The sound of birds, chirping overhead brought confusion to John's groggy consciousness as he struggled to wake up. He was cold and wet. His head ached, worse than the hangover he'd had after the one college party he'd attended as a freshman, after his first taste of hard liquor.

He'd sworn off the hard stuff after that experience and since he didn't exactly have the room in his budget, John only ever indulged in a beer on his rare visits home. Had he broken his oath? He couldn't remember, but the fact that his teeth weren't fuzzy enough for his tongue to stick to, combined with the lack of an overwhelming urge to turn his stomach inside out suggested that he hadn't. Not only that, but the stabbing pain each breath brought didn't mesh with alcohol poisoning, either. No, it wasn't a hangover. Car accident, maybe?

Gradually, John became aware of his surroundings. He was laying on his side, in a field of some kind. The mud threatened to invade the corner of his mouth.

Tall grass laid cold ribbons of moisture against his bare skin every time the breeze bumped the stalks against him. His hair was dry, suggesting that it hadn't rained on him. For the life of him, John couldn't figure out how he'd arrived where he was, to begin with.

He tried to lift his head and roll forward so he could get to his feet, but sharp pain in his head and agony in his ribs warned John that his idea was on the shady side of stupid. Even breathing deeply was going to be in that category, he discovered when he tried to get enough oxygen to call for help. The only noise he made was an agonized squeak.

John heard footsteps crunching in the grass, followed by a woman's quiet curse. "Hey, are you okay?" she asked.

John didn't answer. He wasn't sure he had the wind to say anything, and it hurt too much to try nodding. "One Allen fifteen to base?" the woman asked.

A man's voice, partially obstructed by the crackle of poor reception answered. John realized she'd been talking into a radio of some kind. "Base is on for One Allen fifteen." He sounded bored.

"I have an adult Caucasian male, approximately twenty years of age, unresponsive, at my location. Puncture wound to the abdomen, multiple contusions and lacerations to face and torso; requesting ambulance sent to my location, over." She sounded so matter of fact that John wondered if she were talking about him, still. He wondered what her location was.

"Stand by, One Allen Fifteen." The voice didn't sound so bored anymore.

Another voice sounded from the crackling radio. "One Allen Seven to base, show me en route to Fifteen's location."

"Copy, One Allen Seven. I'll add you to the job card, over."

"Received, base. ETA seven minutes, out."

The radio fell silent. The footsteps crunched closer to John, but they were behind him and he lacked the wherewithal to try and look. Far less than seven minutes later, a siren grew steadily louder until it ceased abruptly. A car door slammed.

"Up here!" the female voice shouted. John endeavored to look for the owner of the voice. Apparently, she noticed his miniscule effort, because her voice turned calm and reassuring. "Don't try to move, Sir. We have to figure out if you're hurt, first. Are you in any pain?" Her voice lowered, as if she was talking to herself. "Stupid protocol. Clearly, he's injured and obviously, he's in pain." She spoke up marginally. "I'm so sorry about that, but the body cam records all conversation and it's required that I ask."

John nodded infinitesimally. "My head hurts," he answered in confusion, voice barely able to raise above a whisper. "What happened to me?"

"You don't remember?" She sounded concerned. "What's the last thing you remember?"

Another siren, different from the last one, grew in volume while John tried to remember the answer to her question. Finally, he shrugged a little, winced, and regretted both actions. "Hold on, Sir; we'll get you out of here." Her voice was gentle, concerned and reassuring, all at the same time.

She raised her voice, obviously calling to someone else. "We need a backboard! Angel, do you have the bag?" She paused and John heard someone else answer, but he wasn't sure of what he heard. "Well get it then; there's a lot of blood up here! Charlie, bring a blanket; his lips are turning blue!"

John heard the crunch of grass as someone else approached at a run. "What do we got, Cath?" a male voice enquired in official tones.

"A mess, Sir." The woman, presumably Cath, replied with true consternation in her voice. "Someone worked this guy over pretty good and left him out here. I saw a car pulling away and stopped to see what they'd left, because the trunk wasn't even latched. The tag is written down in my cruiser."

The male voice roared for someone to get themselves up there, in a hurry. He did not ask politely. A pair of black, military-style boots came into John's range of vision just before the man crouched down to where John could see him. The man was obviously a police officer, but John had never seen that type of uniform before. "Do you know where you are?" the man asked John.

John started to shake his head but thought better of it. "No, Sir," he managed instead. The early-morning sunlight was hurting his eyes, so John shut them.

"Stay with us, Son," the officer urged. "What's your name?"

"John David . . ." John frowned. He couldn't remember the rest, even though he knew there was more.

"Okay, John. What year is it?"

"I don't know." The officer's frown of concern deepened. John tried to hazard a guess. "2020?" He could only hope, but wasn't sure why.

The officer looked away. "LOC times one!" he shouted. "Move it! Before your boy bleeds out!" He added a curse and a deprecation before turning back to his companion. "Come on, Cath, don your PPE. Those stupid city ambulance boys don't know how to climb a . . . hill!" His foul language didn't seem to be deliberate. Having had friends who'd served in the military, John understood that he almost didn't realize he was using that kind of language, but John didn't know what friends he knew, just then.

There was a snapping sound as Cath replied. "They can't help it, Sir. There's no stairs or sidewalk to get up here." Her gentle wisecrack made John grin a little. "John, you are bleeding quite a lot. Sarge and I are going to apply pressure until the medics arrive. It will hurt, sorry to say." As she spoke, she braced his forehead with one hand and pressed on the back of his head with the other at the same time that the other guy- Sarge- pushed against John's chest.

John realized that Cath's legs were bracing his back so that he wouldn't move while Sarge tried to stem the flow of John's blood. The pain increased. A helicopter flew overhead. Just before John blacked out, he heard a familiar voice and saw . . . hamburger guy? But he couldn't remember who or what 'hamburger guy' meant.

~~~

When John woke up, he was in a hospital, he guessed. It wasn't like any hospital he'd ever seen before. The bed was a water bed of sorts, with the water contained in narrow tubes that ran side by side across the width of the bed.

John was sitting mostly upright with an oxygen mask glued over his mouth and nose. Two tubes snaked up from the mattress near his neck to the mask. One tube went down his throat, making him feel as if he was going to choke and moving air through his lungs. The other, smaller tube went down one nostril. Feeling panicked, John tried to grab for the mask but his hands turned out to be tethered to the bed, as were his ankles, waist and shoulders.

A nurse came in and took John's hand. The panic faded a little. "John?" she said loudly enough to be heard over the steady 'whoosh' of the ventilator. She spoke in clear syllables. "You had surgery, John. Do you know why?" John shook his head, still frightened and feeling as if he was going to suffocate. The hoses swayed from the force of his answer.

Her expression softened into pity. "A police unit found you out in a field. Someone stabbed you and beat you up, but you're safe now, okay? I know those tubes are uncomfortable, but you can't breathe or eat without them."

John nodded. What happened to him? Why had he been attacked? He wanted to ask, but . . .

The nurse interrupted his thoughts. "You have a severe concussion. Your left hip, four ribs and your clavicle are all broken. One rib punctured your lung, so that's why you're on a ventilator. You weren't strong enough to breathe on your own after the first surgery. We fixed your organs from the stab wound but you are going to need another surgery this afternoon to manipulate and fix your broken bones."

John had never felt so alone in all his life. God, I'm scared. He did his best to keep his tears at bay.

I Am with you, even to the end of time- or the beginning of time, for that matter. The Lord's humor made him grin a little around the tubes.

Reassured that he wasn't alone and that God was still firmly in his life, John asked, why is this happening?

Because evil men are trying to manipulate My plan. Trust Me. I will not be thwarted, nor will My plan for your life, Beloved. God sounded peeved, in John's opinion, irritated by whoever would presume to try to mess with the Almighty. John almost felt sorry for whoever was at fault for his current predicament. Trust Me; you will not die until My plan for your life is fulfilled, Dear One. There was a calm affection this time, and the security of feeling as if God had laid a Hand on John's shoulder for an affectionate pat. Anyway, The Lord continued in a teasing way, if you're going to need surgery, this a great time period for you to get it!

Why?

Look around and tell Me what you see.

John obeyed, calmed by the Heavenly distraction. The floor was white, but looked similar to the floor in his high school gymnasium. Rubber, the Lord agreed.

The tray table was stainless steel, the visitor's chair, tubular steel and wood. The walls were painted plaster and the ceiling, tiled with . . . The ceiling tiles are made from recycled paper, the Lord explained. The light fixtures are all glass, as is the window, in its steel frame.

The mask and tubes . . .

Silicone, My Son. By this time period, alternative power has entirely replaced crude oil, so plastic is no longer produced, either. The damaging effects of plastic is fully accepted, so all previous plastic except what is maintained in labs or museums has been destroyed. Here, silicone and real rubber have become the norm. Advances in medicine mean that the doctors' care plan for tomorrow includes physical therapy. Sleep, now.

John obeyed, trusting that wherever- whenever- he woke up, God would still be in control of this whole fiasco. For the first time in two years, he wasn't even worried about his homework not being done or the shifts he must have missed at work. Even the absence of his smartphone was of little consequence, as long as God was in control, he decided.

When John awoke, the mask over his face was gone, as were the tubes down his nose and throat. He was a little sore, but most of his pain was gone. The previous room had disappeared as well, making John wonder where and when he was just then.