When he opened his eyes, it was to the harsh glare of sunlight off an eerily-still ocean, and the overwhelming sense that he wasn’t where he was supposed to be.

The cuffs of his blue jeans were wet and clinging to his ankles as he lay on his back in the sand.

Nothing about this is right! his mind screamed at him, and that was all he knew. He reached back in his mind for some scrap of identity, some sort of signifier that would tell him why he was on his back laying in the sand in wet clothes, but all he could find was the sense that this was wrong.

He was not supposed to be here.

But where was he supposed to be?

He checked his pockets. A leather wallet, a paper clip.

A driver’s lisence.

Massachusetts, 2008.

Luke Callahan.

His own name sounded foreign in his ears. Something had happened… somehow all of this was devestatingly wrong.

He wasn’t supposed to be here.

“Oh, Lord, Alexander. Looks like we’ve got another one,” trilled a voice behind him.

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