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   1


Zachary Campbell stood on the snow-covered sidewalk and stared at his childhood home. Picking up his bags, he walked slowly towards the house - the path that would lead to her. If he could have wandered anywhere else at that moment, he would have.
           Looking into his mother’s eyes was what Zach dreaded most.
           Not having seen the house in over ten years, he expected it to look worse than it did. However, the paint appeared fresh, and the trees in the yard were full and sturdy, although leafless. Cream-colored bricks and blue shutters highlighted the front door that he went in and out of hundreds of times during his youth. And of course, his bedroom window on the far left.
           Home. Or at least what used to be home.
           His mother’s yearly attempt at gardening during Minnesota winters made the house recognizable as hers. Moth orchids, hellebore, and snowdrops were trying their hardest to boast their colors through the snow. And, as usual, the amaryllis flowers were visible in the front windows, for all to witness. He was glad to see that she was still herself, in that regard at least.
           Each stride he took towards the front steps was as if in slow motion. Not yet. He wasn’t ready. The sun was just starting to peek out, and knocking too early would be rude - at least, that’s what he told himself. He fished his phone out of his coat pocket to check the time. Battery dead. Of course. It always seemed to be dead when it was actually needed for something. Based on the dim light, and his massive hangover, he chose to wait a bit.
           Surveying his surroundings, Zach spotted the bench swing that was attached back to its old home, the thick tree branch in the middle of the yard. That was a pleasant surprise to him. His mother had taken it down when he and Jimmy continued to hurt themselves on it as kids. Once, Zach had convinced Jimmy to lie down on the swing, while Zach pushed it as hard as he could. It was not a playground swing, but at seven years old, he thought it would work the same way. Sure enough, it came unattached mid-swing, and Jimmy flew through the air in terror, crashing a few feet away. A couple of scratches and a broken finger later, he lay in the yard, screaming, while Zach attempted to hide around the side of the house from their mother – the common act of a big brother having to take the blame. Jimmy was five then, and survived that ordeal.
           Jimmy.
           Maybe Zach was supposed to remember him in those kinds of ways. The mischief they caused as kids. All the time spent together as brothers causing them to be as close as they were. For the first time in a long while, Zach let a few tears escape. His reality consisted of stories that bad dreams were made of. He was in front of the house he grew up in because his brother was dead. And it was Zach’s fault.
           Brushing off the snow, he sat down on the tree-swing and lit a cigarette. A massive winter storm had ended only a few hours prior, and the fresh snow made the landscape look picturesque as the slowly rising sun offered its brightness to the world. It was always nice to be able to wear sunglasses in the winter – although not unusual while Zach had been living in Los Angeles. Sitting back, he tried to enjoy what he could of the morning. Everything was completely covered with snow. Trees, houses, cars - all hidden under and amidst the white. But he had seen their neighborhood after many a winter storm. It looked like it always had.
           Zach thought of Gus. The mysterious truck driver that he met outside the Minneapolis airport the day before. Gus defined the phrase “Good Samaritan,” and had dealt with one hell of a storm while generously driving Zach home to Manitou Lake in his eighteen-wheeler. But, he delivered him safely, and in time for his brother’s funeral. Gus had driven away before proper gratitude could be expressed, but it was that type of kindness that kept Zach believing in humanity.
            Exhaling a white cloud of extra-thick smoke, a part of Zach wondered if perhaps, as hard as the next few days would be, it would all be okay. He couldn’t bring Jimmy back, but he could do his best to mourn him with their mother, if she would let him, and the people who cared about Jimmy - who cared about their family. Deep down, Zach believed that he was still a part of that. During some of the conversation with Gus, Zach’s father had unintentionally popped into his mind. Their father’s abandonment of them after Jimmy was born was still rooted deep within Zach, and the bitterness he had because of it was alive and well. Jimmy was dead, and their father never even knew him.
           It was likely that he would be alone while mourning his little brother, Zach thought. Just like his mother, everyone in town, everyone who knew him well, blamed him for Jimmy’s passing – and rightfully so. There was no way out of the bubble of seclusion Zach was in. He would have done anything to have Kyley sitting next to him right then, caressing his hair and assuring him everything would be okay. But that was impossible – she had left him. As usual, it was Zach’s fault. She had given him chance after chance to get his life straightened out, but he took her for granted every day. Zach didn’t deserve her, but that didn’t mean his heart wasn’t broken.
           He truly had nobody.     
           While lost in thought, their neighbor, Mrs. Caldwell, appeared, walking her German Shepherd along the street. Close friends with their mother, she would occasionally babysit Zach and Jimmy after school on the days their mother had to work late. She was in her fifties then, so now she had to be getting pretty old, but seemed to move around well, regardless. She had always had German Shepherds, and Zach and Jimmy had loved playing with them. They always became extra excited to see the boys on those days, practically pouncing on them to offer playful licks. It was usually the highlight of their having to spend time with Mrs. Caldwell. While they were growing up, she had gone through two different dogs, and the one she was on before Zach left town was in its last few years of life at the time. This particular dog must have been the current edition.
           “Good morning,” Zach said quietly, but with enough volume for her to hear. It was unlikely she would recognize him, but sitting on the tree swing of his mother’s house might spark something in her memory.
           The dog snarled and growled, showing its teeth, ready to charge. Zach sat up straight, and braced himself. Mrs. Caldwell glanced his way with a puzzled expression, looked back down without a word, and tightened her grip on the leash. While attempting to calm the dog, she crossed the street to the opposite side, walking faster now.
           Stunned, Zach sighed in relief, and took another drag. So this was how it would be? Even the dogs didn’t want him here.   
           Motioning to flick his cigarette away, Zach resisted. When he was a teenager, his mother yelled at him constantly for the random cigarette butts that showed up in her yard.
           Zachary Campbell! Why can’t you just walk to the gutter on the street and throw them out!
           He always scoffed at her request even though he understood. Especially after all the hard work she put into making the yard look so good. Yet, he was always too lazy in the winter months to walk out to the street and toss them in the gutter. He knew the snow would cover them – at least until it all melted. The episodes that occurred in early spring were not pleasant. Zach called it his mother’s “spring meltdown.” Today, he would walk the entire twenty feet to the street to dispose of the cigarette butt as his mother had always wished. Perhaps it was a step in the right direction.
           It was time. He couldn’t find a reason to avoid it any longer, though he tried. Picking up the newspaper from the yard and shaking the snow off it, Zach proceeded toward the house. Bags at his feet, he stood fixated on the door for at least a minute before finally knocking three times and taking a step back. He was prepared to be yelled at for not having his key, as if he was supposed to have kept it on his keychain for the last ten years. He could barely keep track of his own keys.
           “Just a sec!...Coming!” came her voice from somewhere in the house.
           Zach attempted to smooth out his hair with his hands, as if this would improve the way he was greeted.
           The door swung open.
           He focused on the ground, afraid to see what his mother’s eyes had waiting for him.
           “Can I help you?” she asked.
           Zach looked up and froze.
           Standing in the doorway was a beautiful woman. She had a dirty blond perm, bangs teased up on top. Where wrinkles existed ten years ago, her skin lay smooth, and there was brightness to her green eyes that Zach hadn’t seen in ages. Right then, he craved the affection that matched her appearance -- his mother as a young woman.
           “Uh, sir? Can I help you?” she repeated, a bit frantic.
           “Um…uh…”
           “If you’re selling something, I’m sorry, I can’t help you right now,” she said, in a slightly annoyed, yet respectful, tone. “I’ve got to get kids to school, and I’m late for work.”
           “Um…no…I’m not…selling…uh…what the hell is going on?”
           “Excuse me, sir?”
           “I’m sorry,” he replied, staring at the woman. He slowly moved his head closer to her, as if near-sightedness was to blame for his mother’s lack of wrinkles and teased up hair.
           “Sir, please leave,” she said, beginning to close the door.
           “I…I suppose I have the wrong house,” Zach muttered, looking around, hoping that an explanation would pop out of nowhere. “…sorry...to, uh…bother you.”
           “Okay, no problem. Good luck then,” she replied, through what was now a crack in the doorway.
           “Uh, m-ma’am?”
           “Yes?” she said, now officially annoyed, reopening the door slightly.  
           “Here’s your newspaper…”
           Behind his mother, was the flash of a child running by the entry hall doorway, followed by a second, a bit larger, who took a detour from his initial route, and into the entry way. “Mom, who’s at the…?” the boy began, tripping over a pair of shoes and smashing his head on the wall-side table. There was blood on his forehead, quickly leaking into his eyes. In a panic, Zach’s mother – the boy’s mother – knelt beside him, using her blouse to soak up the blood. 
           “Zachary! Are you okay, honey?! Oh my God!” she screamed. “Jimmy, get me the phone…and a towel!”
           The boy shifted out slightly from under the shelter of his mother and looked directly at Zach.
           He stared into eyes that mirrored his own.
           Tossing the newspaper down into the house, Zach backed away slowly, eyes wide.
           “I’m…uh…sorry…is he okay?” he asked, in a weak voice. “I better…go.”
           Turning away, Zach snatched up his bags and walked as fast as possible down the street, looking back every few strides. Shock, disbelief, distress…all the words that one would expect in this situation could not fully explain how he felt. It was indescribable. No clarity. A few houses down, he lunged for a newspaper and practically ripped off the plastic wrap. It took no time at all to locate the date next to the “Manitou Lake Dispatch” logo.

Monday, December 14, 1987

           Mouth open, he dropped the paper with an almost identical act of astonishment as a few minutes before in his mother’s house. Fleeing the scene, as if taking someone’s newspaper out of the bag was a crime, he continued on his path -- away. Away from what, he wasn’t sure. A part of him expected to wake up at any moment. He even tried slapping himself. Perhaps the drugs had caught up to him and he was creating this world. After all, a day never passed when he didn’t desire his innocence, his childhood, his mother of that time -- this time? But he wasn’t back. He was actually seeing it. He was part of it. His brain was flooded. It couldn’t be real. Impossible. Throbbing pains consumed his head and all he wanted was to escape. He found it hard to breathe, like his lungs weren’t equipped for the air there. He kept walking.

                                                                                            ҈

           After an unknown amount of time meandering in a fog of denial, Zach realized that he had walked beyond the town border. There were no buildings lining the road, and he hadn’t seen a car for some time. He was dizzy, hunger and thirst likely catching up to him. But he didn’t stop. He just kept walking, stumbling, staring at the ground, watching his boots penetrate the thick snow with every step. Occasionally, he looked up and around, hoping to find something that signaled that he was back in his own time – that this had all been a dream, or a hallucination. Nothing came.
           After a few hours of the most unlikely of journeys, Zach began patting every pocket of his coat from the outside. Light pats quickly turned to a frantic search through the coat. Coming across a thick lump in his inside pocket, he dug it out like it was an elixir. There was only a swig or two left of bourbon in the flask. It wasn’t a sack with any cocaine left in it, which is what he was truly searching for, but he emptied the flask’s contents, and out of frustration, tossed the empty container into the nearby trees lining the road. He searched his jeans pockets ten times, the lack of coke being the end result each time. His hunger, anxiety, and withdrawals were on high alert.   
           Although slightly more numb from the bourbon, it only enhanced his dizziness. He zig-zagged around the rarely used road muttering unrecognizable things, blocking anything resembling coherent thought from his mind. Falling a few times, he simply laughed at himself, slowly rising again and again.
           Zach had no idea where he was. The wind had picked up, and despite the bourbon, he was cold. Dropping to his knees, on the side of the road, he gathered a handful of snow in his bare hands, and began eating it. Hunger? Thirst? The snow had to help with something, he thought. The haze he was in was beginning to be a concern. He knew he needed water. Regardless of his attempt to hydrate, his body finally took a break, as he fell forward, landing in the snowy ditch, unconscious.

                                                                                            ҈                         

           There were voices. One stuck out, the other, muffled.
           “Uh, yeah, we’ve got a straggler passed out along 65. Probably hopped up on something,” said the clearer voice.
           “Any backup required?” came the muffled one.
           “Nah, I’m good. Just gonna check him, make sure he’s okay, and then give him a ride home.”
           “Roger that.”
           Zach’s vision hadn’t fully cleared, and he had no idea where he was.
           “Come on, buddy,” said the clear voice, right next to him now. “Let’s get you in the car.”
           Not arguing, Zach allowed the man to help him up and lead him to a running car, its exhaust filling his nostrils. He was set down on the back seat, with his legs out of the side of the car, feet planted on the ground. The blurry vision was shifting to clarity, and although Zach hadn’t put the puzzle together yet of why he was here, it was apparent that he was in a cop car, with a police officer offering him assistance.
           “Just take some deep breaths,” the officer said. “I’m Officer Bigsby, from the Redland County Police Department. I’m here to help.”
           “Uh,” Zach started, rubbing his forehead, “thanks.”
           Redland County? How had he ended up so far away? He was two counties over from Manitou Lake.
           “Would ya like to tell me why you were passed out in that there ditch?” Bigsby asked, handing Zach a bottle of water.
           Zach chugged the water, looked up a bit, blinking heavily, wiping his nose on his coat, and trying to gain full vision. “I really don’t remember,” he replied.
           “Son, have you taken any illegal drugs recently?”
           “No, sir,” Zach responded quickly, although he was unsure of what ‘recently’ meant in the cop’s eyes. “Unless you count alcohol.”
           “Well, knowing that helps,” he said, hand on the roof of the car, hovering over Zach. “Would you mind showing me some identification, sir?”
           Zach began to reach for his wallet, and then froze, eyes wide, fortunately looking down so Bigsby couldn’t see. Everything that had happened came back to him in a hurry. His young mother. The newspaper date. His younger self. If Zach was truly in 1987, the last thing that could happen was for some cop to see an I.D. from the future.
           “Uh…I don’t…have my wallet,” he lied.
           “No?” Bigsby asked, skeptically. “Well, what’s your name?”
           Again, Zach stilled. He couldn’t answer this either. The answer would lead Bigsby to an eight-year-old boy in Manitou Lake.
           “My name?” Zach asked, delaying.
           “Yes, son, your name. You do remember your name, right?”
           “Of course I do,” Zach replied. “It’s Zach. Zach…Robinson.”
           The officer made a mental note. “Zach Robinson. Well, Mr. Robinson, it seems like you’ve had quite a day. I think we should go down to the station and try and make some sense out of it.”
           “Really, I’m fine,” Zach said, almost pleading. “I’ll be okay to walk.”
           “Uh, I don’t think so, son. You are not okay, and it’s my responsibility to make sure that you are,” he said, placing a hand on Zach’s shoulder, beginning to ease him further into the back seat. “Now just relax in the car and we’ll get all this figured out.”
           Without much thought, Zach shoved Bigsby backwards to the ground, catching him completely off guard, and stepped out of the car. Bigsby was shuffling his feet, trying to regain his composure, when Zach punched him in the face, sending the policeman backwards into the same ditch he had found Zach in.
           Zach took off as fast as he could, heading straight into the nearby forest.
           “Hey!” screamed Bigsby, semi-muffled. “I just want to help you!”
           “I’m sorry,” Zach whispered, as he weaved through the trees, breathing heavily. “You can’t help me.”