Mike Frazier bends over, hands on his knees, and gags, a thin string of bile hanging from his bottom lip. He’s trying to focus, trying to hold on to as much as he can because he thinks that this has happened before, that he’s been at this moment before only to have it taken away from him. Those little lapses in memory, those moments he can’t remember. The cigar. The African queen. He thinks there might have been a man standing at the foot of his bed. It’s ghosts, he thinks. Either that or it’s like that movie Sean made him go see last year, that damn movie that creeped him out more than he cared to admit. It Came from Outer Space. It’s either ghosts or it came from outer space, he thinks, because rationally, he doesn’t know what else it could be.
Or it could just be tumors. Little tumors the size of seeds infecting his brain.
He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Or it’s a dream,” he says. “It could just be—”
He jerks upright. He’s in his bed, the blankets pooled around his waist. Weak sunlight is coming in through the window. Martin is purring like a motor on its last legs.
Mike’s skin is slick with sweat. His heart is rabbiting in his chest. He scrubs a hand over his face and says, “Holy god, I’m losing it.”
The problem with that, though, is he doesn’t remember how he got home. The problem with that is he can remember standing on the road and also standing in an apartment that he’s never seen before. He can remember words he doesn’t understand like smartphone and Björn. He remembers the weight of Sean’s head in his lap, the feel of his hair under his fingers. He remembers the sleepy way Sean said his name before he drifted off, breath evening out. Mike slipped the mask off his eyes and set it on the nightstand next to Sean’s bed.
He kissed Sean’s forehead. He remembers that.
He remembers the 4 and the 22 and the 15. The 5 and the 20 and the 82.
He looks down at his wrist.
It’s blank, of course. He’s never had a tattoo in his life.
But boy does it itch like crazy.
“It was just a dream,” he says.
His voice is rough and cracked.
It’s a Tuesday, September 14, 1954, in the small town of Amorea. The birds are chirping, the sun is rising, and it looks like it’s going to be a fine day.
“Fo sho,” he says, though he doesn’t know why.
His alarm goes off.
“ROUGH NIGHT?” Sean asks when Mike enters the diner, a look of worry on his face.
“Something like that,” he mutters. He knows he sounds gruff, so he tries to soften the blow by smiling. He doesn’t know how well he does.
Sean’s frowning at him. “Maybe you should go to Doc after all.”
Maybe. Maybe not. “How’s your head?” He’s deflecting, and he thinks they both know that.
“Better,” Sean says. “You have magic fingers, I guess.”
Happy chokes on his coffee.
“I’m eating here,” Calvin says.
“Ah, young love,” Donald says, pouring an obscene amount of catsup on his hash browns. “It’s revolting.”
“Eat your breakfast, you old farts,” Sean admonishes.
Mike’s still stuck on the word love. Because even though he knows how he feels, it’s the first time anyone has said it out loud, and it’s overwhelming how loud it sounds in his ears. He’s not sure what to do with it, because Sean is tugging on his hand, leading him toward his booth, and the other diners are smiling at both of them, like they’re in on the secret too. He nods in greeting as they chirp their good mornings to him, but he’s focused on the heat of Sean’s grip, the dryness of his skin, the way their fingers slot together.
He should be worrying about other things. The weirdness and the ghosts and the aliens and the smartphones and the Björns. The numbers he thinks are dates from decades ago. The mountains. God, he should be thinking about the mountains.
But those don’t seem as important right now. Not as important as Sean.
He thinks, I love you. I really, really do. You’re the only thing I have that makes sense to me.
Sean glances back at him and smiles. “You say something, big guy?”