Busted

Parks was out of the house, on the street, on his own; it felt good. Since they’d started the Reveal, he’d been around Geli and Finn most of the time. With few exceptions, the three were seldom alone. They were almost always going out together, or with each other in their flat. To Parks, it seemed that Finn was teaching them at all times; and usually, he didn’t mind it much. It was more like hanging out with friends than going to school. But at times, it could be just as frustrating as school. Geli already knew many of the things that were just lost on Parks—making him feel like the big loser when he couldn’t do it and she could. Nothing tweaked Finn though; he just kept them at it until Parks got it—or faked it well enough for Finn to think he did. But today, when Finn said he had to go out and Geli said she wanted to nap, Parks grabbed his board and hauled ass out—he desperately needed a skate session.

The DMV parking lot was definitely out. Even with the office closed, Parks wasn’t willing to risk it. The last session at the DMV lot was the night the black and white donut shop rolled in and chased all the skateboarders into the Haight; not long after that, the Crown Vic found him and tried to run him down. They had to have been watching him. They must’ve known the DMV was one of his spots. For today’s session, Parks needed somewhere no one had ever seen him before. He coasted down the asphalt toward Panhandle Park, blowing stop signs and switching back and forth through the neighborhood streets just off Haight. He avoided Haight Street itself, touching the heavily populated street only once—to cross it at Clayton. There were always too many Crown Vics in the Haight—cabs and cops. The cop-Vics were still a problem, but they weren’t his main concern.

The Panhandle was an eight block long by one block wide strip of park, split in two by the nasty traffic on Masonic Street. Hanging in the Panhandle, were mostly locals; the park’s never much for tourists except on their way to the Haight, or Golden Gate Park. The east side of Panhandle had people reading in the grass, tossing balls to dogs, or sharing a picnic—normal park stuff. The west was public bathrooms, basketball courts, dopers, homeless gangs, and skaters—mostly young ones. He didn’t mind a few grommits—everyone had to start skating somewhere—but Parks decided against stopping. He didn’t want to be out in the open. He wanted somewhere set back from the street—preferably behind a fence. If the cops or anyone else showed up, a fence buys time for an exit. Parks skated past the Panhandle and headed toward Franklin Pierce Middle School.

Schools were a great skate: lots of rails, steps, ramps, and walls—even water fountains for when you got thirsty. The only problem was that schools weren’t supposed to be for fun—they’re schools. It was possible to grab maybe an hour session before someone in the neighborhood called the cops to chase everyone out.

He cleared the fence, tossing his board into a bush before dropping himself onto the cement. For guys like Parks, fences were protection more than deterrents. If the cops did roll-up on the street, everyone could fade away before the bacon-in-blue got past the gate to write tickets. There were about twelve locals there already; one was looking through a video camera mounted on a tripod. He had the camera lens trained on a handrail. The guy grinding the rail for the camera was late twenties—and pretty damned good. It wasn’t a particularly tricky rail, but he had some style. San Francisco had a lot of old school guys like that. He may have been pro, but Parks didn’t recognize him.

Not wanting his mug showing up on some web video, Parks stayed clear of the lens. The ten not posing for the camera, worked a little nine-set coming down from the school entrance. It was the mirror staircase to the set and rail with the camera. Parks dropped his board and rolled to the back of the rotation, offering his fist to each of the others as he passed. He recognized two of them, but gave them all a fist bump of respect. This was their place; Parks always gave props to the locals at a new spot. The session lasted twenty minutes.

When the cops showed up Parks would’ve done better to take them head-on. The two of them weren’t in much shape and he had a chance if he took them for a run. Instead, like everyone else, he headed for the back of the school and left the cops to get over the fence. Parks didn’t know the exit, but he figured the locals had something in mind—they seemed to know where they were going.

“Shit,” the guy with the camera yelled.

They’d made it into the faculty parking lot. The gate to the closed school was swinging fully open. Standing alongside their black and white cruisers were four of the biggest, badass cops Parks had seen since leaving Virginia. They were the kind of cops that didn’t look comfortable unless they had their clubs out. These four looked comfortable. No one moved.

“Gentlemen, you are trespassing,” said one of the cops. Using his club to indicate, he said, “If you will all kindly step over there and line up along the fence, my fellow officers and I will take care of processing your city paperwork.”

Tickets sucked, but most cops didn’t bother with them. They’d usually harass a little, and then chase everyone off. These cops had planned it differently. The two out front were supposed to chase everyone into the trap—they probably didn’t even try to get through the fence. This was a ticket trap. They weren’t common, but they happened.

Parks fell in line behind the older guy. He felt sorry for him; cops always gave the older skaters more crap. He just kept quiet; nobody spoke. Silence is normally the best way to deal with the police. The cops already knew exactly what everyone in the line was thinking. One by one, the cops pulled a skateboarder to the side, checked their I.D., and wrote out a ticket.

“I don’t have I.D.,” Parks said when it was his turn. “I don’t drive—bad for the environment.”

“Good for you, Mr. Solid Citizen. It might be a good idea though for you to get a California I.D, especially if you’re planning to continue trespassing and destroying public property.”

“Thanks. But you know what? I’ve already applied at the DMV; I just forgot.” Parks just wanted to get the ticket and get moving. He didn’t want to take any chances by drawing attention by being a smart-ass, even if it wasn’t going on his record.

“What about school I.D.?”

“Sorry, left it at home.”

The cop took a notebook and pen out of his shirt pocket. “Okay, what’s your name?”

“Greg Riley.”

“Address?”

“1351 Fell Street, S-F-C-A 94117.”

“Alright Mr. Riley, you have a seat while I make a quick call.” The cop waited until Parks sat down where he’d indicated. Another cop moved over to keep an eye on Parks, while the first one walked over to his black and white. He didn’t use a radio in the cruiser. Instead, he turned his back toward Parks and spoke into the microphone that hung from his shirt. Whatever the radio exchange had been, the cop didn’t give anything away. He walked up to Parks, motioned him to stand up and reached for his arm. He turned Parks’ arm to expose the underside of his wrist and the small identifiable scar.

“Mr. Riley—you’re under arrest.”

Ames

The two police had been asking Parks questions since arresting him at the school. Their questions told Parks that they didn’t have a clue about him. They probably didn’t even know why they’d arrested him. Their orders were to deliver Parks to the Hall of Justice—the Feds were waiting—that’s all they knew.

Parks was in the backseat of the cruiser with one cop sitting next to him. The cop who’d arrested him was driving. Parks’ skateboard rested upside down, under his feet. Not that having it close did him any good. With his hands cuffed behind his back, he’d have little chance to use it—even if he could escape.

“Kid, you got someone to call when we get to the station?” The cop next to Parks was playing friendly—acting concerned.

Parks said nothing.

“Suit yourself,” said the friendly cop, pretending to be hurt. “I just wanted to make sure you’d be okay. But what do I care—I’m a cop, right?”

Parks knew, even if the cops didn’t, that they were bringing him to his death. Whatever his learning limitations during the Reveal so far, he’d understood that danger. The plan for the Feds was to wipe the Dissimulants out. He’d have to avoid them, fight them and survive them. These two cops were only a situation. Like all situations, the mind could overcome them. Finn had taught him this.

The police stopped the questions for a while. In the new silence, Parks allowed his head and body to relax. He dropped back into the car seat. The handcuffs dug further into his wrist, but he could let that pain go. Outside the window, the speed of the passing scenery slowed; the car moved less than half a mile an hour; the people walking on the street had all but stopped. Inside too, the physical motions of the police occurred with slow, deliberate precision—a simple eye blink seemed to take minutes to plan and execute. Parks’ own movements were equally slow—seemingly just as deliberate. But his brain didn’t slow at all. Functioning at normal speed, it was processing thoughts at a rate that seemed incredibly accelerated in relationship to the reality of the sloth-like world around him.

It was the only certain reality Parks knew how to step into, alone—the dark world he’d escaped to before. But he was scared to go back. Both Angie and Finn had warned him about dangers that existed in that world. But then again, under the circumstances, Parks couldn’t imagine the dark world as any greater risk than where he was at that moment.

Parks moved the tips of his shoes toward the wheels on his skateboard, squeezing them against the trucks to get as tight a pinch on them as he could manage. The police, the car, the slow-moving scenery outside, all began to fade from his vision. He felt disoriented. Behind his back, the cuffs slipped through his wrists—falling to the seat with a metallic rattle. The sick feeling grew inside his stomach. Then, he stumbled into a fall.

He hits pavement. He’s in his other world. It’s dark. It has a different scent, a completely different sense or feeling from where he has just come. Now that he’s here, it doesn’t feel alien to him in the slightest way. The world he’d just left seems odd, surreal, out of place.

A number of people surround Parks where he’s sprawled on the sidewalk. One man, thin, in his late thirties, bends down to look into Parks’ face. His eyes are the same color—vibrant tangerine—that Parks’ green eyes turn to in the dark. The dilated eyes are friendly, but with seriousness behind them. The man’s face shows someone who’s lived a rough life. Yet, the suffering and revenge that it shows is in stark contrast to the reality of his age. Just as he had with Angie and Geli before that, Parks feels comfort and safety when he looks at this man. But the feeling is different in some way; a difference that Parks can’t recognize. It holds an overwhelming presence in the face. This man has the aura of raw truth, unedited by optimism, unencumbered by hope. But Parks can see a determination to prevail.

The face pushes toward Parks, the lips brush against his ear. “Hello Parks,” the man whispers. “My name is Ames. You belong here with me—with us. Things meant for you are much greater than what they want. Grab my hand and I’ll keep you here—protect you and train you.” The man sits back, not grabbing for Parks, but offering his open hand for Parks to grasp.

The hand looks good to Parks. It will keep him here. It will save him from returning to the place where the police are waiting. It will take him from ones who were trying to kill him. Parks reaches his own hand out toward the one offered. But the feeling of disorientation and nausea is returning.

“Hurry,” the man says. “You’re stepping back. You need to grab my hand now if you want to live.”

Again, the need to be with Geli drives Parks’ decision. He’d found someone to live for. If it means he’ll have to leave Geli, then he isn’t willing to save his life this way. Parks lets his hand drop to grab his skateboard. The world pulls away.

“I won’t give up on you Parks,” the voice echoes from the darkness. “You’re in danger with them. Don’t be blind with your trust—ever—with anyone.”

New Priorities

The polished floor cracked and echoed from Poppers’ evenly paced steps, as she briskly made her way down the brightly lit corridors of the Department of Justice. The walk from her office at the Department of Internal Security—past the office of her department’s chief, past the offices of several other departments and those respective chiefs—ended at the DOJ offices of Attorney General Anders. She paused at the door to take a moment to gather her thoughts.

When the attorney general had just now summoned Poppers to his office he’d used her first name. Calling her Commander Paulsen or Ms. Paulsen would mean some trouble over the outstanding Parks matter. Using Nancy was an indication that he needed something from her.

As of last week, Nancy Paulsen was forty-five years old. From her birth at Munich Army Hospital in cold war Germany, she’d been army down to her socks. For the first forty-two years, she’d never considered any career path outside of the army. She was the final child of three—all girls—sired by Colonel (Retired) Samuel Paulsen, veteran of one war, one conflict and one police action. Nancy’s mother, Victoria Riemann Paulsen had been the dutiful and diligent officer’s wife throughout her husband’s productive career. Though she loved her mom and admired her sacrifices, Nancy never had a desire for her mother’s life of tea with the Chaplain or coordinating charity bazaars. In truth, she never really knew much about what her mother did do with her long days; she didn’t spend them on her kids.

Poppers had accepted, if not embraced, the informal lines of command in the civilian branches of government. It was the unofficial way of expressing civil servant intentions—talking around an issue, not dealing with it directly. In the army, if a colonel ordered a lieutenant to secure a road, a sergeant down the line didn’t interpret policy objectives based on the nuances of the language used. Military orders given were followed and accomplished. In contrast, civilians protected themselves with a complicated mix of written orders, assumed understandings and intangible encoded phrases to express objectives.

If a civilian plan fails, everyone wanted to shift the responsibility to any of the offices lining the halls, except their own—and one other. Fault could never land on the policy, or more accurately, the policymaker. Anyone in the government, except one, was open for sacrifice; at times, the blame goes very high. But it could never make it to the Oval Office—not if everyone in these halls did his or her job.

As a military brat, who worshipped and then followed in her father’s choice of career, Major Paulsen was always dismayed at the lack of courtesy and discipline in civilian life. Once she’d left the military to join the DOJ’s fight against terrorism, Commander Paulsen found it easier than she expected to adjust to civilian ways.

Seated in the large waiting area outside the AG’s office were a few people Poppers recognized and some she’d never seen before—all presumably waiting for a chance to meet with the attorney general. A different group of men and women, whom Poppers guessed to be reporters, were sequestered to the side—chatting away with each other behind the glass walls of a conference room. One of the executive assistants to the attorney general greeted Poppers as she approached. She immediately led her to the AG’s office. The assistant knocked twice on the door before opening it. She delivered the formal announcement of Commander Nancy Paulsen’s arrival to the four men in the office.

In addition to Attorney General Anders, Tom Weise— Poppers’ boss—was in the room. He was standing next to the U.S. Secretary of the Defense, Mike Pritz. Pritz was in a discussion with James Wells, the Vice President of the United States. Everyone in the room was standing; the vice president had not yet taken a seat. Poppers may have expected a casual conversation about the Parks matter, but now she instantly reassessed those initial expectations. This was a meeting of people with more on their mind—a lot more—than just the fate of one kid. She knew that the reason the vice president was there, and not President Landry, was because the discussion would be too controversial for the President to be in the room. Wells didn’t set policy; everyone understood that. But he’d be the one on the record for this meeting.

After a round of unnecessary introductions—because they all knew who was who in the room, VP Wells took a seat; the others followed his lead. The AG spoke first.

“Thank you all for coming on such short notice,” Anders said. “Our discussion today will be in two parts. The first part is unclassified—although the information is for official use only and general DOJ guidelines apply. The classification for the latter part of the meeting is Secret. Those of you without proper clearance will need to leave before the second meeting begins.”

Because of certain aspects of her military history, Poppers had maintained Top Secret clearance—although her boss, Tom Weise had only Confidential clearance. This was the first time the rather awkward situation had come up. Her boss would have to leave for the later meeting.

Now, the VP took charge of the meeting and his immediate focus was the Parks matter. Commander Paulsen answered his questions directly. Her boss, and the others in the room, just listened as she explained that the police who’d apprehended Parks had softened their report to state that he’d escaped, rather than vanished at the scene. Of course, her department had been covertly observing the arrest and escape at the time it occurred. Her agents confirmed that Parks had physically left the scene, as indicated in the original police report. This meant that the target now had at least some control of his abilities. The target returned one minute later to the exact same spot. But since the vehicle had moved half a block before the officers realized anything, Parks’ return was to the outside of the squad car. The police saw him, but his disappearance still confused them. They gave him the time to manage his escape. He ran down an intersecting street and then rode his skateboard away from there. Poppers suggested it was more than likely that Parks was now aware of his identity as a Dissimulant. He’d probably been in contact with at least one of the Dissimulant organizations.

“Commander Paulsen,” the vice president interrupted, “how many of these organizations do you estimate to exist?”

Poppers explained that there were at least three large organizations operating in the United States and Canada. She suspected that as many as fifteen hundred informal, smaller groups existed as well. Not even the Dissimulants themselves knew the exact number of Dissimulants or Dissimulant groups. The groups had started informally over the years; there’d been no contact between them until recently.

“For whatever reason, the groups began to communicate with each other about two years ago.” Poppers explained.

“About the time you took your trip to South Carolina,” Wells said.

“About six months after, yes sir.”

“Is their any relation between the papers you brought back from and their sudden awakening to the issue?”

“There might be, sir. Or, it’s possible that our activities alerted them, and forced them into action.”

“Cause and effect?” Wells asked.

“I’m afraid so, sir.”

“Before we continue down that road, let’s finish with the boy,” he said. “Where do we stand with—what was his name again?”

“Parks, sir. When he reappeared a minute later, our enforcement team followed him on a chase through the city. We don’t think he knew we were watching, but he was taking extraordinary precaution. He eventually lost us in one of San Francisco’s neighborhoods—Cole Valley. But we’re certain he didn’t leave the area after that—he must be living there for now.”

“Isn’t it possible he just did another vanishing act?”

“No sir, we don’t think so. He’s inexperienced. He’d have to return to some point close in time from when he left. We don’t have any information to indicate that they can leave a location permanently.”

“I see, so you’re confident you know where he is?”

“His exact location—the specific flat he went to, or the identity of any others he may be living with, was not able to be determined through standard means: phone service, contracts, public records. That information is however expected by the end of today.”

“What’s your plan once you have this information?”

Poppers paused to consider her response. The DIS-200 issued for Parks hadn’t included any associates. Legally, the preferred method of dealing with the situation applied only to Parks. “Given the level of threat and their abilities to escape, I see it necessary to terminate anyone that we discover in the building.”

The vice president raised his hand for Poppers to stop. “It would be better for the moment to maintain surveillance but not act,” he said.

Poppers had been pushing for this since she’d taken over the Dissimulant issue. She’d long argued that it would be better to watch suspects for a while before taking action against them. Her boss, Tom, had ignored her and insisted that policy dictated fast execution of the enemy over prolonged intelligence gathering. Now, from high up, Tom was overruled.

“I agree,” Poppers said. “Putting surveillance ahead of enforcement could really benefit the long range goals for this program.” She glanced to Tom, who avoided eye contact with her.

“Fine, we all agree,” said the vice president. He too, shot a glance at Tom Weise. Although it wasn’t a disapproving glance, it indicated any debate over the matter had ended. He addressed Paulsen again, with another question. “What are your plans for the police officers involved in the Parks escape?”

“Yes sir, that’s a tricky one,” said Poppers. “It’s possible to argue that they conspired on their written report involving the disappearing nonsense. But they were sensible enough to realize that the truth of the situation was unbelievable and changed their report. In the end, they do know the truth about his disappearance—it puts us at risk.”

It was unnecessary for Poppers to put words to the most obvious plan of action. The action that would cleanly end any risk that the officers would talk about what they’d witnessed. Killing police officers was not something anyone in the room favored unless necessary as a last resort. Poppers own review of the officers’ profiles indicated them to have potential as candidates for her organization. She suggested they recruit the two police into the Club. Until they completed their training at Langley AFB, she’d withhold further discussion about their experience with Parks—just in case they washed out of the program.

The vice president agreed once again with Poppers’ assessment and course of action. He thanked everyone in the room for their attendance and then excused Tom Weise from the remainder of the meeting. As Weise left the room, concern was clearly visible on his face.

Once again, the Attorney General spoke. “For the record, this meeting has been classified: Secret. All attendees hold a classification of Secret or Top Secret, and their involvement in this discussion is vital to National Security. In attendance: Vice President of the United States, James Wells, Attorney General Pierce Anders, U.S. Secretary of the Defense, Mike Pritz, and Commander Nancy Paulsen, Department of Internal Security.” Anders paused to allow a clean break between his opening statement and the start of the discussion. “Mr. Vice President, the meeting is yours.”

“Commander Paulsen,” the VP began, “as already discussed earlier, the situation involving these Dissimulants has become more than a security risk to America. The switch from their acting as individuals to larger and larger collectives makes them the highest priority threat for the human species.”

Poppers nodded her head in agreement.

“The president is prepared to authorize a new department, one whose sole focus is the Dissimulant problem. Understand that this department will not only continue with finding and ridding the country of the enemy as your team has already been doing; it will additionally be in charge of educating the American public about the threat. The president knows that we can’t openly declare war on these—people—without first educating our citizens as well as our world partners.”

“We want to stop all the Dissimulants,” Poppers confirmed what she’d understood him to be saying. “Not just those who we believe are becoming a threat.”

“They are all a threat, Commander,” the VP said. “They will all need to be dealt with.”

“I understand.”

Vice President Wells then said, “You’ll have an undisclosed budget for your department. Use whatever’s required for good Intel, manpower and public education.”

Now clear to Poppers—this was an offer for promotion—she realized that her department was moving up the DOJ food chain. This further explained why the vice president had left Tom out of the loop. Poppers would no longer be reporting to him.

“As I said,” Wells continued, “President Landry believes the threat and is prepared to act on it without Congressional approval—if he has the sufficient grounds to do so.” He paused a moment to emphasize the last point before continuing. “The president is waiting for a call from you. If what you tell him makes the case for an all out war on the Dissimulants, then it will be within his duties to act decisively on that information.”

Poppers knew only the president could create any job offer of this size. She understood that he would need a strong reason for circumventing the powers granted to him by the Constitution. Above all, she knew that the president and everyone in the room with her were unofficially aware that the evidence for such a reason did not exist yet. If she were going to get the promotion and form the new department at all, she would have to go on record with a lie to the president. What the VP had said made that clear to her.

Wells picked up the handset to the secure phone. He spoke a few words into it, and then handed it to Poppers.

“Commander Paulsen?” A woman’s voice on the other end of the phone asked.

“Yes,” Poppers replied.

“Please hold for the president.”

After no more than three seconds, the president’s voice came on the phone. “This is President Landry.”

“Mr. President,” Poppers voice was shaky. “This is Commander Nancy Paulsen, Department of Internal Security.”

“Yes, Commander Paulsen. I’ve been told that you have urgent intelligence for me.”

Poppers told the president, in the words that she felt he wanted to hear, that she had extensive evidence that the people known as Dissimulants were planning major attacks on locations in the United States. That there was further evidence that they were growing in substantial numbers and would soon pose an immense threat to the country if they were not exposed and dealt with.

President Landry’s voice was calm. “Is it your finding that they pose a threat that is now substantially larger than what we previously suspected?”

“It is sir. We need to act immediately or risk our nation’s security.”

“Very good, Commander. Are you willing to head these efforts?”

“Yes sir. I’m honored sir.”

It went exactly as the Executive Office had wanted. Paulsen’s report was enough for the president to establish the department his administration had planned for months. The president informed Commander Paulsen that he was establishing the Department of Dissimulant Affairs and appointing her as its Chief. She was to report directly to the Executive Office, through the vice president. She had the authority to coordinate her efforts with the attorney general and the Secretary of Defense, as she saw necessary. Vice President Wells would work with her to outline the details of the new department.

Poppers’ blouse clung to her body with sweat. “Thank you Mr. President.”

“Put the vice president on the phone,” he ordered.

VP Wells took the offered handset and listened for less than a minute. After hanging up the phone, he turned to Poppers and said, “Congratulations Chief Paulsen, and thank you for your service to your country.”

Poppers shook hands with each of the men as they offered. Not all of the handshakes were equally warm.

The Past

The stairwell of the Cole Valley flat is dark as Parks shuts the door behind him. Rather than flip the light switch, he decides to fumble his way up a step at a time. It’s too early for everyone to be in bed, but the apartment is dead silent. It isn’t too early for Parks; exhausted from his escape from the cops, he’s ready to crash.

Not wanting to lead the cops to the flat, after his escape Parks kept himself on the move throughout the city for several hours. If they were somehow tailing him, he’d lost them by the end. He’s sure of that.

At the top of the steps the silence remains. At the least, this confirms that Finn isn’t home. When he’s awake, Finn makes enough noise—when he’s asleep, he makes even more. A bathroom, Geli’s room, the hall closet—four walls plus air space—separate Parks’ room from Finn’s; he’s heard Finn’s snoring every night since the first. The first night he was too exhausted to have his sleep interrupted by anything less than a motorcycle in the room. Finn’s snoring was just under that threshold.

Parks leans his skateboard against the wall next to Geli’s, behind the kitchen table. He’d talked her into buying one and has been giving her lessons as time allowed. She was catching on fast; landing her first ollie two days ago. Getting a deck airborne like that is the critical skill for any newbie to master. Parks liked being the teacher for a change.

The green LED on the coffee pot lets him see well enough without turning on the kitchen lights. He grabs a glass from the cabinet and fills it from the faucet. Pretty much all he drinks is water, and he prefers it straight from the tap; the bottled stuff tastes flat and dead to him. As he walks out of the kitchen, he absentmindedly reaches up to switch the light off—chuckles when he realizes his mistake.

The big couch swallows him as he sits in it. Staring out into the dark living room, he takes large sips of his water. He tries to remember Ames’ face. As it’s been every time he’s stepped into another reality, the event was so real while occurring; after, it begins to fade like a dream. Finn says this is normal at first. His brain has been dissimulating a human brain—imitating it for so long—that it needs to relearn how to function to its potential. It frustrates Parks to know that everything that’s happened since he accepted the Reveal is locked somewhere in his head, but he doesn’t have the key he needs to open it. Right now, he’s not sure if he ever will.

The water’s gone. Parks is too tired to get up. He decides he’ll lie on the couch for a while before moving into his room. It feels good to close his eyes. He can see the outline of Ames’ face just at the edge of his mind’s eye, but little more. Regret—that he didn’t grab Ames’ hand—is beginning to set in. Maybe it’s the fear, exhaustion, and loneliness that have him second-guessing. But he wonders if he made the right decision. Something about Ames seemed comfortable—and something didn’t.

There’s an odd sensation at the back of his ears—whispering? No, it’s wind. The room has gone cold. Parks feels bile churning in his stomach. He’s going to throw up. He knows the feeling, but it won’t matter. It’s all going to go away.

His body shakes, as if trying to catch himself from a fall in a dream. As he completes the step, he hears his own voice.

“I accept,” he said. The forest was gone. Parks was in the yard of the beach house. The loud traffic noise was familiar. The morning sun was bright. He’d just been somewhere else—dark—but he was confused. Then he remembered. He’d been in the forest with Angie. He’d just accepted the Reveal.

His eyes fought to adjust to the light. In the yard, sitting on an iron bench, were two people. Parks knew one was Geli, and the other—was Finn.

“Welcome Parks,” Finn’s voice was deep and friendly. “Welcome to the Reveal.”

Parks had that feeling again—like he’d been through this all before.

Geli looked different to Parks somehow. Her clothes looked like nothing he’d seen her wear before. She jumped from the bench and ran over to hug Parks; it was the warmest embrace he’d ever received—creating a warm, exciting tension in the center of his stomach. It wasn’t sexual exactly—maybe slightly. It was a feeling that an indescribable thing, something he’d never been aware of, had suddenly come into being—and yet, had been with him all along. At this moment, Parks felt like somebody—he existed.

“I knew you’d accept,” Geli whispered in his ear.

“I hope you’re okay with just a handshake from me, Parks.” Finn grinned; offering his hand after Geli finally released her grip on Parks. “The name’s Jake Finney.” Then, in a Cockney dialect, he added, “Better known among me more hint-a-mint friends as—Finn.” This, by his reaction, seemed intended as an impression of some sort. It failed to get the expected response from Parks; he had no idea who Finn was imitating.

“Loose—very loose—Dickens reference,” Finn volunteered. “The Artful Dodger—oh, never mind.” Finn had one of those firm handshakes—as if he’d known you all his life and he was exceptionally glad to see you again. And, although this was his first look at it, Parks could tell that the grin was a near-permanent feature on Finn’s face—he was just that kind of guy.

After the welcome, and another impromptu hug from Geli, the three set off on foot toward the direction of the zoo. When they got to Sloat Boulevard, instead of crossing the street, they turned right; Finn headed them for the beach. “I think the beach is the best place to talk about things,” Finn said. “Not so easy to be overheard, and there’s just something about the roar and expanse of the open ocean.” And Parks quickly found out that Finn could talk almost non-stop. He would give occasional pauses, opportunities for Parks and Geli to answer a question or ask one of their own to keep them involved, but for the most part it was a two-hour monologue—delivered by a master of gab.

Finn would’ve been a good teacher. When he said something they didn’t understand, he noticed it. He’d step the thought back effortlessly and restate it in a way they could get. Expectedly, Geli didn’t need this service as often as Parks did, but at least Finn managed it without making Parks feel like an idiot. Finn wasn’t trying to get them to understand everything at one time, he was using this first meeting to open their minds and introduce them to just a basic understanding of what he called the realities. He didn’t seem to be in a hurry either. It was a quality of Finn’s; one that Parks and Geli would experience repeatedly as they began to know him better. Even though this was the first time either of them had been with him, they just assumed leisurely delivery was his way of making a point.

“In my opinion,” Finn explained, “the future is no harder to remember than the past. The further you are from either, the less you remember—the closer you are, the more you remember.”

“I’m not sure I understand.” To Parks’ relief, Geli was asking the question. “What do you mean? When you say ‘remembering the future,’ is it seeing things—things that’ll happen in the future? Isn’t that only something Dissimulants can do? I mean, humans don‘t see the future do they?”

Finn confirmed that only Dissimulants seemed able to remember the future, but left room for doubt. He explained that both Dissimulants and humans existed in the same space, a space containing past and future events, but humans could only exist in one fraction of that space at a time. “And, of course they can only step in one direction—the future.” He added this as an after-thought, in way that suggested he wasn’t sure how informed Parks or Geli were on the ways of the human world.

“So what—” Parks had it blurted out before he could stop from embarrassing himself, so he just finished the question. “Are Dissimulants supposed to be time travelers?”

Both Finn and Geli looked at Parks as if he’d just showed up at a funeral wearing a clown suit. Geli recovered quickly, as she remembered that Parks had—at least consciously—left his reality only once, twice if you counted the visit to Angie. No surprise that he didn’t understand, this was a completely new world for him.

Embarrassed by his own overreaction to Parks’ question, Finn recovered in a way that both legitimized the question, and lessened the sting of humiliation Parks was feeling. “Sorry, I was jumping ahead a bit. It’s not so much a matter of traveling in time as it is traveling between events.” He paused to make sure Parks was catching most of what he’d said. “I think it might help to review the idea of the time concept before moving on.”

If Parks had ever heard any of this in school, none of it had stuck. But the way Finn explained it made it seem as though it was all common knowledge—that there was no doubt whatsoever about the mechanism of how time worked in the universe. But really, Finn’s actual point was that time didn’t work at all in the universe—it was a flaw. He pointed out that the universe is very large, and waited for Parks and Geli to agree—they did. Then, using the events of last night as example, he made them again agree to the obvious that everything that had happened at the Slot, had occurred completely within this universe. Again, Parks and Geli agreed—although Parks was afraid of getting lost again at any moment.

“If those events did happen,” Finn said, widening his grin, “and they happened, in this big, big universe, just yesterday—where did they go?”

Parks could see that Finn was convinced that he’d scored a home run on that one. That he’d made his point clearly, and in a way that evoked a clever paradox as well. (He would later notice that Finn used the word paradox a lot. Along with conundrum, it was one of his favorite words.) Unfortunately, the paradox was there, but the clear point was missing. Looking over at Geli, Parks could see that she was once again ahead of him in understanding.

“Because,” Geli said, “nothing escapes the universe; it still has to exist somewhere.”

“Right!” Finn agreed. “To escape the universe it would have to travel at least forty-six billion light-years, so there’s no way it could do it, even if the universe had an edge—which in all likelihood, it doesn’t.”

“Hold on a second,” Parks decided to speak up. “You two are talking like the past is some sort of object, like a ball or something that’s suddenly disappeared.”

“In a way, that’s as good an analogy as any,” Finn smiled. He pointed out that because the ball had no sense of time, it would recognize no difference between yesterday, today or tomorrow. Because humans have a limited sense of time, they’re aware of a difference, but their limits stop them from seeing anything other than a single moment in a single reality. Even memory is only an experience of the present. Humans remember yesterday only through today’s reality.

That was when things suddenly became clear to Parks. The memories he had—what he’d always called memories—weren’t partial, they weren’t just incomplete images of thought. His memories felt the same—exactly the same as the present. When he thought back to first meeting Geli, it just happened again—all of it—in just the same way. The same: his nasty hotel room, the smell, the lighting, the words they both said—all occurred like a stage play where he was the main character. Apparently, human memory wasn’t like this at all. “What about the future?” He asked Finn, excited now that he was catching on.

“Ah, the future,” Finn sighed. “That’s—just a little different.”