Hospital stood on its hill, its windows reflecting the afternoon sun.
People passed him on the sidewalk.
A man in a plaid shirt and work boots carried a briefcase in one hand.
A teenage girl in a denim jacket had a Walkman clipped to her belt, her hair feathered and teased in the style John remembered from old movies.
An elderly couple held hands as they walked, the man in a faded cardigan and the woman in a sensible hat.
They all moved at a pace that seemed almost leisurely, unhurried, as if they had nowhere particular to be and all the time in the world to get there.
John felt his chest tighten.
It was the pace of it, the slowness.
In 2026, everyone ran.
Everyone had somewhere to be, something to do, someone to call.
Here, in this small New Hampshire town, the world was moving at a speed he’d forgotten existed.
He climbed the library steps and pushed through the doors.
Inside, the air was cool and smelled of paper, dust, and the faint, pleasant mustiness of old books.
The ceiling was low and uneven in places, and the rooms felt crowded with shelves and furniture.
Books seemed to be everywhere.
The collection had outgrown the building years ago, and the sense of age was unmistakable.
A librarian sat behind the front desk, an older woman with silver rimmed glasses and a cardigan over a floral blouse.
She looked up as John entered and offered a small, polite smile.
“Can I help you find something?” she asked.
John opened his mouth to speak, and for a moment, no sound came.
What was he supposed to say?
I’m from the future and I need to figure out what year this is?
He cleared his throat.
“I’m just looking. Browsing. I haven’t been to a library in a while.”
The librarian’s smile didn’t waver.
“Take your time. We’re open until six.”
John nodded and walked into the stacks.
His hands moved almost automatically, reaching for books on the nearest shelf.
He pulled one out, a biography of Franklin Roosevelt, published in 1976.
He put it back.
Another: a novel by John le Carré, copyright 1980.
He moved deeper into the library, his fingers trailing along the spines, reading dates as if they were clues to a mystery he was still trying to solve.
1981.
1979.
1982.
He came to a section of current periodicals and stopped.
There, on a wooden rack, were the latest issues of magazines and newspapers.
Time, with a cover story about the turmoil surrounding the Falklands War.
Newsweek, with coverage of the Reagan administration and the budget fight in Washington.
And the Manchester Union Leader, the newspaper Pete had mentioned, its front page filled with state and national headlines.
John reached for Time and checked the date.
May 10, 1982.
He turned to Newsweek.
The issue was dated May 17, 1982.
He picked up the Manchester Union Leader and checked the masthead.
May 15, 1982, today’s date.
His hands were shaking.
He set the papers down carefully, as if they were made of glass, and pressed his palms flat against the wooden rack.
The sensation of the old, varnished wood beneath his fingers was grounding, solid, real.
This was real.
This was happening.
He was in 1982, and no amount of wishing would change that.
He pulled out a chair at one of the long wooden tables and sat down heavily.
Around him, the library was quiet except for the rustle of pages and the distant hum of a fluorescent light.
A man in a tweed jacket read a newspaper at the other end of the table.
A child sat in the corner, her small legs swinging as she paged through a picture book.
John reached for the nearest book, a novel with a cover showing a divided American flag.
North and South by John Jakes.
He opened it and found the copyright page: 1982.
He set it aside and reached for another, a collection of novellas by Stephen King.
Different Seasons.
Copyright 1982.
And another, a slim volume with a stark cover.
When Bad Things Happen to Good People by Harold S.
Kushner.
The date inside was 1981.
He read them.
He read the opening chapters of the Jakes novel, following the story of two families divided by the Civil War.
He read the first novella in King’s collection, the one about a prisoner and a guard that would later become the film The Shawshank Redemption.
He read Kushner’s reflections on grief and loss, the words hitting him in a way they never could have before.
When bad things happen to good people, Kushner had written, we are left with the question: why?
John closed the book and set it aside.
That was the question, wasn’t it?
Why him?
Why this?
Why 1982?
But he knew, in some deep part of himself, that the question didn’t matter.
What mattered was what he did now.
What he did with this impossible second chance, this strange gift of being alive in a world that wasn’t his own.
He moved back to the periodicals section and began flipping through the newspapers more carefully.
The Manchester Union Leader was filled with stories about state politics and the coming election season.
There were reports about the redistricting fight, the dispute over the New Hampshire Senate map, and the political maneuvering that would soon force the issue into the courts.
There were other stories too.
National news.
International news.
He read about the Reagan administration’s economic policies, the “supply side” theory that was supposed to jump start the economy, and the tax cuts that were supposed to make everything better.
He read about the nuclear freeze movement, the grassroots campaign that had spread across the country, with ordinary citizens demanding that the United States and the Soviet Union stop the arms race before it was too late.
New Hampshire was part of that movement; town meetings across the state had taken up the issue, and even some traditionally conservative communities had supported freeze resolutions.
He read about the political controversies surrounding the Reagan campaign and New Hampshire, about questions over campaign spending and the rules governing political money.
He filed the details away without knowing yet why they might matter.
He read it all.
He absorbed it.
He let it wash over him like water, and by the time he was done, there was a strange peace settling over his mind.
This is real, he thought.
This is my world now.
He looked up at the clock on the wall, an old round schoolhouse clock with Roman numerals, and saw that it was almost five.
The library would close in an hour.
He had things to do.
He had to find a place to sleep, a meal to eat, a plan for tomorrow.
He returned the newspapers and magazines to their racks, careful to put them back exactly as he’d found them.
He tucked the Stephen King book under his arm.
He’d check it out, take it with him, something to read while he figured out the next steps.
Then he walked to the front desk.
The librarian looked up.
“Find what you were looking for?”
“I think so,” John said.
“I’d like to check this out, if that’s okay.”
She took the book and recorded the loan in the circulation system, then stamped the date on the card inside the cover.
“May fifteenth,” she said.
“Bring it back in three weeks.”
John nodded.
“You’re not from around here,” she said.
It wasn’t a question.
John hesitated.
“No,” he said.
“I’m passing through.”
She smiled.
“Well, I hope you enjoy your time in Plymouth. It’s a quiet town, but it has its charms.”
John thanked her and walked out into the fading afternoon light.
The café was called the Bluebird Diner, and it was exactly the kind of place you’d expect to find in a small New England town.
Red vinyl booths.
A long counter with swivel stools.
A jukebox in the corner that was currently playing something soft and twangy, a country song John didn’t recognize.
The air smelled of coffee and frying bacon, even in the late afternoon.
John slid into a booth near the window, the one with a view of the street, and a waitress appeared almost immediately.
She was in her fifties, maybe, with dyed red hair and a nametag that read “Florence.”
“What can I get you, hon?” she asked, her voice warm and tired.
“Coffee,” John said.
“Just coffee.”
She nodded and disappeared, returning a moment later with a ceramic mug and a small carafe.
She poured the coffee, dark, strong, the kind that could strip paint, and set the carafe on the table.
“Take your time,” she said.
“Let me know if you want anything else.”
John wrapped his hands around the mug, letting the warmth seep into his palms.
He lifted it to his lips and took a sip.
It was bitter and hot and perfect, the kind of coffee that reminded you you were alive.
He sat there for a long time, drinking it slowly, watching the street through the window.
A man walked past with a dog on a leash.
A woman pushed a baby carriage.
A teenage boy on a bicycle wobbled down the sidewalk, his hands in the air, showing off for a girl who laughed from the steps of a nearby house.
It was all so ordinary.
So utterly, achingly ordinary.
And that was when John realized he had to accept it.
Not just the calendar, not just the newspapers, not just the world around him.
He had to accept that this was his life now.
That the old life, the one with Sarah and Emily and Ryan, the one with the house and the birdbath and the essays about The Great Gatsby, that life was gone.
Maybe it had never existed.
Maybe it was all a dream, a hallucination, a fantasy his broken mind had conjured to cope with whatever had really happened to him.
But it felt real.
It still felt real.
And that was the part that hurt the most.
He finished his coffee and reached into his pocket to pay, his fingers brushing against the envelope of cash and then, deeper in the fabric, something else.
He pulled it out, a worn leather wallet, the kind that folded in half and snapped shut.
He’d found it in the coat, the one he’d been wearing when he woke up in the field.
It had been in one of the pockets, along with the tape measure, the handkerchief, and the gloves.
He opened it.
Inside was a driver’s license issued by the State of New Hampshire, with a photo of a man who looked almost exactly like him.
The name on the license read Samuel Wallace, Jr., and the address was listed as 14 Maple Street, Thornton, New Hampshire.
There was a date of birth, December 3, 1952, and an expiration date, May 31, 1986.
Sam Wallace.
John stared at the photo.
The man in the picture had his face, his eyes, his nose, his jawline.
But there was something different in the expression, a weariness, maybe, or a sadness, a look that John recognized because he’d seen it in his own reflection so many times over the years.
It was the look of a man who had lost something and couldn’t quite remember what it was.
He put the wallet back in his pocket and paid for the coffee.
Florence gave him a wink as he left, telling him to come back soon, and John stepped out into the evening air.
The sun was lower now, casting long shadows across the street, painting everything in shades of gold and amber.
He walked back toward the library, his feet carrying him without conscious thought.
He had no plan, not really.
But he had an idea.
And that was enough for now.
The library was closed, the doors locked, the lights off.
But John didn’t need the library anymore.
He had what he needed, confirmation, acceptance, a direction.
He would go to Concord.
It was the state capital, and compared with Plymouth, it was a city.
There would be jobs there.
There would be people.
There would be a way to start over, to build a life, to figure out what came next.
He found a pay phone on the corner, the kind with a folding door and a receiver attached by a coiled cord.
He checked the bus schedule.
A Concord Trailways departure was listed for 8:15 the next morning.
He could make that.
He would make that.
He bought a sandwich from a deli that was about to close, wrapped in wax paper, the kind you had to unwrap like a present.
He found a bench in the small park across from Town Hall and sat there, eating it in the fading light, watching the stars come out one by one.
The sky was beautiful.
He’d forgotten how beautiful the sky could be without all the light pollution, without the haze and the smog and the constant orange glow of a city that never slept.
These stars were the same ones he’d seen in 2026, the same constellations, the same patterns, the same impossible distances.
And yet everything else had changed.
He finished the sandwich and leaned back on the bench, his head tilted up, his eyes fixed on the stars.
The night was cool and quiet.
The town had settled into its evening rhythm, the streetlights flickering on one by one, the sounds of dinner and televisions and family conversations drifting out of open windows.
This is my life now, John thought.
Sam Wallace’s life.
I’m Sam Wallace.
He said it aloud, just to hear what it sounded like.
“My name is Sam Wallace.”
The words felt strange in his mouth, wrong and heavy, like a coat that didn’t quite fit.
But he said them again.
“My name is Sam Wallace. I live in New Hampshire. I work on a farm. I have no family, no friends, no future.”
He paused.
“But I’m alive. And I’m going to find a way to make this work.”
He lay back on the bench, his hands behind his head, and stared at the stars until his eyes grew heavy.
The night enveloped him, cool and calm, and for the first time since he’d woken up in that field, John Bridger, Sam Wallace, slept without dreaming.