Robert was silent, as he slowly got dressed. He knew he should be happy, finally being released from the hospital, but there was no joy in his heart. Although his hand was now nearly fully healed, just some scars from the strings, that would always be a reminder of what happened, he was concerned.

Everything he knew and loved, was in 1981 and here he was trapped in 1961.

He had wondered many times during the last week or so, how such a thing like this could even happen. This was not some late night science fiction movie. This was real life. This was his life.

Many times he had hoped it was all a dream and every night when he turned out the light and a comforting blanket of darkness surrounded him, he prayed that when he awoke in the morning, it would all be as it was.

"When I wake up in the morning, I will be in a hospital bed, for sure, but please God, please, make it August 1981. I have never asked you for anything in my life, but I ask you this. Please, I beg you. Give me back my life."

But every morning he would awake to the same, white sterile room and the calendar that reminder him his nightmare was not over.

Robert looked at his hand. Miraculously, the burns had not been as bad as expected. He would be able to play guitar again, as soon as the swelling went down and the pain resided. The doctor had assured him all would be fine and he advised Robert to take some prescription pills that would help the healing along.

As usual, Robert refused, as he had a negative attitude toward taking drugs of any kind. Even prescription ones.

But what good would healed hands be to him now. The stage was still set, but it was twenty years in the future. Just as well that it was a million light years away.

A tear trickled down Robert's cheek. He wiped it away quickly, as the door opened to his room and Dr. Michaels walked in.

"Anxious to get going?"

"I guess so."

"Yea, I figured you would be. A young man like you confined to a hospital bed. It must be a real pain, as you young people say."

Robert forced a smile.

"You are hip, Doc."

Robert offered his hand.

"Thank you for looking after me, Doc. I appreciate it."

Dr. Michaels shook his hand.

"I want you to take it easy for a while. Let the burns fully heal and the swelling go down. I know you are a guitar player, but I would wait a while before playing again."

Robert let go the doctor's hand.

"I will Doc."

Dr. Michaels reached into his pocket and took out a bottle of pills.

"What's that?"

"For the pain, if it acts up. It will help with the swelling too."

Robert shook his head.

"Pain is the least of my worries, Doc. Besides, I don't take pills."

"Are you sure?"

Robert tucked his shirt into his jeans.

"I am sure, Doc."

Dr. Michaels nodded and put the pills back in his pocket.

"You are a strange one, Robert."

"Pardon me?"

Dr. Michaels stared at Robert for a moment.

"Where are you from, anyway?"

Robert smiled.

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you, Doc."

"Maybe not. All I have to say is that you are not like those other hippies that come in here, from time to time. Shot up on God knows what. Their minds being killed by the drugs they put in their bodies."

Robert picked up his jean jacket from the bed and after hooking a finger in the collar, he flung it over his shoulder.

"I'm not a hippie, Doc. I don't do drugs of any kind. None of my band members do. I might drink a little more than I should, but it comes with the territory."

"Territory?"

"Again, Doc. I doubt if you would believe me."

Robert walked past the doctor.

"Thanks Doc," he called over his shoulder, as he left the room, without a glance back.

As he walked through the hospital, he could feel the eyes staring at him. There they were, the close shaven, clean cut, well mannered youth of 1961. All of them doing their damn best to survive day to day in the antiseptic bowels of the hospital.

They hated him. He could tell. Even though they did not know him, they had already judged him.

He smiled slightly, as he realized that some of these very same people or their children would rise up against the establishment and be exactly what he was.

Actually, many would be worst. 

Robert and his band were not against anything or really for anything. They simply wanted to write and play their music and enjoy life.

Robert stopped suddenly, as the front doors of the hospital stared at him, just twenty feet away.

This was it. At least while he was in the hospital, he was safe and protected from the outside world, but now. The outside world was just twenty feet away.

He walked to the door, took a deep breath, pushed the door open and walked out onto the sidewalk.

It was like walking into another world.

Everything was different.

The sidewalk looked different, the road infant of him, the cars that were driving on the road, the people driving the cars.

The buildings looked different, the houses, he could see, were different.

Even the sky looked different.

Everything was different.

Especially the people. They stared at him, as they passed by him. A stare that was not one of wonderment or fascination, but of prejudice.

"Fuck me," Robert whispered.

"Hi Robert."

Robert closed his eyes. A familiar voice.

He turned. It was Vickie, but even she looked different.