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the radio. The WNAP morning show was on, a mix of talk, phone calls from excited listeners winning tickets to concerts, or $92 dollars or (considering the enthusiasm of the winners, the best of all) a WNAP Buzzard T-Shirt. The music the station played I now call "oldies," but coming out of the radio in the El Camino, were “Hits.” We didn't talk a lot during these drives, because Dean and Betsy, though friends, were both Freshmen. This particular morning, however, there was even less talk than usual because in my mind, I no longer had two years on them, I was thirty-two years older, a 47 year old in a seventeen year old body, sitting uncomfortably close to a fifteen year old girl. Yea, it was weird, and worry gnawed at me.
    I started to wonder again if I had died in the crash in Cincinnati, images of the accident still vivid in my mind, as were the details of the life I had (hopefully temporarily) left behind.
    I asked Dean "you ever hear of a Chrysler Pacifica?" referring to the make and model of the car I drove in 2007. Dean’s father worked as an engineer in Indianapolis for one of the car companies, so both father and son were car buffs, and would know of any model made by an American auto maker.
    He shook his head. "No, a…Chrysler what?"
    "Pacifica."
    "Nope."
    I nodded my head. "How about a Hummer?" I remembered well the Hummer that t-boned me in the intersection in Cincinnati. I remembered the sight of the front grill, anyway. A cold stab of instant regret rushed through me after I asked the last question, imagining the shit I’d be bringing down on myself if Betsy went home and told her mother I’d been talking about "hummers" on the way to school. Well, at least I’d get to drive to school by myself, I thought, but then realized no, my El Camino privileges would be gone if my parents found out about it.
    "A Hummer?" He shook his head, again coming up blank. "What are they?" I heaved a silent sigh of relief.
    "Oh, nothing, just something I read," I replied, shrugging. "The Army is considering replacing the Jeep with something called the 'Humvee,’ and one of the car companies might make a civilian model. It was obvious  I’d piqued Dean"s interest though. He would ask about the cars when his father got home from work today.
    At this point, let me say though I wouldn't have believed I could have coped with being plopped down in the middle of my past, riding the flow of the day proved to be easy.  After watching my father close the door to the garage behind him, I had gone to my closet, and pulled from a favorite short-sleeved light blue shirt with darker blue stripes. I found clean and folded jeans in the dresser and pulled them on, then white socks. I retrieved my tennis shoes, Adidas basketball shoes from my aborted 1975 season, and put them on, doing the familiar stretches that would sometimes reduce the pain in my left leg. The almost new jeans, still a little stiff, had a waist size of 34, and I couldn't remember the last time I wore that size. About this time, I reasoned, as I walked to the kitchen to try and find some breakfast. Despite the fact I still doubted this was all real, I nevertheless felt ravenous.
    I found some Raisin Bran and milk, and sat at the kitchen table eating the cereal, thinking about the situation, when my mother walked into the kitchen, trailed by my little sister, 7 years old, in her favorite "granny dress" she had lobbied to get for six months, and the sight took my breath away. My mother, 42 years old, hair still dark and long, far younger looking than I remember, with my little sister, who in the time I belonged, had three children of her own, and always seemed tired. But at 7, all of it was ahead of her.
    I dared not say anything, because I knew I would either gush with enthusiasm over seeing my mother and sister in this setting, or else get choked up, overcome by the emotion. The lump in my throat suggested to me the latter would be what happened, so I finished my Raisin