Jack arrived earlyto the train station, accompanied by a paper cup of free coffee from the hotel lobby and dread. Wind whipped his hat from his head, so he carried it onboard crumpled in his fist.
Despite receiving no such instruction last night, Boris called him at 7:03 a.m. again. His cry of, “Wake up, motherfucker!” rang in Jack’s ears like church bells.
Jack didn’t bother checking out, but it didn’t much matter—the room was clean except for rumpled sheets. He left the key on the dresser, where housekeeping could easily find it. Faced with the prospect of losing his job, he couldn’t bear to do more than the minimum. He’d leave Boris to his magazines and blond beach babes.
On the train, he clenched his ticket tightly. When the conductor approached, Jack said, “I’ve finally got the right day, I think,” and was met with a deep frown.
His heart plummeted.
“Ticket’s for the eighteenth,” the conductor said, shaking his head so vigorously that his cap slipped down over his eyebrows. “You need to get that fixed. I can’t accept it.”
“What?” Jack pulled the ticket to his chest, clutched it as though it might fly away. “No, that’s what you said yesterday.”
“Yesterdaywas the sixteenth.Todayis the seventeenth. This ticket is for the eighteenth,” said the conductor. He pushed the bill of his cap back with gloved fingers.
Again, Jack felt exasperated glares at his back. “But yesterday you said?—”
The conductor’s face reddened. “I’ve never seen you before in my life. Get out of here. Get your ticket fixed and we’ll see you in the afternoon, alright?” Something in his expression mellowed, but Jack was far from reassured.
“No, no!” he cried, waving the ticket. “I was here yesterday, and you told me to come back today! Yesterday was the seventeenth, so today is the eighteenth!”
The man sitting behind Jack rose and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Son,” he said softly. “You’re holding up the train. You need to see the clerk and get this fixed so we can get on our way.”
Jack whirled to find a familiar face. Broad forehead, round nose, dimpled chin. This man sat behind him yesterday, too.
What the hell?
Jack glanced around the compartment. A woman in a teal suit and pearls, a balding middle-aged man holding a guitar case, and a woman in a beret who looked as if she’d just smelled something awful. A blond child sat at her side, staring at him like he’d just sprouted an eyeball from his ear.
All familiar faces. All people he’d seen yesterday.
Jack backed away slowly, aghast. A dozen pairs of eyes lifted to him, expressions ranging from impatient to pitying.
In his haste, he nearly fell from the platform. The suitcase slipped from his grasp and burst open. His clothes scattered. A sock caught in the breeze and drifted onto the tracks.
Scrambling, Jack shoved everything but the sock back into his suitcase. An elderly couple stopped to watch him flounder but offered no assistance.
Eyes burning, Jack slipped into the station, where he sat on a bench with his head in his hands, trying to keep his despairtucked inside. The train whistled and departed with a series of rumbles and squeals.
Something was horribly wrong. Had he gone mad? Was he dreaming? Was everyone here fucking with him? Was he being held against his will in this strange little town?
Panic squeezed his ribs, dug in its claws and tore viciously at his heart.
There must be a way to test this.
Jack approached the pay phone, relieved to find yet another stack of change, and dialed the office.
“Grover, Rowell, and Thursday. This is Kathleen speaking. How may I help you?”
“Hi Kathy,” said Jack miserably. “It’s Jack Hazel again. Hey, I have a strange question. Can you help me out?”
“I should really patch you through to Mr. Rowell,” said Kathy carefully. “He wants to speak to you immediately.”
“Yeah, that’s fine. But first, can you tell me if you remember our conversation from yesterday?”
“Yesterday?” Kathy mused. “Well, I saw you in the morning before you left. I think I told you to have a good trip.”
Jack bit his lip. “So, I left yesterday, then.”
