The alarm clock in his head, the one that had woken him at 6:47 for years, even on weekends, even when he didn’t want it to, dragged him from sleep at dawn.
He opened his eyes to the gray light of morning, the familiar sky above him, the unfamiliar bench beneath him, the strange ache in his neck and shoulders from sleeping in the open air.
He sat up slowly, wincing at the stiffness in his joints.
A paper bag, he’d saved half the sandwich for breakfast, sat beside him on the bench, slightly soggy but still edible.
He ate it quickly, washed it down with water from a public fountain, and started toward the bus stop.
The bus stop was modest, little more than a waiting area and a posted schedule.
John arrived early and stood with his ticket in hand, watching the street wake up around him.
A few other passengers gathered nearby, an elderly woman with a shopping bag, a young man in military uniform, a mother with a toddler who wouldn’t stop squirming.
They all had places to go, people to see, lives to live.
John wondered what his own life would look like once he got to Concord.
Would he find a job?
A place to live?
Friends?
Or would he spend the rest of his days drifting from town to town, always looking over his shoulder, always wondering if the future he’d lost would somehow find its way back to him?
The bus arrived on time, a blue and white coach with the company’s name painted along the side.
In 1982, the service operated under the Concord Trailways name, not the later Concord Coach Lines name.
John boarded and found a seat near the back, by the window.
The engine rumbled to life, and the bus pulled away from Plymouth, heading south toward Concord.
The landscape rolled past in a blur of green and brown, the first hints of summer beginning to show in the trees, the fields, and the small towns that flashed by like dreams.
John watched it all through the glass, his mind drifting, his eyes heavy.
He thought about Sarah.
He thought about the way she used to smile at him when they were first married, that bright, unguarded smile that had made him feel like the luckiest man in the world.
He thought about the way she’d cooked dinner in their first apartment, the small kitchen filled with the smells of garlic and onions and something simmering on the stove.
He thought about the way she’d laughed when he’d spilled wine on the tablecloth, the way she’d thrown her head back and let the laughter spill out like water from a broken dam.
He thought about Emily, his daughter, whose first steps he’d missed because he’d been grading papers, whose first words he’d heard through the phone because he’d been at a conference.
He thought about Ryan, his son, who’d stopped asking him to play catch last summer, who’d looked at him with a mixture of disappointment and resignation that had broken something inside him.
He thought about all the times he’d been in the same room with them and not really been there, all the times he’d chosen work over family, all the times he’d told himself there would be more time.
There had never been more time.
There had only been the time he’d squandered, the moments he’d let slip away like water through his fingers.
And now they were gone, and there was no bringing them back.
His eyes burned.
He blinked hard, and a single tear escaped, running down his cheek and dripping onto his collar.
He wiped it away quickly, embarrassed even though no one was watching.
The bus passed through a small town, Bristol, the sign said, and John looked out at the houses, the shops, the people going about their morning routines.
A man was delivering newspapers from the back of a pickup truck.
A woman was watering flowers on her front porch.
A dog was chasing a squirrel across a lawn.
It was all so normal, so ordinary, so utterly human.
And that was when John made the decision.
He would live in this world.
He would accept that he was Sam Wallace, at least for now.
He would find a job, a place to live, a purpose.
He would build a life here, in 1982, in this strange, slow, quiet world that was so different from everything he’d known.
And maybe, someday, he would find a way back to his own time.
Maybe he would find Sarah and Emily and Ryan, and maybe they would remember him, and maybe everything would be okay.
But if he didn’t, if he never made it back, he would have something.
He would have a life.
He would have meaning.
He would have hope.
The bus rolled on, through farmland and forest, past signs for state parks and scenic overlooks.
At one point they passed a gas station advertising gasoline at around $1.29 a gallon, a price that seemed impossibly cheap and impossibly expensive at the same time.
The sun rose higher in the sky, and the bus began to fill with the heat of the day.
John leaned his head against the window and let his eyes drift closed.
He dreamed of Sarah again.
He dreamed of the house, the yard, the rhododendron bushes.
He dreamed of Emily’s laugh and Ryan’s smile.
He dreamed of the bird, the crow that had shaken its head at him, as if to say, You’re not supposed to be here.
As if to say, Wake up, John.
Wake up and go home.
He woke with a start as the bus lurched to a stop.
The driver announced that they were in Concord, and passengers began gathering their belongings, standing and filing toward the door.
John waited until the line had thinned, then rose and stepped off the bus.
The bus terminal was larger than the stop he’d left in Plymouth, with a waiting room and a few basic facilities.
John bought another cup of coffee, he was becoming addicted to the stuff, he realized, and walked outside.
Concord spread before him like a picture postcard.
The State House rose in the distance, its gold dome gleaming in the morning sun.
There were government buildings and offices, banks and restaurants, shops and apartments.
There was traffic, more of it than in Plymouth, and people moved with a slightly quicker pace, though still not as fast as the cities of 2026.
John stood on the sidewalk, his coffee warm in his hand, and took it all in.
This was his new home.
This was where he would start over.
This was where he would become Sam Wallace, Jr., a man with a past he couldn’t remember and a future he couldn’t predict.
He had no job, no place to stay, no friends.
He had a wallet with a driver’s license and about five hundred dollars in cash.
He had a book by Stephen King, a heart full of grief, and a determination that surprised even him.
He looked up at the gold dome of the State House and smiled.
It was a small smile, barely a twitch of his lips, but it was real.
It was hope.
“Okay,” he said aloud, his voice lost in the noise of the city.
“Let’s do this.”
He began walking, not toward anything in particular, just forward, because that was the only direction that made sense.
He would find a job.
He would find a place to live.
He would find his way.
And maybe, just maybe, he would find his way back home.
But for now, the road was enough.