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Interesting choice. But you’ll only have seven hours. Remember that. Time is a respecter of no one. Seven hours.” And with that, he turned and walked away, disappearing behind the twisted remains of the Volvo.
    Dan tried to prop himself on his one good elbow, but the pain coursing through his body was too crippling. A surge of panic ran through his nerves. He didn’t want to die, not like this, not alone. “Hey, wait. Don’t leave me like this.”
    But Constant was gone, out of view, humming that tune again as it grew more and more distant.
    Finally Dan relaxed and stared up into the falling snow. It had picked up some and now appeared to swirl and throb in time with the beating in his head. Slowly, darkness pushed back the snow, the steely sky, and encroached upon him, surrounded him. He heard nothing, felt nothing. He was dying. With his final breaths he did something he hadn’t done in years, since the last time God had left him alone with his hopelessness; he whispered a prayer. It was really just a plea: “God, help me. Take care of Sue and Jack and Murphy.” He wanted to say their names aloud one more time.
    His life was almost gone. Constant was a liar, a lunatic, like he thought.
    Then, for Dan Blakely, everything went to black.

7
    The alarm sounded the same time it did every morning, pulling Dan Blakely from London’s nineteenth century. The steady beeping gradually grew louder until he reached over and, groping about like a man in pitch-blackness looking for his lost flashlight, found the Off button.
    7 a.m.
    Slowly, as if to do it too quickly would land him back on the mountainside pinned beneath a hulk of mangled metal, Dan opened his eyes and oriented himself. The ceiling fan above the bed turned slowly, not making even a whisper of sound. He was in his room, safely tucked into his bed, and it was seven in the morning. The blinds were turned down but still some murky light slipped through the slats. Beside him, the bed was empty, the indentation of Sue’s head still on her pillow. The house was quiet. One by one he moved his limbs—arms first, working from the fingers to the wrists, then elbows and shoulders; then he moved to his hips, knees, ankles. He drew in a deep breath, filling his lungs with the warm air of the bedroom. No pain. Everything seemed to be working properly.
    Thinking, hoping he had dreamed the whole thing, from Erin’s accusation and the meeting with Gary to the trip up Bender’s Mountain and the odd interaction with Thomas Constant, Dan smiled. Constant must have been merely a figment of his imagination, a dream character pieced together by a montage of memories and images tucked away in the recesses of Dan’s mind. He rubbed his face, wiped the sleep from his eyes. It had to have been a dream. Constant’s crazy proposition went against everything true and real, as irrational as a slick illusionist claiming the ability to walk on water. No one could turn back the clock.
    Dan pushed away the covers and sat on the edge of the bed. The dream had been so real, though—the panic, the pain, the encounter with Constant. He’d never had a dream so vivid and detailed before. He remembered everything, down to the intense thirst and the snowflakes landing on his lips, the texture of the ground beneath him, the striations of varying shades of blue in Constant’s eyes. It was incredible, unbelievable. If it wasn’t so absurd, he’d have to reconsider whether it was a dream at all.
    And yet, despite his attempts to convince himself that what he’d seen and heard and felt (oh, man, what he’d felt—the pain and fear), Dan couldn’t help but be overwhelmed by a notion of urgency. Like a sixth sense warning him of some impending danger, his pulse rate rose, muscles tensed. He could practically feel the steady surge of adrenaline infusing his blood. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end and walked