Waking up in yet another unfamiliar place, John was relieved to find himself in a 'regular' hospital room, instead of an Intensive Care Unit. A glass screen mounted on the wall over the foot of his bed showed what appeared to be entertainment, though there was no sound. To his left, another glass plate held his vitals and other monitored information. An accordion-style divider just beyond the monitor separated his bed from the one to his left. The silicone-appearance of the divider gave him hope that he was still in the same time period.

To his right, a female police officer- Cath, was it? sat in a visitor's chair. Her presence reassured him greatly. Clearly, he hadn't been sent to a different time, just yet!

"Well, good morning to you, too!" she chuckled. "I'm Patrol Officer Cathleen Burke; and I'm the one that found you." She was an older woman than John had expected. There were creases around her mouth and at the corners of her eyes that hinted at a smile. Her posture was erect, sure of herself. She had an athletic build and an air of being ready for anything that might come at her, belying the hints of silver in her short, dark hair.

"I remember your voice, at least," John admitted cautiously. "But other than that, all I remember is the other officer. Um, and the cold, and the tall grass."

"Do you remember how you got there?" she asked, leaning forward just a little. She seemed eager for the answer.

John sighed. "Literally, all I remember is you, telling someone that you saw a sedan with the trunk open."

"What's the last thing you remember, before that?" She stayed exactly as she was, resting her palms against her thighs, fingers splayed in a posture of openness. Her tone was patient, expression interested, as if she hung onto every hesitant word he offered.

John closed his eyes, trying desperately to remember . . . anything! "I remember . . . Grandpa's garage, when I was little, and graduating from high school. We went out for dinner that night, to celebrate. That was the last time that I saw . . ." Emotional agony slammed against John's chest as he remembered, making it hard to breathe enough for conversation. He choked on her name. "Becca. My girlfriend; her accident . . ."

The pain was fresh, as if it had happened only days before, rather than . . . how long ago? "A couple of days after graduation, she was driving home from another grad party. It was dark and raining. The officers said she'd hydroplaned into a tree and rolled down a bank."

His tears came again. Would it ever stop hurting so much? They'd planned to marry after college, only she'd never had the chance to even start.

"I'm so sorry." The officer's voice unknowingly echoed the words of the officer on a doorstep in his memory. The pain intensified. Something beeped in alarm. "John?" Officer Burke asked, sounding concerned. She took his hand in her own. "Breathe, John!"

In response, he gasped for air and lost control of his sob. "I'm sorry," he gulped, desperate to stem the tears.

"Amnesia does that sometimes, when the time between is missing," she explained, not offering to release his hand. "I had a son once. If he'd lived, he'd be about your age. He died about ten years ago, when a terrorist set off a bomb in the city near where I was stationed. It was planted underneath the city bus that he and my husband were riding to my son's dentist appointment. I still cry sometimes, so it's okay to grieve, John."

"I'll see her again, one day," he reminded himself aloud. As usual the reminder was enough to ease the terrible pain. "She was a committed Christian, the way I am."

"You, too?" Officer Burke sounded surprised. 'We're a rare breed these days, ever since the government shut down all public gathering places."

John sat up. He was surprised by how easily he could, and how little it hurt. "Wait, what?! Is all worship . . .?

She chuckled. "The Constitution allows for freedom of religion still, so no, they didn't stop it entirely, and this conversation won't get me fired or anything." A single tap to the small, rigid bump centered near the top of her body armor reminded John of another thing she'd said, distracting him from the lost right to gather peacefully.

"Does the government monitor everyone that way, or just you?" he asked. "You asked if I was in pain . . .

"Only law enforcement, emergency services and the military," she denied. "So many of us were killed or assaulted by our own people that this became our protection." She turned her head and pointed to a similar bump on the rear of her helmet.

"You don't seem all that worried about it," he observed. He scrubbed his face with his hands, erasing the last of his tears. "So, why no churches?"

She shook her head with a rueful grin. "Because of the terrorism. Public worship, especially, became a popular target after the public school system shut down in favor of online classes and small group activities. Radical extremists from both sides started targeting the other side without discretion. Unfortunately, they mostly missed each other in favor of innocent people." Her sarcasm was muted, but there, nonetheless.

"I don't remember any of that," John told her honestly. "I don't know why anyone would want me dead."

"It might have been a robbery," she interrupted. "When I found you, all you had were your briefs."

That made John laugh despite his embarrassment. "Looks like I traded up," he joked, plucking at the hospital gown that covered the top half of him.

When she laughed out loud, the peace of their shared faith washed over John as if it were his Heavenly Father's hug. Thank You, Father! I don't know what You're doing in all of this, but thank You.

"So, tell me about your grandpa's garage," Officer Burke suggested after a quiet moment.

John closed his eyes and willed himself there. "There's three bays," he recalled. "Originally, it was supposed to be four, but Grandma turned the first one into an office. The fourth one has an industrial lift that can hold up a semi or a farm tractor . . ."

"John," interrupted Officer Burke quietly, "there hasn't been either one of those in over a century. You want to tell me what's really going on?"

"Officer Burke . . ."

"Cathleen, please."

"Okay, Cathleen, then. Do you feel in your heart that I'm lying?" John wasn't trying to defend himself, but he knew his own relationship with God and wanted to know if hers was similar.

She didn't answer for a long moment. "No, I don't. But that's the problem; I have a peace about you when every soldier-sense I have screams 'inconsistency!'"

"My great-grandfather built the garage in 1952, with the money he got from his older brother's death benefit in World War Two. He was nineteen then, and had just married my great-grandmother. His parents were both dead; it was just him and Gran. My grandfather was the youngest of ten children. Three died young, one died in the Vietnam War; the rest married and left with their husbands.

"My dad joined Granddad in the business in 1992, right out of high-school, like his dad and grandpa had done. I came along six years later, but Mom wanted nothing to do with the place, or us. She split when I was eight, so I kinda' grew up in the garage. Times change, and technology with it, so I decided to go to college after high school so I could fix the computerized stuff."

~~~

While John and Cathleen talked, a man used an electronic device to hack his way into a locked nurses' closet. Inside, away from prying eyes, he took a small vial from his pocket and injected some of the metallic substance inside of it, into a specific syringe. There wasn't enough of the substance in the syringe to be noticeable. He took the box that the syringe had come in and tossed the remaining syringes into the back of a storage closet before replacing the one remaining syringe into the empty box and replacing it on the shelf. Only one man was due for an injection of anything that day, so he was confident that his goal would be met.

~~~

As John's story spilled out, his memory returned with it. He talked faster and faster as those memories opened in his mind, trying to keep up with them. The faster he talked, the faster the memories returned. "All through high school, I dated the same girl. We went to church together, the same youth group, same summer camps, same school. We were friends first, but that . . ."

The happy memories faded as he remembered. "That day, Becca's parents called me because she hadn't made it home and she always texted before and after every drive. For the first time ever, her 'OMW' wasn't followed by 'home'."

"OMW?"

"On My Way."

"Oh, the bow-and-arrow emoji, I guess. I'm sorry. Please, continue?"

"So I was there when the police arrived to tell us they'd found her." John's chest ached with the tears that didn't reach his eyes. "She was going to go to college for accounting so she could help with the business." The tears welled up. "Now, I'm in college and she's in Heaven, and I don't think I can find anyone like her."

"Stop trying." Cathleen's tone was flat, but her expression was caring. John looked at her for the first time since he'd started talking about Becca. Cathleen nodded. "I've been in a similar place. You won't find her any more than I'll ever find Mike or Little Mikey. You know what though? I found Daniel instead. He is nothing like my Mike but I love him just as much, for different reasons" She shrugged and suggested, "you can always hire an accountant."

John grinned. "I found him," he explained, tapping on his chest. "Dual major, Business and Mechanical."

"So, where do you go?" she asked curiously.

"UNOH," John replied with pride. "It's the top mechanical college in the nation." She looked thoughtful. "What?" he asked. "Let me guess; mechanics don't exist either? Or UNOH?" Now there's a tragic thought! Lima would barely exist without the college! The sentiment wasn't exactly true, but the University of Northwestern Ohio did contribute greatly to the economy of the small, Ohio town.

"No, it does," she assured him, "but it's a robotics and space-engineering school now. My husband, David teaches Hydraulics and Theory of Space and Vacuum there."

John shrugged. He was telling the truth and it wasn't his responsibility if she believed him or not. "It was late when I got home from work the other night. I grabbed some milk, took a shower and went to bed." He lifted his wrist, where a circular scab was industriously beginning to form a scar. "Grease burn," he explained, "Kewpee Hamburger Joint."

She shook her head ruefully. "We thought someone had put out a cancer-stick there." They both laughed. John couldn't believe that nearly four hundred, fifty years later, cigarettes were not only still legal, but still referred to as 'cancer sticks.'

"I know you think it's nuts already, but here's where it gets unbelievable, even for me. I fell asleep in 2020 and woke up in 1989! Had a great day there, went to bed, woke up out in that field." He didn't think it prudent to mention where he'd spent the day!

Cathleen closed her eyes for a moment. "I believe you, but no one else will. You're not to worry about it, though. He has it under control, okay?"

John smiled at her, knowing she'd been praying. "Yes, He does. Thank you, Cathleen, for everything. I am totally certain that God put you on that stretch of highway this morning."

She started to agree, then frowned. "Wait, how did you know . . . you've been in surgery, twice!"

"I won't be here tomorrow," he told her, fully accepting what appeared to be a fact of life for him for the foreseeable future. "I don't know why, or how, or when I will be, I just know I won't be here, or now." He grinned ruefully. "Hopefully, I'll get my tidy-whiteys back. At least they covered both sides."