The morning light was thin and gray when John woke again.
He lay in bed for a while, letting the sounds of the motel wash over him.
The distant hum of traffic.
The creak of floorboards from the room above.
The muffled voices of other guests.
He felt less tired than he had the day before, but not by much.
His sleep had been fitful, interrupted by fragments of dreams he couldn’t quite remember.
He showered and dressed in his new clothes.
The blazer was comfortable, the trousers well fitted, and when he looked at himself in the bathroom mirror, he almost didn’t recognize the face looking back.
Sam Wallace.
That was who he was now.
At least for now.
He walked to the front desk and found Beth already there, sipping coffee from a Styrofoam cup and reading a paperback novel.
She looked up as he approached.
“Morning,” she said.
“Sleep well?”
“Not really,” John admitted.
“But I’ve had worse.”
She nodded, as if this were the most natural answer in the world.
“You heading out?”
“Yeah. I’ve got a few things to do.”
He paused, then took out a roll of cash, his remaining money, carefully counted and recounted.
“I’d like to pay for the week, if that’s okay.”
Beth raised an eyebrow.
“The whole week? That’s a commitment.”
“I’m planning to stay for a while.”
She shrugged and took the money.
Eighty dollars, exactly.
She counted it out.
“You’re paid up through next Monday. Checkout’s at eleven. Same rules apply.”
She slid a receipt across the counter.
“Keep this somewhere safe.”
John pocketed the receipt and walked out into the morning air.
The sun was higher now, burning off the thin layer of clouds that had covered the sky.
The streets of Concord were waking up, stores opening their doors, cars beginning to fill the roads.
He walked with purpose, his steps carrying him toward the Social Security office.
The office was in a modest building near the center of town, a beige structure with a small sign out front.
He pushed through the doors and found himself in a waiting room filled with people.
Elderly couples.
Young families.
A woman in a wheelchair.
A man in a work uniform with a grizzled face.
He took a number and sat down, his fingers drumming against his knee.
The wait was long.
An hour passed, then two.
He watched the people around him, wondering what their stories were, what hopes and fears they carried.
A young woman with a baby in her arms was filling out a form, her pen moving slowly across the paper.
An old man in a worn suit stared at the wall with the blank expression of someone who had seen too much.
When John’s number was finally called, he walked up to the counter.
The clerk was a middle aged woman with a tired expression and glasses perched on her nose.
She looked at his application.
Then at his license.
Then at him.
“Sam Wallace, Jr.?” she asked.
“That’s me.”
“You’re applying for a Social Security number?”
“Yes. I’ve never needed one before.”
She studied him for a moment, a long, appraising look that made John’s stomach tighten.
What if she saw through him?
What if she knew he wasn’t Sam Wallace?
That Sam Wallace was a man who lived in Thornton, who worked on a farm, who was…
Where?
Where was the real Sam?
But she just nodded and stamped something on his application.
“It’ll take about two weeks to process,” she said.
“We’ll send you a card in the mail. Keep this receipt.”
She handed him a piece of paper with a case number on it.
“If you need proof that you’ve applied, show this.”
John took the receipt and thanked her, then walked out into the sunlight.
Two weeks.
That was a long time, but it was better than nothing.
He found a pay phone on the corner and looked up the address of a brokerage office.
There was one nearby, Merrill Lynch, on Main Street.
He walked over, his heart pounding in his chest.
This was the part that felt like a risk. Enjoying the story? Read on at g.com.
This was the part that felt like gambling, even though he knew, with the certainty of someone who had already seen the future, what the outcome would be.
The office was small, a single room with a desk and a few chairs, a bookshelf filled with financial reports and magazines.
The broker was a middle aged man named Frank, who greeted him with the practiced warmth of someone who made his living from commissions.
“Sam Wallace,” Frank said, shaking his hand.
“I heard you’re looking to invest.”
“That’s right,” John said.
“I have a small amount of capital. I’m looking to put it somewhere safe.”
Frank studied him for a moment, the way the Social Security clerk had, but his eyes were different, shrewd rather than suspicious.
“What are you interested in?”
“IBM.”
Frank’s eyebrows rose.
“That’s a good stock. Solid. But it’s not cheap.”
“I know. I have two hundred and fifty dollars to invest.”
Frank paused, clearly calculating whether this was worth his time.
But he nodded and pulled out a form, sliding it across the desk.
“Fill this out. I’ll need your Social Security number.”
John hesitated.
“I’m waiting on it. The application has been processed. I have a receipt.”
He pulled out the paper from the Social Security office and handed it over.
Frank looked at it, then nodded.
“We can open the account with this. They’ll give you thirty days to provide the number before they start asking questions. You’ll need to come back and complete the updated paperwork, but we can get started today.”
John filled out the form with steady hands.
His handwriting was neat and careful, the handwriting of someone who had spent years teaching students to write legibly.
He listed his address as 14 Maple Street, Thornton, New Hampshire, even though he’d never set foot there.
He listed his occupation as unemployed and his investment objective as growth.
When he was done, Frank looked over the form and nodded.
“I’ll have the account set up by the end of the day. You can come back tomorrow to finalize the purchase, or I can do it for you by phone. Your choice.”
“I’ll come back,” John said.
“I want to see it happen.”
He shook Frank’s hand and walked out of the office, his heart beating fast.
He’d done it.
He’d planted a seed.
It wasn’t much.
Two hundred and fifty dollars, enough for a small position.
But if the market behaved the way he remembered, that seed would grow into something more.
Something that could change his future.
He walked toward the state capitol building, his steps lighter now.
The gold dome gleamed in the morning sun, and he felt a surge of something, hope maybe, or determination.
He was going to find work.
He was going to become part of this world, this strange, slow, beautiful world of 1982.
He was going to make a difference.
The capitol building was impressive, a stately structure with white columns and a grand entrance.
John walked up the steps and pushed through the heavy doors, finding himself in a marble lobby filled with the quiet hum of government.
People walked back and forth, clutching folders and briefcases, their steps echoing on the polished floor.
He approached the information desk, where a young man in a suit sat reading a newspaper.
“Excuse me,” John said.
“I’m looking for work. I have experience in education. I was a teacher, English, middle school. I’m hoping to find something in the Department of Education.”
The young man looked up, his expression skeptical.
“The Department of Education isn’t hiring right now. Budget cuts.”
“I understand. But I’m flexible. I can do administrative work, office support, curriculum writing.”
“Curriculum writing?”
The young man’s eyebrows rose slightly.
“That’s a specific skill set.”
“I have training in curriculum development,” John said.
“And I’ve written plenty of lesson plans. I can show you samples, if you’d like.”
The young man studied him for a moment, then nodded slowly.
“Wait here.”
He disappeared through a door marked “Administrative Offices.”
John stood in the lobby, feeling the eyes of the other visitors on him.
He tried to look confident, capable, like someone who belonged here.
The new clothes helped.
The haircut he’d gotten at a barbershop that morning helped too.
He looked like a professional.
He looked like someone who had his act together.
The young man returned a few minutes later, followed by a woman in a navy suit with silver streaks in her hair and a no nonsense expression.
She looked John up and down, then extended her hand.
“Margaret Henderson,” she said.
“I’m the Human Resources Director for the Department of Education. I understand you’re looking for work.”
“Yes,” John said.
“I have experience in education. I was a teacher.”
“Where?”
“Oregon. I taught English at the middle school level.”
Mrs.
Henderson nodded slowly.
“We don’t have any teaching positions open. But we do need a research assistant for a project on curriculum standards. It’s temporary, six weeks, maybe longer, but it pays well. Are you interested?” This chapter was taken from novelping.com without permission.
“Absolutely,” John said.
She led him into a small office and asked him to take a seat.
She placed a document in front of him, a sample of writing, a draft of an educational policy statement filled with errors and unclear language.
“Read this,” she said.
“Tell me what you think could be improved.”
John read it carefully, his teacher’s instincts kicking in.
He pointed out the grammatical errors, the logical gaps, and the places where the language was vague and unhelpful.
He suggested revisions, explaining his reasoning in clear, simple terms.
He showed her how the draft could be stronger, more effective, and more persuasive.
When he was finished, Margaret Henderson was looking at him with a different expression.
Respect, maybe.
Or surprise.
“Where did you learn to write like that?” she asked.
“I taught it,” John said.
“For years. I spent a lot of time teaching students how to communicate clearly and effectively. I think those skills apply to this kind of work as well.”
Mrs.
Henderson nodded slowly.
“I think you might be right. The position pays $9.50 an hour, thirty seven and a half hours a week. It starts tomorrow. Can you do that?”
John felt a wave of relief wash over him.
“Yes. Absolutely. Thank you.”
She handed him a stack of forms to fill out.
“Report to Room 307 at 8 AM tomorrow. I’ll have your ID badge ready.”
She paused, studying him for a moment.
“You’re not from around here, are you?”
“No,” John said.
“But I’m hoping to make this my home.”
She nodded, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth.
“Well, welcome to Concord, Sam. I hope you find what you’re looking for.”
That evening, Henry Morrison showed up at the motel just as John was getting back from a walk around the neighborhood.
The young waiter was dressed in jeans and a button down shirt, looking more relaxed than he had at the restaurant.
“Sam,” he said, his voice bright with enthusiasm.
“You’re here. I was worried I’d missed you.”
“Henry,” John said, smiling.
“Good to see you. What brings you here?”
“I wanted to thank you,” Henry said.
“For what you did last night. I thought about what you said, and I realized you were right. I’ve been so worried about what my dad wants, what everyone expects of me, that I forgot to figure out what I want.”
“And what do you want?” John asked.
Henry grinned.
“I don’t know yet. But I’m going to figure it out. And maybe that’s enough for now.”
John invited him inside, and they sat on the edge of the bed, talking about nothing and everything.
John found himself telling Henry about his past, not the full truth, not the part about the future, but enough.
He told him about teaching, the frustration, and the sense of being trapped.
He told him about the accident, the confusion, and the strange feeling of waking up in a world that wasn’t his own.
Henry listened without judgment.
“That sounds really hard,” he said.
“I can’t imagine waking up and realizing everything you knew was gone.”
“It’s… it’s a lot,” John admitted.
“But I’m getting through it. One day at a time.”
“You’re stronger than you think,” Henry said.
“I want you to know that. You helped me last night, and I want to help you too. If there’s anything you need, anything I can do, just ask.”
John smiled.
“Just being a friend is enough.”
Henry nodded.
“I can do that.”
He paused, then added, “Listen, I’m going to be a lawyer, I think. Or at least, that’s the direction I’m going. My dad’s in government. He’s a big deal in the state administration, and I’m hoping to follow in his footsteps. But I’m not sure yet. I guess we’ll see.”
“Your dad,” John said.
“What’s his name?”
“Morrison,” Henry said.
“Harold Morrison. He’s the Deputy Superintendent for Curriculum. He’s been working on this big project to revise the state’s English standards. He’s been telling me about it for weeks. All the politics, all the paperwork. It’s driving him crazy.”
John’s head spun.
Harold Morrison.
The man he’d met at the library, the man who had offered him the temporary job.
Henry’s father.
“Henry,” John said slowly.
“I think I might be working for your dad.”
Henry stared at him for a moment, then burst out laughing.
“You’re serious?”
“I met him recently,” John said.
“He offered me a job. Starting tomorrow.”
“This is incredible,” Henry said.
“My dad’s been stressed out for months, trying to find someone who can help with the curriculum draft. And now you’re here? It’s like fate.”
John wasn’t sure if he believed in fate.
But in that moment, sitting on the edge of a motel bed in Concord, New Hampshire, with a young friend he’d made by accident, he felt something he hadn’t felt in a long time.
He felt like he belonged.
“Fate,” John said, repeating the word softly.
“Maybe you’re right. Maybe I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.”