Just love everybody father tim greg ware

This is a work of science-faction. All of the characters and organizations in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are historical figures.

Just Love Everybody Copyright Š 2016 by Greg Ware All rights reserved Published by Twinapath Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data has been applied for.

Print ISBN: 978-0-9968607-2-7 eBook ISBN: 978-0-9968607-3-4

Second U.S. Edition: October 2016 Printed in the United States of America No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other mechanical methods, without prior written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by law.

Father Time is running out on Mother Nature‌

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Foreword by R. Steven Lewis 1 Wednesday, September 10, 2031 2

The Die is Cast

3 The Dawn of a New Day

4 The Odyssey Begins 5

In God We Trust

6 Let’s Get This Party Started 7

The Wrath of God

8 Preparation for Salvation 9 The Show Must Go On 10 The Time Is Now 11 The End of the Beginning 12 An Independent Witness

13 The Rise of the Phoenix Epilogue - 2034 Acknowledgments Meet The Author

FOREWORD BY R. STEVEN LEWIS

The biggest question confronting humans since the beginning of time is, “Why are we here?” For answers, many look to religion, while others seek scientific explanations. In his own search for meaning, our protagonist, Jake Love proclaims, “I want to follow the beacon of truth, wherever it

may lead.” Author Greg Ware produces a creative tension by juxtaposing parallel realities that compel the reader to turn the pages as rapidly as possible, with the hope of discovering “the answer.”

Ware places people in situations that force the collision of disparate narratives, inducing the reader to entertain plausible alternatives to commonly held opinions. As mortals interpret events that defy conventional explanation, belief systems are formed that, when reinforced by “leaders,”

cause groups to unify. Accordingly, some organizations are likely the product of man’s inability to comprehend or explain such phenomenon; however, an essential, foundational element of dogma requires a literal leap of faith to ascribe the unexplained to divine intervention.

Cognitive dissonance is defined as the psychological conflict resulting from simultaneously holding incompatible beliefs and attitudes. In most religions, historically, miracles were commonplace. Ware introduces the possibility that forces beyond our

comprehension - forces that defy our earthly understanding – may be just as credible. He manages to infuse a “human interest and a semblance of truth” into a fantastic tale, thus enabling the reader to suspend judgment and enthusiastically enter another realm. Just Love Everybody takes the reader on a rollercoaster of emotions, including anxiety, hope, curiosity, and expectation.

And just when you think the ending is headed in the direction of a fairytale, well, let’s just say - Ware throws a curveball that you will have to read to

believe.

The green-blue waves gently caress the Pensacola shoreline, rolling against sand bleached so white it certainly must have been painted by God himself. An idyllic location for a romantic rendezvous, the beach hosts a party that’s just getting started. The oversized red and green striped blanket stretches

out towards the sea, anchored by a sturdy rattan picnic basket on one end and sandals on the other.

“Did you pack the BBQ sauce, babe?” Jake pesters his captivating sweetheart of the last two years as he digs through the basket, loaded with goodies for a mouth-watering feast.

“Of course, dear,” Sondra purrs affectionately. “You can’t have the yardbird without the sauce.”

Jake has been uncharacteristically devoted to her ever since she got

transferred to the maternity ward, where he’s a revered obstetrician. His enduring creed was, “Never sleep where you eat,� but serendipity intervened in the form of a company dinner where he found himself seated next to the charming and alluring Sondra. Everyone assumed they were on a date, and by the time the apple cobbler was served, they were!

The inner beauty, intellectual prowess, and incredibly giving spirit of this particular nurse instantly broke down all of his inhibitions.

“Can I get another scoop of that wicked mac and cheese?” he teases.

“Don’t worry, I’m going to the park tomorrow to run it off.”

Sondra reaches for the plastic container. “Honey, you never gain weight, anyway. I’ll give you half a scoop. Nothing is going to come between me and that amazing four pack of yours.” While handing him his plate, she plants a kiss so suggestive it causes his trunks to swell, and almost puts dinner on hold. The picnic basket also

contains the indispensable libations that he’s been yearning for all day. It’s past time for some wine as she retrieves the Villa Moscato D’Asti and pops the cork before pouring them both a glass. Jake is more than grateful and proposes a toast.

“Let’s raise our goblets to commemorate this truly enchanting evening.” Their crystal rings true as he continues, “Feel the brush of the ocean breeze, painting its heavenly masterpiece. With a full moon parked in a starlit sky, you’ll never have to wonder why. You mean the world to me, and I

come with a lifetime guarantee.� Jake smugly smiles, quite proud of his almost-clever wordplay that he spent much of the morning composing. He always dreamed of becoming a famous songwriter, but that would take a tad bit more talent.

The salad, grilled chicken, and macaroni soon disappear, and the lovebirds decide to walk off the cholesterol while savoring a spectacular view. They stroll hand in hand. “How did that double delivery work

out this morning?� Sondra asks.

Jake pauses for effect and then replies, “Well, the twins and mother are doing fine. Although that second one, my goodness! He was in a complete breech.

It was touch and go for a while, because not only was the umbilical cord wrapped around his neck, the amniotic sac was punctured, and there was significant compression. My perfect track record was definitely on the line today, but still I hope to retire undefeated.�

“Damn, babe, you did it again.” She sounds impressed, but she always does when he talks about work. It’s one of the many reasons he loves her. “How many weeks was the mom?”

Jake does the math in his head as they walk. “She had just made thirty-one.

In any event, this was her first child, and you know how difficult those can be, especially with protracted in vitro twins.”

Sondra takes him by the shoulders and gently turns his body westward

while cooing, “Close your sweetie, and count to ten.”

eyes,

Jake obliges, except when he gets to about eight, he feels a bone-chilling splash of liquid on the back of his neck.

He swings around to see Sondra kneeling at the water’s edge, cupping the salty substance aggressively in her hands. Jake realizes he’s in a water war and she’s improved her accuracy, as he has to duck the incoming deluge.

Deciding that the best defense is a strong offense, he attacks while she reloads.

Taking one last round to the face before

they tumble into the surf, he fervently kisses the lawless lips that have hijacked his heart and kidnapped his soul.

The water feels cool and refreshing, yet the smooth magnetic curves of her posterior draw more interest and positively attract his wandering fingers.

Sondra readjusts her top as they emerge from the sea, because somehow it’s now firmly supporting her belly button. As they frolic under the waves, they are completely unaware of what’s occurring countless miles above them, in space.

*** Kennedy Space Center “This is Dr. Fleming. Are you guys tracking this at JPL?” a balding, slightly overweight curmudgeon grumbles on a holographic conference call. The recently completed circular wing requires significantly less manpower, as reticent Compubots make the necessary calculations and adjustments. The 360degree, thirty-foot Holo-screen rotates to mimic the earth’s orbit, enabling precise

analysis. A 3-D hologram follows the physicist around the circumference, posting data as he tracks the anomaly.

Dr. Louis Stevens, a battle-scarred veteran of many incursions, is sweating lasers. “Yes. This object just started blowing up the radar, and we still can’t triangulate an origination point. In theory, that’s impossible. So it’s got people over here on edge. More than normal, as inconceivable as that sounds.”

Dr. Fleming decides to badger his

colleague by suspiciously inferring, “Do you consider this meteor a threat, or will it burn up in the mesosphere?”

“Well, first off, I never said it was a meteor,” Dr. Stevens chides. “It’s large enough to cause significant damage, and the trajectory should have it—wait, wait … Did you guys see that? The spacesensors just indicated that it changed direction by nearly six degrees, and that’s a maneuver an asteroid can’t make. So, now we’re not sure where it will crash or perhaps … land.

Regardless, we’ll continue tracking its

course, and we’re currently repositioning an AEHF satellite to get a visual. You better get the TEAM ready and alert Homeland.”

Dr. Fleming looks a shade paler than usual. His eyes remain riveted on the anomaly as its velocity fluctuates.

“Roger that. We’ll dispatch the recovery squad immediately. If it happens to fall into the ocean, we’ve got the Navy Seals on deck.”

Dr. Stevens wipes his brow as a cooling cappuccino dances nervously in

his hand.

“Dr. Fleming, we now have the dimensions of the UFO, and there’s some concern that if this object hits the shoreline, the damage could be substantial. There’s also a small possibility of a tsunami if it were to go down in the ocean.”

The almost-mad scientist nods his head in agreement with his colleague’s assessment. “This odd duck has me on pins and needles over here. None of our satellites picked up anything until it

entered our atmosphere, and now it may be maneuvering. All of our tracking scenarios have it making quite an impact. That being said, because of its adjusted direction and velocity, we’re mandated to notify the Pentagon.

Retrieval is paramount, don’t you agree?”

“Yes, this is very intriguing,” Dr. Stevens concurs as his voice rises in pitch. “I really can’t comprehend how our Galactic Safety Net completely missed it. I’ll be very interested in its composition. We can’t rule out any

contaminants that may have hitched a ride on this thing, so the CDC protocol must be adhered. Anyone who comes in direct contact with the debris must be quarantined!”

“Here you go again, predicting another plague,” Dr. Fleming snaps before adding, “All I know is, the reverse engineers will have a field day if they can get their hands on it, just figuring out how it got by all of our satellites and radar. We’ve got the TEAM in route to Pensacola, as it appears that’s its most likely destination.

There will be a standard media blackout until we know what we’re dealing with and it’s contained!” *** The passion on the beach between the couple heats up as night begins to replace day, and Jake takes note that they’re very much alone. His favorite jazz song, “Lovers’ Lane,” drifts out from his Contactor, a transparent holographic 3-D multi-functional communicator. Adding fuel to the fire, the hypnotic beat seems to whip the

waves into a frenzy of anticipation.

While his pocket rocket is preparing to launch, he ignites the campfire to create a perfect setting for what the conductor has been orchestrating. As Sondra lies on the blanket, her string bikini beckons in the shadows like an open invitation to love-land.

Jake, a dashing forty-nine-year-old ex-playboy, has reached the point in life where he’s ready to settle down. Variety used to be the spice at night, but now his heart belongs to Sondra. Appropriately dubbed “The Golden Boy� as a teenager,

he topped off his adolescence as Class President. At sixfoot-one, he was athletic enough to be a back-up quarterback, yet smart enough to know better.

His gal is ten years younger, roughly his punditic peer, and more in love than even she knows. Bordering on spellbinding, with her shoulder-length golden mane, and all her other parts in original condition. A distinguishing black mole subtly graces her left cheek, as if begging for attention, while the firm and lively C-cup mirrors perfect

dimensions. They both put their careers before marriage, and Sondra can hear her biological clock ticking and the alarm echoing in the distance. Jake, on the other hand, has sown enough wild oats to feed a small village, and is just about ready to harvest a family.

“How much longer do you reckon I’m gonna give you the milk for free? At some point, ya gotta pay for the cow, and your credit card is about to expire.”

Sondra needles his growing haystack.

“Moo, moo, moo,” he moans, while

gently caressing the curve of her breast.

“I refuse to compare your behind to that of a bovine. On the other hand, I want the whole cow with some calves, and that’s no bull.” That’s just enough barnyard banter to get the balls rolling.

While she nibbles on the bone, he kisses every erogenous zone, as the campfire embraces shifting silhouettes of intertwined lovers. The enticing music predictably encourages breeding. “Let’s take a walk down Lovers’ Lane,” is the last thing he hears before his prize heifer lets him graze inside her succulent

meadow.

“Doctor, your heat-seeking missile just blew up the little man in the boat,” Sondra whimpers as she reaches for some much-needed refreshment. Jake kisses her on the cheeks, lips, nose, forehead, and eyelids in every salacious way.

“Just adding a little icing on the cake. Too bad I have to work tomorrow, or I could try to make those toes curl one more time,” he playfully jokes.

Sondra puts two fingers to his lips

and whispers, “Shush up and hold me, listen as the waves serenade the shore.”

The sun, now a distant memory, gives way to the moon, a beacon to the stars.

In the afterglow of a love explosion, they drift off to sleep in each other’s arms, oblivious to the menacing object heading their way with devastating intentions.

The UFO’s speed slows to Mach 1 as it enters the stratosphere, and as if on cue—BOOM!—it breaks the sound barrier, which rudely awakens Jake. As he peers into a celestial puzzle, he notices a shiny piece that seems to be

plunging towards the planet. Jake nudges the shoulder of his passed-out lover.

“Babe, you want to watch a comet or meteor or …”

She shakes her head and buries her face deeper into his furry chest, floating back inside the realm of dreams. As it continues to descend, Jake wishes he could take a video; however, that would entail removing the lovely lady’s body from his own. After a few minutes of stargazing, it seems to be increasing in size. He begins to worry about where

this particular falling star will impact earth. It may be plunging into the ocean, but hell … They’re on the beach.

“Baby, wake up.” This time, he’s more insistent as he raises his voice.

“You’ve got to see this. I’ve never seen anything quite like it.” At that precise moment, the cosmic ball of fire slowly opens and two diminutive objects eject, while the flaming capsule disintegrates over the water. Sondra grudgingly starts to stir and slowly turns over to open her eyes just as the prodigious projectile vanishes from view.

“It was right there, almost directly over us,” Jake exclaims while pointing to the heavens.

“Well, it must have burnt up in the atmosphere,” she muses.

He shakes his head defiantly. “No, really, it was practically hovering.” Her eyes nearly cross with a glare of skepticism as her expression tells Jake she’s concerned that too much Moscato has been consumed. That’s just about the time Jake hears two thumps on either side of the blanket.

“What was that? Did you hear it?” he howls while jumping up to take a better look.

Sliding awkwardly off his chest onto the cool sand, she answers facetiously, “You have to know when you’ve reached your limit, sweetie.” Jake ignores the comment and ventures out towards the sea, only to return looking even more perplexed. As he circles the dwindling fire, his left heel sinks into a small cavity in the sand. That’s strange, he thinks to himself. That hole was not there when we set up the campsite.

Removing his half-hidden heel out of the orifice, he spots something slightly lit at the bottom. Kneeling down, he commences to brush away as much sand as possible to give it the eyeball test.

About a foot deep into the excavation he can see something, and it’s definitely glowing. Jake frantically digs up the sand around it and places his right hand about six inches above the light, to judge how much heat it’s emitting. None is detected, so he gets the empty container that the chicken was stored in and a wooden salad spoon. He turns the bowl

on its side and with the spoon nudges what looks to be a stone up inside it.

Sondra has become aware of the mining operation and inquires, “What are you doing with my supper-saver?

Sweetie, why are you filling it with sand?”

He brings the receptacle over and points out the rock which still sparkles.

Jake proudly explains, “I guess this is what I heard a minute or so ago. Yet, I recall two distinct thumps.”

“Why

is

it

so

radiant?”

she

challenges. “Where did it come from, and what if there are more on the way?”

Jake peers out over the horizon and throws his hands up. “Do you think it could be something from the Space Center, or perhaps a commercial flight?

They say those new Air Hotels lose parts all the time.”

Even as the words left his mouth, he knew that’s no good explanation. Not for this.

Yet, he couldn’t fathom why Jehovah would throw rocks at him for dropping

anchor on a secluded beach. “I have to agree, it’s time to call it a night. We’ve had more than enough fireworks for one evening. Let’s pack up and figure this out later.”

Sondra is more than ready, so she folds the blanket while Jake cleans up their trash and tosses it into the nearby ARR, or automatic recycling receptacle.

As his fiancée embarks on her trek to the car, she stumbles and tumbles face first into the sand, instinctively screeching.

“Ouch! Good Lord, help!”

Jake rushes to her aid and notices her right foot buried halfway inside yet another crevice. He gently pulls it out and peeks down to observe a second incandescent stone.

“Mystery solved,” he explains. “I told you I heard two thuds. Let me get the container. Uh oh. Babe, I’m sorry.

How’s that ankle?” Her lips curl at the edges as she gawks at him with disbelief while whining, “Don’t think I didn’t notice how my leg was secondary in importance to a frigging rock.”

“Sweetheart, don’t move,” he pleads for patience while beginning to burrow.

“This should only take a few seconds.”

Clutching the container and spoon, he repeats the procedure like an excavation expert. As the stones lay side by side, they appear to be clones. He proudly shows off the contents. “Definitely the same parents, matching size, color, and shape.”

Sondra shakes her head while gazing skyward. “We could have been killed if they’d hit us. I mean literally—what were we, inches away from disaster?

Now I’ve got a bum wheel to boot.”

He sets the bin on the blanket while attempting to console his crippled soul mate. “Here, let me help you to the car, and I’ll come back for the blanket.” They hobble together up the sandy sidewalk until they reach his maroon Lexus convertible. He inherited this classic from his dad, so it holds a special place in his heart. When he cruises around town, top down, memories of days long past occasionally still appear, from the highway of life.

Once his most precious cargo is loaded, Jake sprints back down to the camp with nervous anticipation.

Everything is copacetic, so he puts the blanket in the basket. He seals the supper-saver and keeps it separate from the other items, just to make sure there’s no cross-contamination, especially with anything from the kitchen. He notices the stones seem to be losing some of their luster as he makes his way up the steep incline to the parking lot. The convertible roof is stored in the trunk, but there’s more than enough room in the

cramped backseat area for their limited freight.

Sondra is not staying over tonight because of her work schedule, even though her car is at his house. It works out well, because his home is much closer to the beach. As they wind their way out of an almost deserted parking lot, the lonely waves beckon for their return. When they reach the exit they spot something quite peculiar. Two black allterrain Protectors with tinted windows speeding into the northern entrance.

Sondra remarks with a hint of sarcasm,

“Isn’t it a little late for a safari?”

Jake nods his head while providing his best analysis, “I’ve seen those land and sea vehicles before, and I believe they’re from NASA.” They both simultaneously turn around and look at the twinkling container lying on the backseat.

“Do you suppose they’re searching for those rocks, or mini-meteors, or whatever they are?”

“Yeah, so they can lock them up somewhere and tell the public it was a

weather balloon.” He sarcastically chuckles. Sondra smiles for a second, but it soon dissolves into a frown.

She shifts uncomfortably in her seat.

“So are you insinuating that this is alien material or something?”

Jake looks thoughtful as he rolls to a stop at an intersection. “Well, I don’t think they fell from earth, and we don’t know if they’re stones or eggs. Maybe there’s a reason why we found them.

Besides, we can always turn them in later if it becomes necessary. Let’s give

it awhile. There’s no need to rush the diagnosis.”

Sondra falls quiet as Jake steers the car to his house. He’s lived in the quiet, quaint tree-lined suburb called Bowlegs Reef for just about a decade. It’s only a few miles from the water, so they’re home in minutes.

Jake lives with his best friend, a prodigious gray and black German shepherd named Moses. He was the runt of the litter when Jake adopted him from the local shelter. Moses was twelve

weeks old at the time and has been eternally grateful ever since.

Jake helps his hobbling honey inside and then returns for the star debris in the backseat. He places the supper-saver on the dining room table for the unveiling.

Jake slowly cracks the lid as if the “eggs” may have hatched, as Sondra crouches behind him just out of harm’s way. Peeking inside, he can’t tell if they’re still glowing because the room is illuminated, but at least there’s no alien offspring present. He solves the problem by requesting a change of scenery and

says, “Lights off.” The voice-recognition home controller cooperates and the room goes dark. The stones’ inner candles slowly fade to black and then blink several times as if teasing their enraptured audience.

Sondra puts her hand inside the basket and waves it a couple of inches over the rocks. She can sense no heat, and that appears to rattle her a bit as she issues a warning.

“Dear, you must be careful, because they could be radioactive.”

“Well, I hope not, or I’ll be bald in the morning and probably sterile!” Jake quips. He studies the now-dull stones and then steps back. “Lights on.”

He sees Sondra is not amused in the slightest. She squints and wags her finger just in front of his face.

“Well, I guess we’re both exposed.

Look honey, I’m going home now. Got an early shift tomorrow, but at least it’s Thursday, and then I’m off all weekend.

We can have dinner.” She glances at the rocks, looking uneasy. “You sure you

don’t want to get rid of those things?

They kind of give me the creeps.” She shudders a little, as if remembering a long-ago horror movie.

“Nah. I want to figure out what they are. Might be worth something.” Jake studies them on his table. Now, beneath his kitchen lights, they look harmless.

Like plain rocks, nothing special. “Or, they might’ve fallen out of a plane’s lavatory at 20,000 feet.”

She laughs a little.

Jake helps his sugarplum out to her

V57, an elite sports car a few models ago. It’s black on black with stock chrome rims, and she keeps this baby in pristine condition. After a sturdy hug and soft kiss, he tucks her inside and adds a humorous side note, “Babe, thanks for making hump Wednesday, ‘hump’ Wednesday! I’ll cook a special dinner for you tomorrow night, at least three courses.”

He leans in her open car door.

“And, don’t tell anybody about the meteors,” he adds. “Don’t want the ‘Men

in Black’ coming to get me.” He’s only partly joking. The vehicles headed towards the beach when they left sure appeared like they could belong to some clandestine government agency.

Sondra rolls her eyes before cautiously backing out of the driveway.

As soon as her car departs, he skips back inside to examine the galactic twins. Jake would like to remove the stones from the container, yet is in a quandary about where to store them.

Glancing up on the fireplace mantel, he

notices his stainless steel keepsake box.

It’s perfect. Big enough for both rocks and has a lid that shuts tightly, just in case. He doubts they’re contaminated, but you can never be too safe. Jake slowly turns the supper-saver on its face and pours the stones into the box, never touching them with his hands. His conscience approves. “That ought to keep the dark matter, radiation, or whatever else hitched along for the ride, bottled up.

Jake considers taking the twins into his boudoir but chickens out and leaves

them on the mantel instead. Better safe than sorry. He loves his bedroom, which he’s crafted into an entertainment center with a California king-sized bed, sensational surround music, and a holographic Compscreen to boot. The placement and size of the projection adjusts in conformity with the interactive settings. He’s never really been a tech geek. Even so, the sensory function was phenomenal, especially before he met Sondra, during his single days. Those “Girls Gone Crazy” humanoid holograms would get turned up and the

party was finger-licking good! Jake shakes his head, reminiscing. Those days are a distant mammary.

There’s a narrow walk-in closet that leads to a sinful master bath. The tan marble, double sinks gently seduce the eyes while the deep Jacuzzi seals the deal. Jake takes a long, hot shower, before cat-walking into bed, proudly modeling his birthday suit. He prefers soft music to soothe him to sleep, and tonight he knows just what he needs to hear. Directing the voice-activated automated system, he requests, “Song

list, play ‘Lovers’ Lane’ and repeat for thirty minutes.” The smooth groove not only sways him into slumberland, but it brings back the memories of tonight’s frolic in the sand.

His subconscious has a mind of its own as he morphs into J-Love, the man who discovered teralinium. One gram of this mineral can power the state of Florida for an entire year. If a person boils it in water and drinks the tea, it can cure the most insidious forms of cancer.

Some claim it’s the key to the fountain of youth. Becoming an instant international

celebrity, he eventually sells the stones in a bidding frenzy for over one billion bitcoin. He decides to take the bounty and retire on the French Riviera with Sondra, until the aliens return and need their children back.

The alarm rouses him a second before annihilation, and he begins to blunder his way through the morning routine. After a date with destiny in the bathroom, he slips on his blue jeans and a white T-shirt. Jake’s not too modest to cook in the nude, but prefers his junk has a layer of protection from fire and

cutlery. He gets breakfast underway, preparing his specialty—oatmeal with cinnamon and fresh blueberries.

While the water heats, he can hear his best buddy whining and scratching at the back door. Jake’s heartstrings get plucked as he heads down the hall to let him inside. Moses, usually thrilled to see him, especially at daybreak, seems oddly cowed this morning. He darts right by, through the hall and into the living room. Double parking in front of the fireplace, he whines a simple song in the direction of the keepsake box.

They have been companions for more than seven years now, and this is the first time Jake has been treated with this kind of wanton disrespect. He has to finish cooking breakfast, so he leaves the ungrateful mongrel alone in the living room. Just a little more milk in the water and the oatmeal ought to have the creamy consistency he craves. Three teaspoons of cinnamon and his concoction grows more wholesome by the calorie. Jake hears a scratching sound from the other room and investigates. Moses can’t reach the mantel, but apparently that

hasn’t stopped him from trying. Placing both paws as high as possible on the fireplace, he then revolves briskly as if chasing his own tail. Even when Jake doles out Doggy-Delights, the screwball barely notices his filled dish on the kitchen floor.

“Hey, what’s wrong, boy?” he wonders aloud. “How do you even know what’s up there?”

Moses yelps a few times in a language that he can’t interpret.

Jake activates the Compscreen to get

the latest news before preparing for work. “GMA or the Today Show, um, Good Morning America, it is.” The show launches with an announcement that because it’s Thursday, September 11, 2031, the thirtieth anniversary of 9/11, they’ll have a special look back at the tragedy in the eight o’clock hour.

Jake anticipates he’ll watch at least some of the footage because he doesn’t have to be at the hospital until well past nine.

“I’ve got time to cook some turkey bacon, would you like a slice?” he asks

Moses. The sentry barks twice for yes, though never leaves his post. “Some wheat toast and I’m good to go. Moses, would you like —Nah, you prefer English muffins,” Jake grumbles as if he is a reluctant chef this morning.

While the bacon cooks, he goes over to the fireplace and opens the box to take a peek. For all he knows, they could have evaporated. One of the stones is a solid gray and the other is now a transparent crystal. He picks up the container and brings it to the dining room table for further analysis. Moses

starts to bark again, and Jake has had more than enough of his foolishness.

Seizing him by the collar with one hand and grabbing his bowl with the other, he banishes the prophet to the backyard.

Jake slips on the sandals he always leaves at the rear door and carries the pan over to the dog house. “Just be happy I’m still going to give you a gratuitous slice of bacon, especially after the way you’ve neglected me all morning,” he admonishes his four-legged companion who has been dragging his paws all the way. The suddenly crazed

canine gives him a look of disdain as foam begins to drip from his jowls, crouched and snarling with wickedness.

Jake retreats back inside before Moses breaks a commandment.

Returning to the kitchen, his mind whirls as he’s bewildered as to what has come over his roommate. If the stone is affecting Moses, then what damage could it do to him? Jake tops off the porridge with a handful of fresh blueberries and a heaping teaspoon of butter. He brings his oatmeal, bacon, and wheat berry toast out to the dining room

where he can eat and watch the news.

“Now, we report on the worst disaster on American soil, which happened thirty years ago today,” begins a petite caramel commentator. “At 8:46 a.m. Flight 11 from Boston crashed into the North Tower of the World Trade Center. More than one-hundred people jumped to their deaths, as all three concrete stairwells had been obliterated on impact. At 9:03, Flight 175 from Boston also slams into the South Tower of the World Trade Center! More destruction was on the way, because at

9:37, Flight 37 from Washington Dulles International Airport crashes into the western face of the Pentagon. All U.S. airspace is shut down immediately.

Fighter jets are scrambled, and the White House and the Capitol are evacuated. At approximately 9:59 the South Tower begins to collapse, sealing the deaths of many firefighters and rescue personnel.”

“Damn!” Jake mutters, lost in thought. Even though he had lived through it, after thirty years, he’d forgotten how devastating this terrorist

attack actually was.

The commentator continues, “At 10:03 United Airlines Flight 93 from Newark International Airport, bound for San Francisco, crashes in Somerset County, Pennsylvania. If not for the heroic action of its passengers who attempt to thwart the hijacking, there’s no telling its eventual destination. The general school of thought is that it was headed for the White House. At 10:28, the North Tower starts to sink in terrorist sand, about an hour and forty-two minutes after the initial impact. Roughly

3,000 people perished due to these sadistic attacks. We’ll have a moment of silence for all of those lost; please pray for their souls.� The screen falls silent even as the images continue unabated, with the Towers shown disintegrating from every conceivable angle. The footage accurately depicts all the mayhem of that incredibly destructive day in American history.

Jake sets his spoon down and nonchalantly reaches out to pick up the clear stone, which immediately starts to glimmer. He quickly drops it back inside

the box, more of a reflex than anything else. The light appears to fade and a few minutes later dissipates completely.

Curiosity is now his enemy, as he reaches back inside to retrieve the crystal once more. Again, it begins to glow in his palm, much brighter this time. The holographic image beckons as the video from Good Morning America shows two women jumping to their deaths, to escape the intense heat of the fuel-induced flames. It’s even more horrific in slow motion.

Jake rolls the small artifact in his

hand. “I wish I could have been there to help,” he says, thinking out loud. The rock instantly activates and radiates a virtually blinding light. Before he can put it back into the box, the room begins to rotate and spin. Then again, is it the room, or is it he that’s twirling?

Immediately losing his sense of direction, he can’t tell up from down.

The one viable solution is to sit on the floor or chair, except the only thing in his grasp is a handful of air.

The pressure of the rotations creates enough centrifugal force to fold his body

into a fetal position, allowing him to squeeze through the growing wormhole in the ceiling. Wound so tight, he starts to feel both nauseated and dizzy. When does this roller coaster ride end? Then, everything goes black.

Jake feels the frigid hard floor against his face as he slowly wakes from his nap. He gradually begins to make out jumbled voices in the background and what sounds like waterfalls. It’s difficult, as his eyelids feel like they’re lifting weights, even though he eventually manages to open them, ever

so slightly. His vision is still blurred and he remains dizzy from all the contortions, but the voices become distinguishable. They’re men greeting each other, informally. There’s some kind of partition on all sides of the cubicle, and the ceiling is much higher than the walls. The ground is cold and hard, and appears to be a patterned mosaic tile. He reaches up and braces himself against a white toilet. At that moment, his half-eaten breakfast decides to exit through the entrance. Jake prays to the porcelain god, seemingly begging

for forgiveness. He counts his blessing that he’s in a bathroom.

The voices are now clearing up, and he can make out the brown polished Stacy Adams to his right in the stall adjacent to his own. He thinks to himself, well, at least they’re men’s shoes, or this could get real interesting.

The space crystal is still in his hand, though much smaller, and its refulgent light barely a glimmer. Jake places the stone in his pocket and attempts to stand, but plunges back to the floor. He’s still

too dizzy and dazed by the circumstances and journey. After a couple of minutes, he tries to rise once more, and this time is relatively successful. Still moving in slow motion, he opens the stall door and immediately realizes the immense size of the restroom.

It must be a commercial building of some kind, because there are at least ten urinals and probably just as many sinks.

There are only a few guys inside, and they’re all dressed in professional business attire. Where am I? How did I get here? Who are these people? His

thoughts bang together loudly, deep inside his cranium. He ambles nervously over to the nearest sink and splashes cold water on his face, hoping that this is all a dream and the chilly liquid will awaken him. The water, no magic elixir, just clears his head a bit. While gazing in the mirror at his unshaven face, white T-shirt, and faded denim pants, he realizes he must look quite out of his element.

With his mind still traveling at light speed, a middle-aged Asian professional wearing bifocals ambles over to the

adjacent sink and starts to wash his hands. Without even turning his head, Jake blurts out, “Where am I?” The gentleman takes a lengthy gander through both lenses before quizzically inquiring, “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine now, sir.” Jake turns and flashes him his helpless blue eyes before continuing, “I need to know exactly where I am.”

The stranger throws up his hands in disbelief and says, “The World Trade Center, of course.”

Joke. It must be a … sick, sick joke.

“You’re kidding.”

The stranger just shakes his head.

“About what? It’s the World Trade Center. You sure you’re all right?”

Jake doesn’t respond because his knees immediately fold like an accordion, as he slowly descends back upon an inflexible floor. While he lies there, his brain is working overtime.

This has to be a dream. He lives in Florida. Where’s my oatmeal? Sondra … Moses … Mommy!

The gentleman immediately comes to his aid, and with the help of another Good Samaritan, they get him back on his feet. His new acquaintance seems genuinely concerned and asks nervously, “Would you like me to get some help?”

Jake realizes this may not be a good idea, “No, I’ll be all right. I’m a doctor.”

The stranger nods his head and turns to leave the restroom, even as Jake struggles to understand.

World Trade Center? Had some other building co-opted the name?

He tries splashing more water on his face while pleading to his reflection, “Wake up, wake up.” But to no avail.

Jake even pinches himself, because at that very minute it’s painfully obvious: he’s not dreaming.

Scrutinizing himself in the mirror, he realizes it’s not a pretty picture. At least he has sandals on his feet. Unshaven, he looks a wreck, and with vomit on his breath and no morning shower, he probably smells worse. Rinsing his mouth out with hand soap solves one part of the equation. Still not fully

comprehending his quagmire, he heads for the exit. When he opens the door, he’s startled by the sheer magnitude of the building. It can’t be the World Trade Center. That building was destroyed thirty years ago.

Jake ambles down a spacious corridor, as more than a few people give him the once-over because of his conspicuous attire. Quickly spotting an exit sign, he makes a beeline for that foyer. Three security guards check the identification of people entering, yet the outlet is completely unmanned. Jake

takes a couple of steps toward the egress and observes a sign on the wall to his right. He has to do a one-eighty to read it: “Welcome to the World Trade Center.”

His legs buckle as he attempts to catch himself by slumping against the wall. Jake senses he’s about to create a scene and spies a row of chairs to his rear. Figuring it’s as good a place as any to gather his thoughts, he smoothly backs up to sit down. The security guards are too busy at the entrance to notice, and for that he’s eternally grateful.

He couldn’t imagine having to explain why he has no identification, let alone how he got inside without it.

Once seated, he starts to remember what occurred just before he woke up in the restroom stall. He recalls watching the news about the anniversary of September 11, and then … THE STONE! I was holding the stone and remarked that—that—I wish I could help!

Jake turns and sees a newspaper lying on top of the trash can.

Newspaper? I haven’t seen one of those

in ages. Searching for a date, his eyes immediately dart towards the upper right corner.

Oh, God. September 11, 2001 Beads of sweat bubble on his brow as his legs quiver and knees tremble, his precarious predicament rapidly becoming clear.

His mind is now racing a mile a minute, pursuing both time and space.

What time is it? How long until the terrorists attack?

Frantically, he scans the lobby and finds a clock on the west wall. It says 8:14 a.m. When did that first plane hit?

Was it ten—or, no, the building falls around ten o’clock. But the first plane crashes at … What did the news anchor say this morning? 8:45? 8:46?

That means I have very little time to warn anybody, and even then … That can’t be enough time to evacuate a skyscraper of this size.

What should I do? Warn everyone about what’s to come? I’m a doctor. I

could help. Or can I? Do I even have time? Maybe I need to run. Now. One of the security guards glances up at him. Uh-oh. He looks out of place, and he knows it. Time to go.

No. Wait. I need to think.

There’s a coffee shop halfway down the hallway on the right. If he exits the building he won’t be allowed back inside without identification. So coffee seems to be the best of a few severely limited options. He waits until several people stroll by heading in that direction

and kind of slips in behind them, as if they’re all associates. Before they’re even aware of his presence, he turns right into the coffee shop and sits in an empty seat near the rear, where someone has left a newspaper.

With his thoughts a blur, he doesn’t notice the diminutive waitress approaching his table until she welcomes him. “Hi. My name is Brittany. What can I do for you today?”

Jake steadies himself and peeks up to see a toothy grin from a college-age brunette with sparkling green eyes.

“Nothing right now,” he answers.

“Just give me a couple of minutes and I may need some, uh, some coffee.” He does realize that his wallet and money are in another dimension.

Brittany coaxes without pressure, “Well, raise your hand when you’re ready. We do have fresh bagels today.”

Jake doesn’t respond, because he’s preoccupied with looking around the restaurant. All these people might die today. Not to mention all the people on the floors above them. Thousands of

people.

Jake’s own life history leaves him ill-prepared to ignore those affected by tragedy. All of his life he has felt the pang of loneliness ring deep inside his heart. Even though he’s an only child, he was also an identical twin. His brother was stillborn, and there’s been a hole in his soul ever since he can remember.

Something that remains hard to put into words, but real just the same. He believes it’s what attracted him to the field of medicine, generally, and being an obstetrician, specifically. The

indescribable desire to help people, particularly pregnant mothers, was embedded into his DNA. His beloved mama often described how devastating the loss of one of her children was, and it was something she never completely got over.

He has to do something, but what?

He tries, then discards a dozen ideas. Who would believe him, anyway, if he started telling people they needed to get out? He’d end up in jail.

Brittany makes her way back to his

table. She arrives bearing gifts, placing a cup of simmering caffeine in front of him.

She smiles at him, a look of empathy in her eyes.

“It’s on the house. You look like you could use a stiff drink.” For some strange reason this one act of kindness stirs something deep down in his soul.

He takes a quick sip. “Is there a pay phone on this floor?”

“Sure, it’s around the corner,” she replies. “It’s on the left, just past the

elevator.”

Her eyes are so kind. He feels he has to do something. He reaches out and grabs the waitress’s hand. “You need to get out of here.”

“What?” She looks uncertain suddenly, clearly wondering if he’s kidding.

“I mean it. Something bad is going to happen today.”

Her eyes bulge as she tugs her arm.

“Sir, I’ve got to work …”

He releases her hand. “Please. I know it sounds crazy. But walk away from here. Pretend you’re sick. Don’t come back.”

She backs away from him now, eyeing him warily. She bustles over to another table. Probably thinks I’m crazy.

Without even thanking her for the coffee, he takes an exaggerated slurp and then another. The caffeine rush is just what the doctor ordered, and time is a priceless commodity.

He takes on last gulp before departing. All while his inner voice is chanting the logical path to take: You can’t change history. The waitress didn’t believe you, what makes you think anyone else will? Save yourself while you can. You don’t have enough time—get out! As he enters the hallway, he peers to the right and spots the exit about fifty paces away, and to his left, the elevator. A leggy and shapely redhead awaits transportation.

He feels a surge of testosterone. Now she’s somebody definitely worth saving.

While her physique captures his attention, another angular woman steps up with two young sons in tow. The boys hold their mother’s hand tightly as she lovingly reassures them.

“Daddy is going to be so surprised to see us. He thought we forgot his birthday!” The elevator doors open and he hears the operator mumble, “Ma’am, what floor?”

“The forty-ninth,” she answers and they all step inside as he watches from the hall. At that precise moment, he

realizes leaving is no longer an option.

Maybe this is why he’s here, to save the lives of those innocent children. Jake turns the corner of the hallway and spots the pay phone, and wonders if he should just alert security.

No, they’ll either presume I’m crazy or in on it. I have to do something … If I call 911 and then immediately leave the premises, at least I can live with myself. He picks up the receiver and dials those salient digits. A female voice answers, “911, what’s your emergency?”

Jake hesitates for a split second before capitulating, “Hello, I want to report a …” He pauses, and then regains his composure before continuing, “Well, you must evacuate the Twin Towers immediately. The buildings are … are … they’re going to collapse.”

The operator interrupts, “With whom am I speaking?” He pauses for a second time, preferring not to give his birth name. His voice trembles, “My name is Jake, uh, Jake Kardashian, and you need to alert the airports. Tell them that planes —that Al Qaeda is hijacking passenger

jets as we speak. At 8:46 they’ll crash them into the Twin Towers, Pentagon, and God-knowswhere else … The terrorists are about to attack.”

The operator is dumbfounded but still plays along, “Sir, are you reporting an emergency that hasn’t happened yet?”

He has no time for long explanations and it only increases his fervor. “Call the FBI, the FAA, everybody. Hell, alert the President, but first, you must evacuate the Towers immediately.

Osama Bin Laden is launching an attack

on America as we speak!”

Jake’s voice continues to rise in intensity and volume, while the operator remains calm. “Could you please hold while I get my supervisor?”

“No, no,” he cries out, yet is put on hold anyway.

Just as he’s about to hang the phone up, a supervisor with a rich baritone inquires. “Hello, are you still there?”

“Yes—now alert the authorities,” he frantically answers. “I have to go, but you must evacuate the World Trade

Center right now. Time is of the essence.” He’s bordering on shouting and doesn’t see the mountainous black security guard approaching from his rear. Jake suddenly realizes that the 911 operator is stalling, perhaps even tracing the call, so he quickly hangs up. Turning around towards the exit, he comes face to face with a massive man.

His heart descends into his stomach as the guard introduces himself. “My name is Jim McFeeters, but everybody calls me Big Mac. I’d like to have a word with you in my office, if you don’t

mind.”

His sandpaper voice scours on impact. Jake panics. Oh shit! What have I done? They’re going to arrest me, and running from this “double decker” is definitely not on the menu. It certainly sounded like an offer he couldn’t refuse.

“Okay,” he manages, all the while wondering how he’s going to convince Big Mac that he’s not crazy.

As Mac leads him down the corridor, two additional officers come jogging from the opposite direction. He

waves them off while proclaiming, “Stand down, I’ve got this.” One of them opens an unmarked hallway door, and they enter without much fanfare. The room houses security monitors for the entire building, and there are literally dozens. Jake takes note that many of them are focused squarely on the pay phone that he just abandoned. They continue through a pair of glass doors before making a sharp right into a small windowless office. It’s starkly decorated with a rectangular wooden table in the center and six uncomfortable-looking

chairs. At least there’s a phone on the wall, if he has a last request. The thought brings him little comfort. He can’t call Sondra. She’s just a kid in 2001.

One of the other officers enters and he’s stationed at the door. Big Mac sizes up Jake. “I’m going to have to search you. So please, assume the position.”

Jake spreads his legs and leans against the table, for easy access. Mac pats him down quite thoroughly, and the only thing he finds is the crystal in his right pocket.

He removes it and sets it on the table.

It’s not glowing at all, so he pays it scant attention while pointing to the chair.

“Have a seat, fella.” They both sit down simultaneously. “You don’t have any identification, not even a driver’s license? What’s your real name, funny guy?”

Jake knows he has nothing, and while unnecessarily tugging at his trousers, he replies gingerly, “My name isn’t important.” He gets a glimpse of Big Mac’s watch, noting that it’s now

8:25 a.m. “Look, I know this is going to sound crazy. I get that. But I need you to listen. You, me, everyone in this building. We need to get out.”

“Very well, but first, tell me your name.”

“My name isn’t important! We need to go.”

Big Mac leans back in his chair, shaking his head. “We were alerted by the 911 operator that a caller from inside this building was making or reporting terrorist threats, even going so far as to

demand that we immediately evacuate the entire facility. We have reason to suspect that caller was you, so I need to know who you are and how you got past security. Then, you can share your concerns with me as to why you presume this place will come under attack.”

Mac turns on a small recorder, places it in front of him, and while staring directly into his soul growls ominously, “Your real name, sir?”

The pit in his stomach has sucked all the oxygen out of his lungs and he barely

has enough wind to whimper, “Jacob William Love.”

He glances at the guard’s watch again. He thinks about the kids going up to the forty-ninth floor. He’s got so little time.

The door swings open and the other officer returns bearing gifts. He hands Mac a stack of papers and sets an ink pad in front of Jake. “May I get your fingerprints?” It’s another offer that’s really an order, so he reluctantly obliges.

Mac is meticulously scanning the

documents before slamming them on the table and turning to Jake with a serious frown and a radical change in demeanor.

“It says here that you believe a passenger jet is about to crash into this Tower. Is that true?”

Jake surveys the room and there’s no visible clock, so he asks, “What time is it?”

“That’s insignificant,” Mac snaps.

“What’s important is why you think we should evacuate this building. Have you planted a bomb on the premises? Are

you a terrorist? Exactly how did you get inside this secure facility with no identification and dressed like a bum?

There is no record of you signing in, and so far, no video of you entering this morning.�

Jake peeks at the security guard’s watch. Now it’s 8:25.

Time is running out for everyone in this edifice including him, so he decides the truth is his sole alternative. No matter how crazy it may sound. Sweat trickles down his face.

“I’m a time traveler and I have information that could save hundreds, maybe thousands of lives. Today is the day of the worst terrorist attack on American soil, and I’m just here to help.

We don’t have much time to evacuate this building, so you better start taking me seriously and ring the fire alarm or— just do something. I’m begging you, please!”

Mac cannot camouflage the smile on his face.

“A time traveler?” he rubs his

sweaty palms together. “From this transcript, you said a hijacked plane will soon crash into the North Tower.

Causing it to collapse?”

Jake rises to his feet. “No, sir. Two passenger jets will crash into the Towers, and both are ultimately going to be destroyed. The Pentagon is also a target. We have to get everyone out of both buildings, and we’re sitting here wasting what little time we have left. I may have arrived in a restroom, but 8:46 is when the shit hits the fan!”

Big Mac skeptically jumps up to proclaim, “This skyscraper is over one hundred stories high. No single plane can bring it down unless it has some help from someone. Perhaps somebody inside the building …”

Jake stares at the guard’s watch, watching precious seconds tick away.

“I told you my name is Jacob Love and I’m a doctor, a gynecologist at Southern Hospital in Pensacola, Florida.

You can call them, well …” He pauses.

“Well, you can’t call them now because

…”

“Why not?” Mac questions. “Is it because you’re lying?”

“No, no, no,” he implores. “It’s just that none of this has happened yet.”

The guard spontaneously snickers before pointing out, “Everything that you’ve told me so far, hasn’t happened yet. Do you fancy yourself as some kind of psychic, or me some kind of fool?”

The door opens and the same officer returns, and while placing a file on the desk frantically urges, “You’ve got to

take a look at this!” Mac picks up the file and peruses its contents before slumping back into his chair. He turns to his comrade and questions, “Ivan, have you double checked this?”

“No, sir. We triple checked it,” he responds with certainty.

As he turns and exits the room, Mac throws down the file. He gives Jake a wide-eyed inspection before sarcastically remarking, “It says here you’re a nineteen-year-old biology major at the University of Florida with

two outstanding parking tickets.”

Jake shrugs. “Well, that’s me, or at least who I was in 2001.”

“Or is this guy your son?” Mac mutters to himself.

Jake, getting frustrated with this waste of valuable time, leans forward.

“With the same prints, impossible. You should stop evaluating me and start assessing this situation we find ourselves in. Evacuate the building— now!”

Mac snarls, “If I emptied this place

on the word of some bum in a T-shirt and no ID, how long do you think I’d have this or any job?”

The phone on the wall rings and he quickly gets up to answer it. Jake can tell the caller is extremely animated.

“Mac, the geeks re-checked this morning’s video quite a few times.

We’ve even gone back two days, and there’s absolutely nothing on this guy until he exits the ground floor restroom at 8:08 this morning. Dressed just as he is now. One more thing, we located Dr. Trung, who was with him for a time in

the bathroom. He says our suspect acted very peculiar, and get this: he asked him where he was, as if he had no idea he was in the Twin Towers. We’ve also notified the FBI, and they are sending over some agents for transport.”

Mac turns to glare at Jake. “Got it, anything else?”

“No, that’s it for now,” he replies.

Hanging up the phone, Mac returns to his seat, but now he looks unsettled.

“How did you get restroom?” Mac implores.

into

the

“I told you, I’m a time traveler.”

Mac places both palms flat on the table and pulls up one inch away from his nose. “If you want me to even consider evacuating this building, you have to tell me how and when you got into the restroom down the hall. Or better yet, how you got in this building without any identification.”

Jake can’t help but look at the watch one more time. I’m going to die, is all he can think. That first plane hits, and we’re all dead.

“Mac, forget about the bathroom.

We’re all about to be buried alive if you don’t start doing something right now.

Come on, man. Do the right thing and order the evacuation!”

Mac narrows his eyes. “Look here, asshole. It’s 8:46 and this building is still perpendicular. By the way, I don’t hear any jets, do you? Tell me, who helped you get in here and why are—” BOOM, BAM, BOOM! The monument shakes, rattles, and rolls as if an earthquake fault line was dancing directly beneath it.

“What the hell was that?” a perplexed Mac bellows to a now seemingly smug Jake, who pompously proclaims, “What have I been trying to tell you? Are you going to listen to me now?”

Big Mac snatches the phone, but the line is dead, and he waves to the other guard to follow him outside to investigate. In his haste he leaves the stone on the table, and Jake quickly retrieves it. Except this time, he places it deep inside his underwear. He doubts if

even Mac will wish to venture down there. Jake can hear substantial commotion outside of the door as fire alarms initiate, screeching as the foretold pandemonium ensues.

The door violently swings back open as Big Mac returns with his eyes spewing both fire and brimstone. “I’ve been ordered to stay here and watch you, you fucking terrorist bastard! You knew what time the bomb was set to go off, who helped you plant it? You better start talking before I use my enhanced interrogation techniques on your ass.”

He forcefully grinds his fist into the palm of his hand. Jake is no longer intimidated and yells back with equal fervor.

“Start talking? Hell, that’s all I’ve been doing. You need to start listening.

I’m telling you that wasn’t a bomb. It was a passenger jet, and right now there’s another one headed for the South Tower!”

Big Mac takes out his cell phone and dials the Security Center inside the South Tower. “This is Mac—What? A

passenger jet? I’ve got a report here that there’s more than one coming this way.

Hello—Hello?”

The phone goes dead and he redials. There’s no answer. He turns to Jake and stares at him for a number of intensely uncomfortable seconds.

“Well.” He rubs his temples. “Let’s just say for the sake of argument, that you aren’t a lunatic. Let’s pretend you’re either a psychic or time traveler. So what’s going to happen next?” Mac’s tone has changed dramatically once more, as he’s practically begging now.

Jake doesn’t know where to begin and tries this on for size.

“Well, now that I have your undivided attention, evacuate the damn Towers!” he shouts. “Man, you have to get everyone out of this building before it disintegrates. Oh, shit … The South Tower is going to fall first, and this Tower falls, uh, soon after that.”

Mac’s jaw tightens. “First, you have to tell me how you know this. How could you possibly know which building falls first?”

Jake marches over to him and places both of his hands on top of immense shoulders, looks him dead in the eye and desperately declares, “The same reason why I knew this building would be struck first. Because I’m from the future, Mac. I’m from the future.” Mr. McFeeters blinks fast while kneading his chin. Jake hopes the truth will eventually sink in.

The door opens and Ivan returns with another folder and startles Mac. “This was faxed over right before the explosion. It’s his college transcripts.”

Mac snatches it and quickly reads the contents. “Jacob William Love is a Florida Gator who graduated with honors in 2001 and is now enrolled in its College of Medicine.”

There’s a photo attached and he carefully scans it before taking a sustained survey of Jake. His chocolate face almost turns purple when he drops the open file on the table. There sits a picture of Jacob Love, a much younger version. Nevertheless, it’s quite obvious that the college student in the picture and

the middle-aged doctor in this room are one and the same. Mac slumps in the chair bewildered, rubbing his furrowed brow in disbelief.

“How can this be?” he mutters to himself. “It’s impossible …”

Jake slams his fist on the table.

“Snap out of it, man, and get everyone out of the Towers now. It’s time to abandon ship!”

Mac turns to Ivan and reluctantly instructs him, “Go warn the boss that I said we should evacuate both Towers

immediately. Tell him they’re going to cave in.” Ivan hurriedly exits the room, slamming the door behind him.

“This is out of my hands now.” Mac still looks shell-shocked. “So, if you can tell me, is there anything else to help convince them to evacuate? Well, Mr. Know-it-all, you better start talking.”

“What time is it?” Jake inquires.

Mac peeks at his watch and answers nervously, “9:15. How much time do we have left?”

“We have a little more than an hour

here,” he responds. “On the other hand, time is running out for the South Tower.

If my memory serves me, it falls in less than an hour after impact. If you have any friends in there, I suggest you call them and tell them to get out now.”

Mac picks up his cellphone and leaves an urgent message. “Donald, this is Mac. I want you to get out of the Tower as soon as you get this message.

Just go and call me once you’re out of the building.”

Ivan opens the door and sticks his

head in to deliver a message. “Captain said the structural engineers don’t agree with your assessment. They can’t discern how you came to that conclusion. Well, I sure didn’t want to say the prisoner told you. Some of us are going upstairs to help the firemen, but your relief just arrived.”

He shuts the door, and that last sentence has piqued Jake’s interest. He frowns at Mac, throws his hands up and curiously asks, “What did he mean, your relief just arrived? Talk to me, man. I’ve come clean with you.”

Mac’s voice falters slightly as he breaks protocol to inform him. “Well, the FBI has to be notified in these types of circumstances. They’re sending over some agents to transport you to their facility for interrogation.” Jake is actually relieved that somebody is coming to get him out of this mausoleum, but what about all those innocent souls trapped upstairs?

“Mac, forget about me for a minute.

Ivan and all those firefighters are digging their own graves if you allow

them to try and rescue anyone.” Jake is animated yet sincere as his eyes well up.

“This Tower is a giant tomb. Do you understand what I’m saying? It’s a tomb!”

“Of course I understand.” He sighs deeply. “Even so, how can I stop or even intervene at this point? Nobody is going to believe me, and certainly no one is going to listen to you. The engineers say these Towers are structurally sound, yet having said that, I’m getting tired of you being right.”

Jake plays his trump card. “Well, if you trust me, then you have to get us out of here before this Tower falls. You have to at least save yourself. Don’t you have a family?”

Mac is touched by his concern and speaks solemnly. “Yes, I have a wife and a four-year-old son. Nonetheless, my hands are tied. My orders are to stay with you until the FBI shows up, and if there’s one thing Big Mac does, it’s follow orders. That’s one thing this army brat knows how to do. Humor me for a moment. Since this could be our last

hour on the planet, why not tell me how you got inside the building?�

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