Cathleen was just beginning to tease John about his wardrobe when a nurse interrupted them. "Mr. David? Time for your last course of gene therapy!" her high-pitched voice was artificially cheerful and condescending at the same time, as if she were speaking to a child.

John watched warily as she approached, holding up a syringe full of something yellow and oily. "This is just to trick your body into healing very fast," she explained. "When you were brought in, the lab took a genetic sample of synthesize this from. You've already had two doses, so by morning, you should be completely healed up." Her condescension grated on John's nerves.

She stood near his head and John assumed that, since there was no needle attached to the syringe, she was going to infuse the contents into some intravenous port he hadn't noticed yet. Instead, she jabbed the end of the syringe against the base of his neck without warning, as if trying to stab him with it. Pain shot from his neck to his toes, immobilizing him for what seemed like an eternity, until she removed the syringe. John gasped for air after she'd removed the device, since his diaphragm had also seized at the same time.

"Yeah, sorry; should have warned you. I hate that, too. The paralysis is designed to keep you from tearing something while the needle injects whatever they intend to dose you with," Cathleen commiserated with him, ignoring the nurse entirely as she stood up. "It prevents drug abuse since you can't dose yourself. I'll be back in an hour."

"Oh, he won't still be here in an hour," the nurse denied in the same, saccharine tones she'd used with John. "His amnesia means he's going out to the P-wing, now that he's had his medical finished up. Don't worry, Officer, you should have access over there too, if you need him to make a statement or something."

Studying her expression, John decided that the petite nurse used her sugary voice to hide a malevolent personality. By her expression, Cathleen must have thought so too, because her hand clenched into a fist as she sat back down. John wondered if she wanted to punch the tiny, obnoxious nurse.

"No one told me about a move," Cathleen warned in her 'officer' tone. "This patient is the victim of an attempted murder and is in protective custody. I've been assigned to guard him."

"Well," huffed the nurse. "The P-Wing has guards, so I'm sure he'll be safe if you want to go home." She shrugged. "Anyway, from what he said about the time travel thing, he needs Doctor Bard more than Doctor Reisman anyway."

Cathleen's voice changed from warning to enquiry, as if she fully accepted the nurse's assessment of the situation. "Maybe? Hey, refresh my memory; they don't use gowns over in P-Wing, do they?"

When the nurse shook her head, eyes glinting merrily, John realized that she fully intended to send him to whatever P-Wing was dressed only in the scant hospital gown. Cathleen's tone hardened to one of command. "Well, my witness did not arrive with any personal belongings. Don't you think you should get him something to wear over there?" John's respect for the police officer grew as he realized she'd sprung a trap on the malicious nurse.

The nurse blinked, clearly surprised by the change in tack. Her answer was drawn out, tone unwilling. "Well, I suppose I can check lost-and-found for something." She left. John breathed a sigh of relief.

"Come on, John." Cathleen spoke up as soon as the little blond menace had left. "Let's go." She flipped the blanket off of his legs and offered a hand up. "The last thing you need is a trip to the psych ward."

John accepted her hand, surprised that he could stand without assistance and felt as if he'd never been hurt at all. "Will I be arrested if I leave against doctor's advice?" he asked cautiously.

"Nah, the medical charts say you're cleared, so you can leave the M-Wing at any time. State pays for crime victims' medical care, so you're not skipping out on a bill, and my job is to protect you. I can't do that over there in P. Anyone can disguise himself as a patient. Anyway, my husband is about your size, and he has more clothes than he knows what to do with, so he'll give you something to wear. I guarantee that if you stay, she'll come back with clothes guaranteed to make you look like you belong in the P-Wing."

John followed Cathleen out of the room and through the maze of hospital corridors. In the one of them, an orderly was mopping the floor. He looked up and his face sent a chill down John's spine. It was 'Hamburger guy.' John walked faster, holding his gown shut behind him with one hand.

In the lobby, Cathleen pressed a button on a key fob and waited until a patrol car rolled to a stop out front. "Let's go," she said.

John obeyed. "What, no flying cars in . . ?" he tried to tease. Not knowing the year made the joke fall flat, in his opinion.

She didn't even acknowledge the attempt, confirming the failure of his attempt. "2442; you're not nuts and she knows it. It's just that time travelers can carry diseases we aren't equipped for and often have trouble mentally adjusting to the idea of where they are in relation to where and when they originated from. You've had gene therapy tailored to every single illness your blood test and genetic screen discovered already and you seem to accept the idea of time travel, so . . ."

"Wait!" John interrupted, staring at her. "You knew?"

She shot him an amused expression and pointed at the scenery outside. John wanted to be fascinated, but he couldn't keep his eyes off of her. "Yeah, the tidy-whiteys, as you called them, were a dead give-away. Poly-cotton is nonexistent now, but time travel is a poorly-kept secret from the public.

"The past has used the future as a body dump for several centuries now. They send the victim so far forward that the evidence isn't found until the perpetrators are no longer in danger of facing any consequences for their crimes. Unfortunately, there's nothing we can do but bury the dead and help the living. Going forward in time is fully acceptable, but backward is forbidden, except to return to the exact point of departure, for obvious reasons."

John thought about how he'd gone backward thirty years, to begin with. "Then how . . ."

"That's what we need to find out. You going backward from your native time period means that someone from the last three centuries is messing with history and needs to be stopped, since your time period is prior to the ability. Time travel has only been possible since 2154."

She turned to him with a grin as the car continued forward without her assistance. "Here's a very well-kept secret; no one can go beyond 2462, for some reason. Any that's tried has been firmly left where they started from, and it's been that way for the last couple of centuries."

"Millennial reign?" John guessed.

She winked and put one finger to her lips. "It's been hypothesized," she agreed, "but those who do are laughed out of science. Clearly, it's the end of the world." Her sarcasm was couched in mirth.

"It's the end of the world as we know it, and I feel fine," sang John in reply, quoting one of his dad's favorite songs. She offered him a blank expression. "It's from a movie," he explained lamely. "I guess Vietnam War flicks don't exist anymore."

She grinned and shook her head. "History books used to combine that war with Grenada and Korea, until we started getting you guys. What movie? Maybe it's in the archives somewhere."

"Hamburger Hill."

That made her laugh. "I bet I can find it filed under Culinary."

The car rolled to a stop and the doors opened. John followed his hostess into an entrance that ended up being an elevator. She inserted a key into a specific lock, in a bank of locks that John had expected to be buttons. None of them were numbered.

Cathleen turned the key once and withdrew it, leaving the keyhole sideways in the panel as the elevator started its ascent. After a moderate ride, the elevator halted and the keyhole sprang back into the upright position as the car's rear panel slid open to reveal Cathleen's living room. John spent an enjoyable afternoon and evening exploring twenty-fifth century technology and chatting with the Burkes.

Daniel gave John some clothing; cotton t-shirt and sweatpants. John was thrilled with the clothing. It was softer than he'd ever dreamed possible, and designed to make underwear obsolete. After hearing John's background, Daniel also gave John a virtual tour of the college. Daniel was fascinated with John's studies and his description of the college's layout during his native time period. In turn, John was thrilled to accept a history lesson for the first time ever in his career as a student.

The three of them cooked dinner together, laughing over each other's preferences in cuisine, and watched television. John was fascinated by the technological advances in home entertainment. Instead of a two-dimensional image that played out on a wall-screen, there was a hologram that played in the middle of the living room floor.

The evening ended with John laying on the couch while Daniel worked on what appeared to be a single sheet of glass, but was his personal computer. As soon as John began to drift off, he heard Daniel curse. "Wake up, John!" Daniel cried out in a panicked voice that disappeared as John fell asleep.

~~~

When John awoke, he was laying on his side, on a park bench. To his relief, he recognized everything he saw. Within his line of sight lay good old Kewpee's. John sat up and stretched. Thank You, God, that I have clothes on, and the clothes don't look out of place. This is a first.

There was another detail that John recognized immediately. Fear shot through him. "Hamburger guy!" he exclaimed, looking at the now-familiar face.

"It's about time you woke up," grumbled 'hamburger guy'. "Come on, John. Let's get out of here, before . . ."

"Yeah," John drawled as if he were considering it. "No; every time I see your face, I end up somewhere . . . somewhen . . . not here! I'm going home." John started to walk, taking long strides across the grass.

"Wait! You don't . . ."

Just then, a dark minivan screeched to a halt in front of the park, directly in John's path. The sliding door flew open, revealing three men inside. "We're just in time. He's still safe," one man told the driver.

"Get in, quick," another man urged John. "He's almost here!"

John threw a look over his shoulder. 'Hamburger guy' was behind him, trying to catch up. "Wait!" he yelled as John pitched himself forward desperately into the van. Eager hands assisted- pulled- John into the vehicle.

"Drive! yelled someone, even before John was fully inside. The automatic door began to slide shut. It was fully closed before John was seat-belted into one of the bucket seats.

"Who was . . ." John began, but one of the men seated behind him interrupted quickly.

"You don't want to find out. Just stay away from him; he's bad news."

"Who are you?" It was, after all, the next, logical question.

The same man answered. "Call me Art. These fine gentlemen are my associates." The way he said it made John's skin crawl.

I wasn't supposed to get in the van, was I, Lord? John had a sinking feeling he already knew the answer.

Trust Me. That seemed to confirm it.