

### BUILDING BLOCKS

by

Kevin Domenic

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PUBLISHED BY:

Kevin Domenic on Smashwords

Building Blocks

Copyright © 2012 by Kevin Domenic

Cover Art: Crimsanity Creations

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

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BUILDING BLOCKS
Table of Contents

Foreword

Introduction

Sunday

Monday – Day 1

Tuesday – Day 2

Wednesday – Day 3

Thursday – Day 4

Friday – Day 5

Monday – Day 6

Tuesday – Day 7

Wednesday – Day 8

Thursday – Day 9

Friday – Day 10

Day 11?

Time Sure Flies...
Foreword

Whoever said, "Sticks and stones may break your bones but words can never hurt you," was a liar.

Taken by themselves, the numerous incidents of my grade school career which shaped me into the person I am today seem a tad trifle. However, when clumped together, they make up the troubled and lonely childhood that would forge much of my current personality. Through the years I've learned to understand and accept the things that happened to me, but I'd be lying if I said there wasn't a bit of residual pain lurking about in the deep recesses of my heart.

This book is a work of fiction based on events that I've endured during the course of my life. I've shared these stories in hopes that those struggling through hardships of their own might feel uplifted knowing that their pain is not without purpose, their efforts are not in vain, and their voices do not go unheard. God works all things together for His greater purpose, and only when we learn to look past the pain can we hope to see the positive outcome that our struggles yield.

Many of the events in this book actually happened to me. Many did not. But I know that these things happen to people of all ages every single day. If you are one of those people, I hope this story will help you to understand why God allows bad things to happen in this world. And if you're blessed enough to have never faced such battles, then I hope this book will give you a better understanding of those who have.

You can't climb a ladder without starting at the bottom. The phrase may be cliché, but it is true. In all aspects of life, one can't grow flowers without first burying seeds in the dirt.

This book is dedicated to my mother and father, the wonderful parents with whom I was blessed. Thank you for being my parents, for loving and supporting me, and for never giving up your faith in me. I love you.

And to the Lord Jesus Christ, my eternal pillar of strength, my light in the darkness, who had mercy on my soul when I didn't deserve it, and who refused to give up on me when I gave up on myself: Thank you Lord for giving me the strength, determination, and willpower to carry on fighting for what's right. Thank you for the courage to stand against persecution and tell the world of the King of Kings, the Lord of Lords, the Hero of Heroes. And thank you for teaching me the valuable lessons that have brought healing to the scars of my past. I pray that You'll help each of us to place Your will before our own every single day so that we might finally learn what real happiness is all about.
Introduction

"If this keeps up, I'm going to blow my brains out."

It wasn't until I actually said those words that I realized I'd hit rock bottom. I didn't just say them. I _meant_ them. My mind was already working out how I would do it. Dad's old handgun was still in my closet. Before he died, there were times that I worried he might come home in a drunken rage and turn the thing on me. It wouldn't have been too out of character for him, but given our history, I can't say I would've blamed him, either.

Sorry, I'm getting ahead of myself.

I don't know how or why you've come across this journal. But if my shrink's predictions are any indication, the tales that follow will probably sound like the rambling delusions of a madman. And maybe that description will be accurate. Maybe not. For now, I can merely speculate.

Regardless, I'm a bit leery of this new treatment. According to my doctor, scientists have cracked the secrets of time travel. Go ahead and read that again. Yeah, I know. That's what I thought too. It's _got_ to be a scam of some kind, right? I mean, I know technology has progressed a lot over the past fifty years. Glass-screened televisions were replaced by interactive holograms, and ground-based cars finally gave way to the aeromobile. Even the military's standard assortment of assault rifles and body armor have been tossed aside in favor of invisibility cloaks and science-fiction style laser weapons.

But time travel? Come on, that's got to be a hoax.

That's what I believed, anyway, until I called my health insurance company. Get this—they agreed to cover the expenses. It's nearly impossible to get any kind of money out of an insurance company. I can't imagine they'd agree to cover a procedure that isn't authentic, tested, and reliable. I wonder how much it would cost me _without_ health insurance. Ugh, just thinking about it makes me angry. But that's another topic for another time.

Anyway, the first of these time-travel sessions is scheduled for Monday morning. I suppose some people would jump at the chance to go back and relive their childhood experiences. Not me. I'm dreading it. Doc believes that doing this will help me come to terms with the painful memories that have scarred me so deeply as well as give me a better understanding of my role in God's plan.

God's plan. Yeah. I once believed all that stuff the pastors said on television about how God only wanted the best for His children and that we were not put here to suffer but to prosper. Faith in Jesus Christ was something I'd clung to when I was younger because He was all I had. I used to wake up early on Sunday mornings to listen to Fred Hoskins speak about Jesus, and I'd pray so hard that something would change in Mom and Dad so that they'd one day be completely different people. I wanted them to be normal parents. I wanted them to stop fighting all the time. I wanted my mother to quit drinking. I wanted Dad to stop yelling at us and just love us. And for years, I prayed and prayed for it to happen. Pastor Hoskins used to say that miracles happened every day. So I figured that eventually one would have to happen in my house. One day I would have the family I'd always wanted.

It never happened, of course. I don't really know why. I probably didn't deserve it for one reason or another. Whatever the case, as I got older, I lost faith in God's protection. It felt like I was holding up a shield that wasn't there. And even though I still believe He exists, I've learned to stop expecting Him to help me when I struggle. I was destined to be on my own, and I've tried to cope with that.

Then again, I guess the fact that I'm in therapy means I haven't coped as well as I'd hoped. I guess I'll find out Monday.

Anyway, Doc suggested that I write in this journal after each session to try to sort out my feelings about the things I see and hear. It doesn't matter if they make sense when I write them, he says. In time, he believes they will. I have doubts about that, of course. I know what happened in my life. I vividly remember the events that left me so jaded and bitter about the world around me and the society that plagues it. Everything from my first fight to Mom's death lurks within my memory and torments me each and every waking hour of the day. If I could've forgotten such images, if there was a way to abandon all memory of the pain, I'd have done it long ago. I don't know what Doc hopes to prove. But I guess there's no harm in finding out.

After all, Dad's gun will still be there when it's all over.

My name is Herbert. Yeah, go ahead and laugh. Everyone else does.
Sunday

Tomorrow's the big day. But I decided that it might be a good idea to write down exactly how I feel about the state of my life as it is today. That way, if this treatment _does_ make some kind of difference, I can look back at this entry and see the changes within myself.

So how did I go from an innocent baby brought into a world of infinite possibilities to the cynical, frustrated, pessimistic, angry, and depressed wretch of a person that I am today?

Think back to your school days. Do you remember the kid in the back of the classroom? That quiet one who was different from everyone else? Maybe he didn't dress the same as most kids. Maybe he had a different haircut or liked different music. Perhaps he came from a poor family and his clothes were often dirty. You picked on him for being different. It was no big deal; everyone else did it. You giggled at him and called him names. You knocked his books off his desk and pretended it was an accident. You shot spit-wads at him. You excluded him from games at recess. It was funny to you, and that's all that really mattered.

Remember that kid?

That was me.

And I still haven't gotten over it.

Don't get me wrong. I understand that, to an extent, children simply don't know any better. They don't understand the deep psychological effects that their teasing can have on another child.

But by the end of sixth grade, I sure knew. And I had heard and seen enough of my fellow students' reprimands and punishments to know. I had expected such juvenile abuse to minimize as we were taught the differences between right and wrong.

Nope. Got worse. Much, much worse.

And school wasn't my only problem. At times, it was the _least_ of my problems. As I indicated earlier, my parents weren't exactly model citizens. When Mom was sober, her patience with me was thinner than Dad's vocabulary. Or hair. Or resume, for that matter. Take your pick. Anyway, she openly admitted that she regretted having me. She thought having a child would help her relationship with Dad. Something about having responsibilities that were more important than their "petty" problems.

But Dad never wanted me. He was a man who never grew past age eighteen in maturity. He drank, he partied, and he didn't come home for weeks at a time. He beat Mom frequently—often right in front of me. He never laid a hand on me, though. Sometimes he'd befriend me long enough to let me believe we might be able to form some kind of a relationship. We went hunting and fishing a couple of times. But then he'd turn on me just as quickly, screaming obscenities before grabbing a couple of beers and racing off in his pickup truck.

Mom was the one who administered my beatings. I learned to accept it, for the most part. I'd just clench my jaw, squeeze my eyes shut, and wait for it to end. It certainly motivated me to be obedient and well-behaved around her. But I never understood any of it. I thought families were supposed to love and support each other. They were supposed to encourage you. To help you learn and grow. Grandpa loved me, I know, but I only got to see him a handful of times out of the year, and he died when I was ten years old. For the most part, my day-to-day life was devoid of love and affection. There was none of it in my household. No support. The only conclusion I could come to was that the typical picture of a loving family was nothing more than a fairytale. It didn't really exist.

Then I saw Pastor Hoskins on the holovision one morning when I was twelve. I had seen his show on and off growing up, but I'd never really paid much attention to it. He was talking about God's commandments regarding families that day. Husbands and wives, according to God, were _supposed_ to love each other! Children were expected to _honor_ their parents—something I surely hadn't been doing, given how they treated me.

I started watching Pastor Hoskins more routinely after that. I wanted to know more. Over the next few weeks, I learned that God had sent His son Jesus to pay the penalty for our sins because He loved us so much. He didn't need to, and humanity certainly didn't deserve it.

_That_ was the kind of love I wanted!

The only thing I needed to do to receive this love was accept Jesus as my Lord and Savior. Our sins _must_ be paid for, Pastor Hoskins said. There would be no justice, otherwise. The God of Israel is a just God, and He declares that the wages of sin is death. So that's why Jesus died on the cross as a sacrificial lamb. Christ suffered through death to pay the price for our sins so that we wouldn't have to. All we need to do to be saved from judgment is say a prayer accepting Jesus' sacrifice as payment for our sins and believe in Him as our Lord and Savior. So that's what I did.

I know a lot of people don't believe in God. I can understand to an extent. Believing requires faith, and faith is in short supply these days. But I simply cannot believe that our cycle of birth-life-death is some sort of random or accidental occurrence. I've done a lot of research on the subject over the course of my life, seeking evidence both for and against the existence of God and the legitimacy of the Bible, and I've found no conclusive proof either way. I guess I should've expected as much given that the Bible clearly illustrates that a relationship with Jesus Christ is based on faith. But I would've thought that I'd find some kind of hard evidence against the Bible's claims. Granted, I'm no scientist, but the evidence they call "proof" is riddled with words such as "probably" and "suggests" and "assume." None of these words can be used when presenting solid evidence as fact. I could go much deeper, but that's not what this journal is supposed to be about. And the shortcomings of science aren't the only reason I believe.

The other part of it is hard to explain. See, when a person gives their life to Christ, their faith is justified with knowledge. I know that doesn't mean anything to someone who doesn't believe, and I don't expect to convince anyone with it. But when you honestly and truly give your life to God, He fills you with His spirit—the Holy Spirit—which in turn gives you the comforting assurance that your faith is not in vain. You just . . . know.

Once I was armed with the knowledge that God loved me, I went back into the world. Jesus said the greatest commandment for us to follow is that we must love each other. Like many other new Christians, I believed that following His instructions would bring me everything I needed and wanted in my life. If I was showing the love of Christ to others, they would in turn be kind and loving to me.

Clearly, I had not yet come across the part about being persecuted, abused, and ostracized for following Christ.

Classmates were even more harsh when they found out that I was a Christian. It was just another thing about me that made me different. I tried befriending people who had previously abused me. I tried befriending those I had previously abused. I did everything I could to set a good example for others to follow.

I'm not trying to give you a false impression. I was no saint, and I didn't think of myself as one. I was simply trying to improve myself, watch my words, and love people in spite of their actions. After all, that's what I wanted them to do for me.

But by the time I graduated middle school, it was clear that no amount of "killing with kindness" was going to get me anywhere. Fed up with the juvenile attitudes of my schoolmates and abandoning all hope of any sort of relationship with my parents, I decided I would give everyone exactly what they wanted.

I would blend in with the shadows. I would stay out of everyone's way. I would stop trying to make friends. I would not speak unless spoken to. I'd stop trying to interact with the world. Society wanted no part of me, and I wanted no part of society. I would be the loner that I was destined to be.

It didn't help. High school brought four more years of torment. Despite my attempts to stay out of everyone's targeting scopes, I was still a magnet for abuse. The jocks mocked me with ruthless persistence, never missing an opportunity to deepen the scars. Ambushes, stolen property, shredded school work, locker room embarrassment; it felt like it would never end. I'm sure we'll address some of these incidents in the days to come, but it would be impossible to relive them all.

I tried attending a teenage youth group at a local church. That was a disaster. I really thought a group of people calling themselves Christians would've been more accepting, loving, and above all else, humble. What I found was something entirely different. These kids were the same type of arrogant and obnoxious teens that filled my school. The only difference is that they seemed to think that being Christian made them saints above the rest of the world. And that, of course, gave them the right to look down their noses at everyone else. My opinion of church members soured quickly. Clearly, these people had not read a thing about the humility and love that Jesus had taught.

In junior year, my first and only girlfriend did more than break my heart. She shattered the last remaining sliver of faith I had in the human race. For the first time, suicide finally entered my mind.

After all, I'd done so much for God but He'd done nothing in return. Grandpa was long gone; there wasn't a soul on earth who loved me. No one would've missed me. No one would've noticed.

But I couldn't do it. I was afraid of what would happen if I _didn't_ succeed. The last thing I needed was to be unwanted, unloved, _and_ paralyzed or disabled in some other way. Besides, I felt like killing myself would've been like saying I didn't think God was doing a good enough job of taking care of me.

Mom died during my senior year of high school. I really don't want to go over the details here, but let's just say that no one should ever have to witness the things I saw that day. Besides, if this time-travel thing is for real, I'm sure Doc will make me relive the whole horrific event at some point.

Five years later, while I was working a job at the local grocery store, I got a call informing me that Dad had died of a massive heart attack. I hung up the phone and went back to work. I'd grown so cold to the world around me that I didn't even care. Not very Christian-like, I know. After settling Dad's affairs, I moved into a studio apartment a few blocks away. And that's how I've spent the last five years of my life.

I just don't understand people. I've tried; Lord knows how I've tried. I've read my Bible and prayed to God for understanding. I've gone to work telling myself to look for the good in people, to give them the benefit of the doubt, to love them despite their short-comings, to give of myself to others as Christ gave to us. But every time I try to see good in people, they show me their worst sides. After years of working in the retail industry, I can safely say that the majority of the people in this country are selfish, conceited, uptight, unloving, and unforgiving parasites. The only thing they seem to care about is what they can get, how little they have to give up for it, and how much they are worshiped throughout the whole process. Every day I try to love people.

But every day I grow to hate them more.

And so, after a particularly bad day at work a few years ago, I really needed to talk to someone. I felt like I was on the verge of insanity. I got into my aeromobile, unsure of where I was going or what I was trying to find. I knew I wanted to die. I wanted out. I was sick of trying to push forward with this life. I was tired of trying to be a part of society. I cried out to God, tears streaming from my eyes. Through blurred vision, I caught a glimpse of a sign for a Christian psychiatric care center as I turned a corner. Inside, I told them I needed help and I needed it bad. I was crying like a baby, begging for someone to fix me. That's when Doc came out of his office to investigate the commotion.

I've been going to him weekly ever since. He somehow thinks that I could make major progress in overcoming my issues if I can find a way to understand and make peace with the events of my past.

And that's where this time-travel treatment comes in. It is supposed to give me a new perspective on the events that have left such deep emotional scars. I don't know how that could be possible. But what I _do_ know is that I can't keep living like this. I don't want to hate people anymore. I don't want to be terrified to leave my apartment anymore. I don't want to hate my job anymore. I don't want to run away from relationships anymore. I don't want to blame God for my pain anymore. I don't want to be scared of the world anymore.

I don't want to be this person anymore.

Enough is enough. It's time for a change.
Monday - Day 1

This time-travel stuff _is_ real.

This is no hoax, no scam, no bluff. I shouldn't have doubted. Doc was one hundred percent serious about this therapy. Today, we took a test run to get myself familiar with the Chronopod—that's what Doc calls the time machine—and I saw things I never thought possible.

I arrived at Doc's office a little after eight in the morning. He greeted me at the door; his secretary doesn't usually come in until after nine.

"Good morning, Herbert," he said, opening the glass door to his office. "I trust you slept well?"

"I guess," I told him. "Can't say I'm looking forward to this."

"You've nothing to fear. I won't let anything happen to you. Come; the Chronopod awaits."

Doc led me down a long hallway past his office and study. Most of the lights were still off as his first patients weren't scheduled to arrive for hours. The door at the end was locked electronically; only by holding each of his fingers against a scanner could he release the mechanism. When the door finally slid open, I couldn't help but feel a bit intimidated.

The Chronopod stood in the center of the dark room. It looked like a giant pill of some kind, a steel capsule no less than twelve feet tall with a single circular window. Wires, tubes, and hoses ran from the lower portion of the pod into the floor. The rest of the room was barren with the exception of a couple of chairs near the far wall. It almost looked like something that Doc had picked up at a garage sale somewhere and tossed into storage to be forgotten. But he'd told me last night that the unit would be powered and ready to go by morning, and the blinking green button on its side seemed to indicate just that.

"Don't worry," he assured me. "It has been thoroughly tested. I can assure you that there is no need for concern."

I wasn't so convinced. "Are you sure half of me won't end up in one year and half of me in another?"

For some reason, despite the fact that I don't entirely trust him, Doc's smile always has a way of comforting me. I imagine it to be similar to the way a father's smile warms his child's heart, though I have no such experience to draw from. Still, in many ways, Doc has been my father for the past three years. Anyway, what he said next shocked me.

"I'm going with you. So I will share in whatever fate awaits you. Does that help calm your nerves?"

I had not known he was planning to come with me. I expected he'd keep himself from danger and stay in the safety of his office. Still, that didn't make me feel better. No, it actually made things a little worse. "Not really," I admitted.

Doc, always contemplative, pressed his old glasses against the bridge of his nose and raised an eyebrow. "Oh? And why not?"

By now, he's more than familiar with my obsessive worries and paranoia. I've come to find that if something _can_ go wrong in my life, it will not only do so, but it will go so terribly wrong that the negative effects will stretch to limits that not even my pessimistic mind had anticipated. Most people like me see the glass as half-empty. I see the glass as half-empty, cracked, and leaking.

I know, you're probably rolling your eyes. I'm not surprised you don't understand; truthfully, _I_ don't get it either. That's why I'm in therapy.

"Because if, by some chance, something happens to you and _not_ me, I'll spend the rest of my life knowing that you died while trying to help me with my petty problems."

Doc shook his finger at me. "I've told you a number of times that your problems are not petty in any way. It is a diverse world we live in, Herbert. Different things affect different people in different ways. Your difficulties don't make you any less sane than anyone else. Don't assume your struggles to be insignificant simply because other people have problems that you perceive to be worse."

I couldn't help but roll my eyes. I knew what he was trying to do for me, but I wasn't buying it. I didn't dare say so, though. That was a lecture I didn't need to hear again. Instead, I changed the subject. "So how does this work?"

"Simple," Doc said, pressing the green button. A holographic keypad appeared above it, and he typed in a rather long passcode. The Chronopod split open with a hiss, revealing a surprisingly roomy interior. Wide enough to fit two people comfortably, the capsule housed little more than a padded blue bench and a panel of colored buttons on the inside wall. "Have a seat."

If I said I wasn't afraid, I'd be a liar. I was terrified. Despite everything, I was still having trouble accepting that traveling through time was even possible. How could such a scientific breakthrough have occurred without my hearing about it on the news? And how in the world did a random shrink in Ohio get his hands on such technology? It all seemed so unbelievable to me. And yet, there was the issue of my health insurance. They were covering the expenses. That meant it had to have some sort of legitimacy, right?

I was about to find out just how legitimate the whole thing was.

With great apprehension, I took a seat on the left side of the bench. Doc sat down to my right and tapped a couple of buttons. The hatch slowly closed. My heart raced. I think I was sweating; I don't remember. But that fatherly smile never left Doc's old face. He reached beneath the bench and pulled out a crown-like ring of steel. A pulsing line of blue light ran around the circumference of the thing, and the inner portion of it was padded with little circles of what looked like rubber.

"This is the memory reader," Doc explained. "Since it is highly unlikely that you remember the exact dates of every event in your life—significant or otherwise—this will allow us to return to the approximate moment and location of whatever memory you desire."

"Won't people be a bit freaked out if they see this giant capsule appearing in the middle of, say, a schoolyard?"

Doc shook his head, brushing his artificially darkened hair from his eyes. "The unit is equipped with a holographic projector. It will read your memory and disguise itself as something appropriate to the time period and environment to which we are traveling. So if we wind up in a park, it will look like a tree to everyone else."

That didn't quite solve the problem as far as I could see. "Okay, so instead of seeing a giant metal capsule appear, they'll see a tree appear? That doesn't seem any less conspicuous to me."

He placed the metal crown on my head and fitted it so that the little pieces of rubber were pressed firmly against my forehead. "You're worrying too much. The device is designed to seek out unpopulated areas in which to appear. And even if someone _does_ see it, what can they do about it? Run to their friends and tell them a magic tree or vehicle just appeared out of nowhere? Who's going to believe that?"

There was a strange logic to that, but it still didn't answer my question. Regardless, Doc seemed to be confident that we had nothing to worry about, so I gave up and let him do whatever it was he needed to do to get us underway. "Where are we going first?" I asked.

"Well, I had planned for today to be more about getting you familiar and comfortable with the Chronopod. So where would you like to go?"

I hadn't expected that, but I already knew the answer to his question. "Starwood Lake," I said. My favorite place in the world.

Doc nodded. "Close your eyes, Herbert."

I closed my eyes and waited, a strange exhilaration filling me. I couldn't believe I was going back. Starwood Lake was a childhood paradise for me. My grandfather owned a cabin along the eastern edge of the water. I spent countless summer nights along the waterfront learning how to skip stones and catch fireflies. On nice afternoons, Grandpa would take me to town and buy me a new toy boat or airplane. Then we'd get ice cream and go for a walk along the lake where the locals would tether their boats for cleaning or to be prepped for fishing or waterskiing. Nothing mattered when I was at Starwood Lake. I didn't have to worry about Mom or Dad or school or whether or not I was going to get to eat each day. Grandpa always took good care of me. I can honestly say that my memories of Starwood Lake are some of the happiest times of my life.

A dull hum came from the Chronopod. Even with my eyes closed, I could see bright flashes of light. The room shook and shifted; I felt like I was losing my balance despite the fact that I was sitting on the bench. A moment of dizziness. Then a moment of nausea. More dizziness. The capsule was spinning. Or maybe I was.

"You must choose a memory, Herbert," Doc's voice floated through my head. "You must focus on a single moment of time."

I tried hard to concentrate. There were so many memories of Starwood Lake to choose from. I tried to think of everything I liked most. My mind zeroed in on an image of myself, as a child, sitting in front of Grandpa's old television—he clung to his long after holovisions had become the standard for home entertainment—watching cartoons. Behind me, Grandpa himself stood at the kitchen counter, frying up some bacon to go with the pancake breakfast he was preparing.

Abruptly, the dizziness vanished. My balance returned in the absence of the flashing light, and I slowly opened my eyes. What I saw through the pod's window was breathtaking.

Doc's voice was soft. "We're here."

We sat amid the wooded area not five hundred feet from Grandpa's cabin. The sun was shining high above the treetops; it must have been nearly noon. The lake, beautiful and clear, reflected the surrounding coastline like a mirror. A momentary touch of wind created ripples barely noticeable to the human eye. Then it was gone, and Starwood Lake's surface was a sheet of glass once again.

Everything was just as Doc had promised.

"I don't believe it!" I told him. "This can't be real."

"Would you like to see just how real it is?"

Doc reached down and yanked the locking clamps free. A few button presses set the door into motion with a loud hiss. I removed the crown and stored it in the small compartment under the chair before I stood. But Doc had to talk me out of the capsule. The whole thing absolutely terrified me. What if my past self saw me? What if I saw him? Would he think anything of it? What if Grandpa saw me? Or even a cop? Climbing out of a space-age looking coffin probably would grab the attention of a cop or two.

But Doc was already standing between the trees a few feet away. "It's alright, Herbert. Come on out."

It was like stepping into a photo from my childhood. In fact, in many ways, that's exactly what I was doing! Everything from the smell of the lilacs to the bickering honks of the geese along the waterfront; it was all just as I remembered. "This is incredible," I murmured, gazing into the azure sky. But the fact remained that we were two strangers standing on Grandpa's property. "What if we're seen?" I asked.

Doc pulled two belts from beneath the bench before he snapped the Chronopod's cover closed and secured the locking clamp. The hologram generator concealed the entire unit within the guise of an old tree. "No need to worry. Put this on," he said, handing me one of the belts, "but don't latch it yet."

I didn't really understand, but I did as I was told. And when Doc connected the ends of his belt, he vanished. Like a candle being snuffed out, he disappeared right before my eyes.

Of course, my jaw dropped.

"What do you think?" It was strange to hear his voice right next to me without being able to see him.

"That's . . . incredible!" was all I could get out.

"Go ahead, buckle yours."

The ends of my belt snapped together, and I watched with wide eyes as my own hands vanished. "How is this possible?"

"They're military-grade invisibility belts," Doc explained. "I honestly don't know exactly _how_ they work, but they essentially bend light _around_ us. They'll keep us out of sight, but they won't mask our voices. So we'll have to keep quiet as we observe your memories. But we shouldn't have to worry about being seen."

I had to ask the obvious question. "How in the world did you get your hands on military invisibility belts?" First the time capsule, now this?

"There's no need to concern yourself with such things," Doc said with a chuckle. "I have some friends in high places, that's all. When you know the right people, all things are possible."

A slight breeze blew, sweeping my memory back to my childhood days the way that only a cool spring breeze could. I closed my eyes and breathed it in, imagining that I was six years old again. It filled me with the desire to run to the swing hanging from the old tree on the other side of the cabin and let the magic of Starwood Lake suck me in all over again.

"So, tell me about this place. Where are we?"

At first, I didn't even hear him. The sights, the sounds, the smells; everything I'd cherished so much as a child and everything I'd missed so much as an adult was all right in front of me. It had been far too long.

"Herbert?"

I shook my head as I turned to face him, though I saw nothing but trees, of course. This was going to take some getting used to. "Sorry, Doc. I was just . . . I haven't been here in almost thirty years. I'm a little . . . overwhelmed."

Doc's voice took on that soothing tone you'd expect from a shrink. "Where have you brought us?"

"This is Starwood Lake," I said. "That's my grandfather's cabin over there."

"Did you spend a lot of time here as a child?"

"Not as much as I would've liked," I replied. "Mom and Grandpa never really got along. The only times she brought me here were when her fights with Dad got so bad that she'd leave him for a while."

"Did she stay with you when you visited?"

I shook my head, forgetting Doc couldn't see it. "No, she'd just drop me off and skip town. She often didn't tell Grandpa that I was coming. Sometimes she wouldn't even walk me to the door or check to see if Grandpa was here. I'd just knock and hope for the best, and he'd open the door to find me and my little knapsack standing there alone."

"So this was sort of a refuge for you, then?"

"You could say that, I suppose. Actually, 'refuge' would've been an understatement. Starwood Lake was a safe haven when I was young. I was safe from everything there. Dad's rampages, Mom's liquor, school kids, teachers, tests, fears, worries—they all vanished when I was with Grandpa. I could just be a kid. I was free to laugh, run, play, jump, or scream all day long. Nothing held back. I could just . . . be."

"You've never mentioned this place before. I would've thought you'd bring something like this up during our sessions." He sounded surprised.

"These days are long gone," I told him. "There's no point in dwelling on something I can never get back."

It was strange to see the dirt compress beneath Doc's feet without being able to see the man himself. "We all dwell on our pasts in one way or another. Most of the time it is for negative reasons—things we've done, haven't done, wish we'd done, and so on. To have memories of things we're _glad_ to have done is a gift to be cherished and appreciated."

I didn't tell Doc this, but the reason I try not to think about my memories of Starwood Lake is _because_ they're good memories. I don't want them analyzed. I don't want them corrupted by the rest of my issues.

"So," Doc continued, "which memory have we come to see today?"

"I don't know," I admitted. "I mean, I remember the day, but only in brief images. I don't know if anything special happened on this particular date or not."

"What made you choose this day to return to?"

I thought about it for a moment. "I wanted an average day. I mean, _every_ day here was special. So that's what I wanted. A typical day."

I couldn't see him, but I could tell from his tone of voice that he had that warm smile on his face. "You lead the way. I'll stay close by at all times; don't worry about me. Just explore as you wish."

My eyes were fixed on the cabin. "Can we go inside?"

"If that's what you'd like to do."

Bravery has never been one of my strongest points. "I don't know. Do you think we'll be discovered? Maybe we'd better not."

"It's alright, Herbert." I felt his hand on my shoulder. "I won't put you in any situation I don't have complete control over."

That didn't exactly calm my nerves. But at the same time, what kind of fool would I be to turn down an opportunity like this? How many people get the chance to see loved ones that have died long ago? "Okay, let's go. We can get in through the back door."

As usual, Grandpa had forgotten to lock up. That saved me from having to remember the passcode. A flood of aromas filled my nose when I inched the door open. Everyone's house has a smell of some kind. Most people just overload on whatever air freshener they like the best. Some smell like fabric softener. Then there are some that smell like whatever food they cook most often. Grandpa's cabin fell into that category. The smell?

Bacon and coffee.

And maybe butter.

It was a combination of flavors that brought back memories of summer mornings when Grandpa would be making breakfast while I played with my toys in the living room. I could almost hear Grandpa telling me stories about the big fish he had caught on his latest adventure on the lake.

No, I really _was_ hearing it.

Doc and I stepped through the door to the rear den. I could hear voices from the other room along with the sizzling of breakfast on the griddle. The den was just as I remembered it. All of Grandpa's biggest fish were mounted on the walls. His favorite old couch was there. Even his fishing gear was piled in the corner, presumably where he left it after a recent trip. The fireplace and wicker chair where he used to read, the wooden coffee table he carved—it was all just as I had remembered it.

"Breakfast is served!" a voice boomed from the other room. There was no mistaking it. That was Grandpa!

Even knowing what I was about to face, the sight that greeted me when I stepped into the living room stopped me dead in my tracks. There he was, Grandpa Joe, standing at the little table near the far wall with a plate full of bacon and pancakes in one hand and a pitcher of orange juice in the other. At this point in my life, he had to have been around seventy years old, but he didn't look the part whatsoever. He took good care of his body—the temple, he called it—with routine exercise and plenty of vitamins. And though his temple was routinely bombarded by bacon, that was likely his one and only vice.

"Come and get it, Herbert!" he said.

There's no real way to accurately describe what it is like to look upon your childhood reflection. A part of me wanted to cry. I was staring at the innocent little boy whose outlook upon the world had yet to be corrupted. Yet another part of me wanted to go and punch that child in the face for being so naïve to the nature of the society around him. Regardless, there I was, jumping up from my imaginary world of race cars and speedboats to run for another of Grandpa's delicious breakfasts.

To avoid confusion, I'll refer to the childhood version of myself as "Herbie" going forward. It's funny; I don't mind calling myself that, but if other people do it, I really get irritated.

Herbie climbed into his chair as Grandpa put two pancakes and a slice of bacon on his plate. He couldn't have been more than four years old at the time; it's a wonder this was even a part of my memory at all. It's amazing what things stick with a person. I walked around the two recliners to get closer, fascinated by the sight of my own history brought to life. The floorboards creaked beneath my feet, but the sound attracted no attention. The cabin was old; it creaked plenty enough on its own.

"Have enough there, Pal?" Grandpa asked. Herbie just nodded and stuffed his mouth with pancake.

"Pal." Grandpa always called me that. It's funny, to most people, that kind of thing probably goes in one ear and out the other. But I liked it. It made me feel special. Considering my Mom referred to me as "the brat" and Dad used even more colorful terms, being Grandpa's "pal" was something I treasured. It meant that there was at least one person out there who loved me. One person who didn't mind having me around. One person who enjoyed my company. Grandpa was my friend, and to this day, I haven't had another like him.

And like a child trapped in an adult's body, I found myself fleeing the cabin to avoid sobbing uncontrollably in front of them.

I walked as softly but quickly as I could until I was back outside. Then I ran all the way back to the Chronopod. It wasn't until I was standing amidst the trees wiping my eyes that I remembered Doc. I'd left him all alone in there!

"Are you alright?"

Wait . . . How? "How did you know I'd left?"

"I had a feeling. Was that too much for you to handle? We can stop now, if you'd like."

He had a feeling? How? "No, I'm fine," I said. The uncontrolled sniffle that followed the statement clearly stated otherwise.

"Herbert, the whole idea of these sessions is to explore your pain. Your thoughts. Your fears. Those very scars you hold so close to you because you don't want anyone to make them any deeper. But as long as you keep your feelings secret, they'll only continue to drown you. Please, talk to me."

There wasn't much to say. I thought my reaction was pretty obvious. "I just miss these days, that's all. If I had my way, I'd never get back into the Chronopod again. I'd spend the rest of my life here, at Starwood Lake, with Grandpa."

"The past often looks more appealing than the present, and even more so than the future," Doc said. "Tell me something. When you were here with your grandfather, did you ever worry about the inevitable appearance of your mother or father? Obviously they came back to take you home eventually. Did that ever weigh on your mind?"

"I don't know," I said, turning toward the shimmering lake to watch a flock of ducks overhead. As much as I have convinced myself over the years that nothing bothered me when I was with Grandpa—I even said so earlier in this entry—there was an . . . unsettled feeling that rose every time it was time for me to go back home.

"Does that fear come back to you whenever you think of Starwood Lake now?"

Admittedly, it did not. As I said, the cabin was, in my mind, a safe place. Perhaps I don't feel it because I no longer need to worry about such things. It allows me to have the joy of the memory without the burden of worry. "Not really. I remember it, but I don't feel it."

The sound of Doc's voice moved beside me as he spoke. "Would you then say that your feelings regarding your days spent with your grandfather are better today than they were back then? If for no other reason than the fact that your affection and appreciation for those memories is not clouded by the fear you once felt?"

"It's not the same as the real thing," I told him.

"I understand that. I'm just trying to show that you can appreciate Starwood Lake now in ways that you simply _couldn't_ back then."

I don't know why I always have trouble conceding Doc's points. I know he's just trying to help me. "I suppose."

He patted my shoulder. "Well, where to next?"

I thought about it for a moment. The memory of this day at Starwood Lake had once been one of few happy moments from my past. Now, my brain would likely associate it with today's experience. And though I could still appreciate the original memory for what it was, I didn't want the rest of my good memories to be tainted by the intrusion of my present-day self. I didn't want any more days with Grandpa to be remembered as "trial runs" in the Chronopod. "To be honest, I think I'd just like to go home."

"Really? You don't have any more good memories you'd like to visit?"

I let out a long sigh as I headed for the Chronopod. "Actually, I do. But I'd like to keep them that way."
Tuesday – Day 2

Well, my second day of time-traveling has come and gone. The memories I explored today were not nearly as positive or comforting as my visit to Starwood Lake, but I hadn't expected this therapy to be pleasant. We went back and observed the day of my first real fight with another student. This happened in the fall of first grade when I was still naively trying to fit in with the other kids.

I should note that I didn't want to hurt other people back then, and I certainly didn't enjoy it. When a situation arose in which it was necessary, I only acted in self-defense. Not that I ever seriously hurt anyone—I think the worst I ever did was give Billy Handel a bloody lip in middle school as he ground my nose in the dirt—but I felt remorse whenever I acted violently toward _anyone_ regardless of the circumstances. Silly, I know. There are times now when I wish I'd shown even a quarter of the aggression I've got built-up inside today. Thinking of those days makes me furious. I mean, I know showing God's love is and always was the right approach, but the more selfish and emotional side of me says I should've let loose on each and every punk who picked a fight with me just because they knew I was an easy target.

When I got to Doc's office today, he was in his study going over his notes from a session with another patient. "Good morning, Herbert," he said, collecting the sheets into a neat pile and filing them in his desk. "How are you today?"

I gave my standard response whenever someone asks that on any given day. "I'm here."

"Today is likely to be a bit more emotional than yesterday," he warned, pushing his chair back and standing. "Are you prepared?"

"As much as I can be," I told him. "Do you know where you want to start?"

Doc deactivated his computer terminal. "I thought we'd begin with your early memories of abuse in school. Schoolyard bullying played a significant role in your childhood trauma, so I thought this would be a good starting point."

I followed him back to the storage room. "My first fight, then?"

"Was that the first memory you have of being hurt by a classmate?"

I thought about it for a moment. I remembered a couple of incidents here and there in kindergarten—Ricky Beal hitting me in the head with a wooden bat, Marcy Galvin dumping paint on my head in art class, even Edward Garcia stealing my crayons and subsequently eating them—but they were just floating bits of memory, incidents I remember happening but nothing more.

The fight with Timmy Jentson, however, marked the first time that I began to think that violence was just how people dealt with things. Not just my parents, but everyone. I remember the day vividly because it was the first time I began to wonder how I was going to survive in this world. I didn't want to fight anyone. I didn't want to hurt anyone. But I couldn't seem to get away from the violence. Mom had already given me my share of beatings by that point in my life. Now I was getting them at school, too.

Doc was still waiting for an answer. He opened the Chronopod and sat down. "Not the first time I was hurt," I said, taking a seat beside him, "but I'd say it was the first time I began to feel like an outsider to society. I'm sure I didn't think of it in quite those same terms at the time, but I know I felt like I didn't fit in with anyone anywhere."

"I see," Doc nodded, placing the steel crown on my head. "Then let us go and see exactly how it all began."

My troubles had started early that day, so the Chronopod arrived safely outside the schoolyard while parents walked their children to the entrance on the far side of the field. I knew exactly where to find my past self; Mom always dropped me off at the same place. Walking me to the door was a hassle she didn't want to have to deal with, so she'd just let me out by the curb at the bottom of the hill leading to the parking lot. The first aeromobiles had only hit the retail market a few years earlier, so most people were still using old-fashioned cars. Doc and I got down there just as she was pulling up.

She was very much like I remembered her, if only a bit smaller. Her blond hair was a mess, sticking out at different angles. Obviously, she had gotten home very late the previous night. The tiny orange glow of the cigarette in her mouth pulsed as she pulled to a stop. I couldn't help but feel at least _some_ pity for her, especially given the circumstances of her eventual death. But nothing changed the fact that she didn't love or want me, and that pain overrode everything else.

"Get goin," I heard her yell as Herbie opened the door. He was wearing the clothes I remembered well; a pair of sweat old sweat pants and an unwashed sweatshirt with a giant chocolate stain splattered across it. She always told me that once a piece of clothing was stained, there was nothing that could be done about it. And I, being a naïve little boy, believed her. Now, of course, I know that it was just one more chore that she was avoiding.

Herbie climbed out of the car in his little worn sneakers. No laces, just velcro. Teaching me to tie laces would've been another chore. "I love you, Mom," Herbie said.

She took the cigarette out of her mouth long enough to yell "Shut the door and get going! I'm holding up traffic!"

Herbie nodded and closed the door. I shook my head in disgust as he waved goodbye. She ignored him and sped off, a trail of smoke rising from the driver's side window.

Doc and I were far enough away that we didn't need to hide our voices. "How stupid was I?" I asked rhetorically. "How could I not see that she hated me?"

"The innocent mind of a child is an amazing thing sometimes," Doc replied. "They instinctively believe that their parents are their teachers and protectors, therefore anything they say or do must be in their best interest. They don't worry about anything because Mommy and Daddy have things under control."

Herbie trotted up the steep incline toward the parking lot with his little blue knapsack slung over his shoulder. Doc and I followed. "I was so small," I murmured. "How did I ever lug that thing up this hill every morning?"

"It looks like he's about to be intercepted. Look to the left."

Three young boys stood in the grass on the far side of the path, all staring in Herbie's direction. I couldn't remember the name of the first, a stocky boy with orange hair. The second was Gene Olitz, a known troublemaker but also a known coward. That's why he always traveled with the third boy, Timmy Jentson. Built like an ox, Timmy was the first person chosen for every game played in gym class. He was solid and strong, but he was also a brat and a delinquent. "That's him on the end," I said to Doc. "Timmy."

"Hey Herbert!" Gene yelled at little Herbie. "What's the matter? Couldn't figure out where to put the ice cream?" That got a laugh from Timmy and the other boy.

"Shut up," Herbie yelled without stopping. "Leave me alone."

"You got a problem with us?" Timmy yelled. "We'll beat you into the tar, you little weenie!"

Ah, the maturity and creativity of elementary school insults.

Herbie kept going without looking back. I wish he had, because Timmy and his friends started to follow him. They didn't back off until Herbie reached the crowd of parents and children near the school's entrance.

"What's on your mind?" Doc asked me. "How does it feel to be back here?"

I was honest. "Nervous. Worried. Afraid."

"Afraid of what? Being discovered?"

"No, I don't think so," I said. I lowered my voice as we approached the crowd. "It's actually very similar to the feeling I had when I was a student here. It's an unyielding anxiety that something bad is going to happen."

"Because you know what to expect this time?"

"Perhaps," I admitted, "but why should I be worried about that? I already know how it turns out. There are no surprises waiting for me."

"True, but that doesn't eliminate empathy."

"I guess. Are we following him inside?"

"I think we should," Doc answered. "But it is entirely up to you, of course."

I hadn't come here just watch me walk from Mom's car to the school. "All right, then. Let's go."

Walking into Richard Crawson Elementary School once again was a surreal experience. The traffic in the halls was thin enough that Doc and I could walk along without worrying about anyone bumping into us. I saw dozens of familiar faces in the classrooms we passed—student and teacher alike—but I only remembered the names of a few. The school custodian, a friendly old man named Gus, was rolling the mop bucket down the hall when little Herbie passed. "Better get to class, young man!" he said. "Don't want to be late!"

Herbie just nodded and continued on his way. My first grade classroom was on the second floor at the end of the hall. The teacher, Mrs. Selner, stood in her usual spot at the door as students entered each morning. It was how she took attendance.

"Was she nice?" Doc asked, his voice barely audible.

"Nice enough. But like most of my teachers, she didn't really know how to handle the bullies of the class. You'll see what I mean."

Inside, I saw the twenty-two faces I'd long forgotten, tucked away in corner of a memory I didn't even know was there. Most were sitting quietly in their seats, though Stacy and Jillian were whispering back and forth. Herbie had to pass between them to reach his desk, and they both pointed at his shirt. "Ewwww!" they exclaimed in unison. That, of course, attracted the attention of more children who produced more cries of disgust. Red-faced Herbie looked back and yelled at them to shut up.

"Who pooped on your shirt?" Stacy asked, scrunching her nose as though it smelled.

"It's not poop!" Herbie snapped. "It's just chocolate."

"Yeah, right!" a girl named Susan chimed in. She sat to Herbie's left. "That's poop. I can smell it from here!"

Herbie mumbled something under his breath and sat down, stuffing his knapsack under his desk. Doc and I moved to the back of the class and stood near the lockers where we could observe from a safe distance. Mrs. Selner came in a few minutes later. "Good morning, class!"

In unison, the students responded. "Good morning, Mrs. Selner!"

She went over her usual morning routine, choosing a student to read the time, another to read the calendar, and yet another to write all that information on the blackboard. Herbie was chosen to read the calendar, and at the time I guess I was having trouble knowing when the letter C should sound like a K and when it should sound like an S. Because I read October as Ostober. Eric, Rasheed, and Jillian all laughed out loud while several others snickered softly. Mrs. Selner ignored their reaction and corrected me.

"The letter C has a 'kuh' sound," she said. "Like a K."

"Then why isn't it spelled with a K?" I asked. Even today, I still say that's a perfectly valid question. More laughs despite the fact that I'm sure none of the other students could've answered the question.

Mrs. Selner went on with an explanation about the Latin origins of the alphabet and when they should sound like one or the other. If you ask me, the English language is far more complicated with its spelling than necessary. October should be Oktober, Knife should be Nife, and Phone should be Fone.

Sorry. Not important, I know.

Anyway, I would've liked it if she'd called on one of the children that had been laughing at me and asked _them_ to explain the difference. It would've taken the smile off their faces and justified Herbie's confusion. But she went right on with her lesson, apparently unable to hear the laughs or see the looks being sent in his direction. I could tell from the look on his face that he heard and saw every bit of it. And he couldn't understand it.

The rest of the morning was relatively uneventful. Herbie stayed quiet, not daring to ask any more questions or volunteer an answer. Once was enough. He just sat there with his head leaning against his palm while he doodled in his notebook. At one point during a lesson in addition, I stood beside him and looked over his notes out of curiosity. I'm terrible at math, so I wanted to see just how far back I could trace that problem. But to my surprise, amidst doodles of rocket ships and astronauts, Herbie had correctly solved the majority of the math problems that Mrs. Selner had written on the board. Either that, or he wasn't bothering to solve them at all and was just writing down the answers she wrote.

"Herbert?" Mrs. Selner called. Herbie and I looked up together. "Yes, Mrs. Selner?" he responded.

"Can you solve the next one? What do we get when we add four to three?"

Herbie looked down and scribbled the problem in a blank section of the page. His pencil hovered over the numbers for a moment before he wrote the number seven. "Seven?" he asked.

"That's correct," she nodded before completing the problem on the board.

Shawn Coleman, the pudgy kid sitting behind Herbie, muttered under his breath. "Nerd." For a moment, I contemplated smacking him. Then I thought better of it and returned to the back of the room.

Eventually, lunch period arrived, and Mrs. Selner led the kids downstairs. Doc and I followed at a safe distance, always keeping Herbie in our sights. The cafeteria was already full of kids when we arrived, just as always. Tables lined both the left and right walls, and two more rows of tables ran through the center. Due to overcrowding, there was barely a free chair at a table, but most kids had formed their own cliques and claimed their lunch tables at the beginning of the year. I didn't really have a group of my own friends the way everyone else did. But I was lucky enough to have two other boys that could somehow stand my presence. For a while, anyway.

Doc's voice startled me. "I didn't see Timmy in your classroom." I guess he felt it was safe to talk with the cafeteria being so noisy. "Was he an older child?"

"No, he was in the same grade. He just had a different teacher. If I remember right, there were four first grade teachers."

"Even without Timmy in your particular class, you still seemed to be singled out by your classmates," he said. "It looked like you handled it pretty well."

"I didn't," I told him. "Outwardly, I tried not to show it, but I was broken inside. I didn't understand it. What would drive them to be so mean not just to me, but to anyone? Childhood should be a time to laugh and play and make friends and have adventures. Why do so many children find such delight in ruining it for others?"

"Adults do it too. The average person, by nature, feels inferior to the rest of the world. They see the strength and accomplishments of others around them and feel the need to build themselves up in their own minds to feel just as good if not better than the successful people. What they fail to realize is that most successful people feel just as inferior for one reason or another."

I shrugged my shoulders with a sigh of resignation. "I guess I just don't understand the human race. Are we really that selfish and egotistical that we have to knock down and destroy anyone who either seems more intelligent than us or just has a different opinion? There's no room for any sort of individuality, creativity, intellect; you aren't allowed to have any of it if you want to be a part of society. The only interests you are allowed to have are what everyone else _tells_ you to have. Anything apart from that predetermined norm is considered to be weird and therefore unacceptable. It blows me away. The human brain is capable of so much; each person born into the world has unlimited possibilities. But in this life, you aren't even allowed access to ninety percent of those possibilities. You either follow the crowd or end up being ostracized from the community. It sickens me. And it is the essence of what disgusts me the most about people."

"It's a sad part of human nature," Doc explained. "We are sinful from birth; the Bible tells us that. We have to learn the difference between right and wrong as we grow and then try our best to eliminate the wrong from our lives. Nobody is perfect, nor will they ever be. But progress can be made."

"The problem is that there are so many people who don't even try to change their attitudes. Most people don't even seem to care!"

"You can't worry about them, Herbert. You cannot control what they do or do not do with their lives. Nothing you do can change other people; they have to make that decision themselves. The only person you can change is _you_. You have to learn to accept the faults of humanity because, sadly, they aren't going away anytime soon."

"I don't know how to do that," I said. "I know I need to forgive people—all of them—for the pain they've caused me over the course of my life. But simply knowing that doesn't get rid of the pain. It's more than just a need to forgive, it's a need for reconciliation. I want those who hurt me to know what they did to me and probably many others. I want them to feel regret. Remorse. And if they don't regret it, don't care, don't have any desire to right the wrongs, then I want them to feel the same pain they caused me. I want them to feel the same fear they caused me. I know that's selfish and wrong, and it's yet another thing about myself that I hate and want to fix. But I just don't know how."

"Your feelings are completely . . . human, Herbert. But you will learn to forgive. In time, you will. I promise. Now, who are those two boys Herbie is sitting with?"

My gaze shifted to my childhood friends, though I use that term loosely. The one sitting to my left wearing a striped polo shirt was named Nick Trobolski. Across from me was Aaron Medderson. "Nick and Aaron," I told him. "For the first few years of elementary school, they were what I considered to be friends. They never came to my house after school or invited me to visit them, but during school hours the three of us would talk and play during recess. Back then, I _thought_ they were real friends. But I saw a glimpse of their true colors on this day."

"What happened?" Doc asked.

"You'll see. It's almost time for recess."

The kids were given a measly thirty minutes for lunch _and_ recess which meant fifteen minutes for each. It wasn't long before the doors leading outside were opened and the entire first grade charged out into the autumn air. It was almost time. And the anticipation was killing me.

As usual, it was a mad dash to the gym closets. The school made some of the sports equipment available to the kids during recess. The closets were located just beside the gymnasium door on the far side of the school, so it was always a race amongst the kids to get to the best stuff first. Of course, everyone scrambled to get the coveted red kickball. It was kind of an unspoken rule of the schoolyard that whoever held the red ball decided what games were played with it. Usually, that meant a rather large game of kickball, but sometimes a game of dodgeball would be set up along the wall near the cafeteria.

As I got older, I stopped trying for the red ball. I seemed to be the only kid in the world who got sick and tired of kickball, and no one was interested in the games I wanted to play. Then again, I was trying to _invent_ new games, so maybe my ideas were just lame. I don't remember what kind of games I came up with back then.

But we were about to find out.

Although I stopped trying for the ball when I was older, this was first grade, and I was still running for it like my classmates. And on this particular day, I got it. Somehow, little Herbie managed to get in front of the pack and snatch the red ball up before anyone else. He came out of the equipment closet through the crowd with the ball high above his head like a trophy.

Outside, with the kids all distracted and shouting amongst themselves, I figured it was safe to talk to Doc. "You know where this is going."

"A dispute over the ball, if memory serves me." We had gone over this incident during earlier therapy sessions.

"Right. I don't remember what game I chose to play, but I know it was an unpopular decision."

Herbie walked onto the field with the ball tucked under his arm. I could tell he was excited; the majority of the first grade was waiting to see what he'd do next. No doubt they were expecting him to choose a second captain and start dividing the teams for kickball.

Instead, he said, "We're going to play tagball!"

A collective groan went up from the crowd. Tagball was kind of like dodgeball and tag rolled into one. In tagball, the ball-carrier's goal was to peg the other players with the ball. Anyone that got hit was out. If you caught the ball when someone threw it, the thrower was out, and when the ball touched the ground, it became safe for someone else to pick it up and throw it again. It made for a fast-paced game where the ball was always moving and the last person standing was the winner.

I should've known Herbie would choose it. It was a game I enjoyed as a child but could never get anyone to play with me. Given that the ball carrier _usually_ gets to pick the game, I figured this would be a chance to get kids to play _my_ game for a change.

"Let's play kickball instead!" one of the boys yelled. I think his name was Raul.

"You guys play kickball every day!" Herbie told him. "I wanna play something different!"

There was some more grumbling from the kids, but the school didn't afford a whole lot of time for recess, and they knew that. If they wanted to play anything while they were out here, they had to start soon.

I glanced in Doc's direction before speaking. Still not used to the invisibility thing. "Do you think it was selfish of me to want to play something other than kickball?" I asked as the game got underway.

"I'll answer that," Doc began, "if you answer my question first."

"What's your question?"

"Do _you_ think it was selfish?"

Sometimes Doc's shrink routine gets on my nerves. He knew the answer to this one; he just wanted me to say it. "Perhaps a little," I answered. "I mean, who was I to tell them what they had to play?"

"Didn't you earn that right by getting the ball?"

"Yes, but none of them wanted to play my game."

"So, you believe you should've given it to them."

I watched as Nick beaned Aaron in the head with the ball. "I . . . don't know. What do you think?"

I could hear the smile in his voice. "I think you were six years old."

"What does that mean?"

"Our senses of right and wrong are not fully developed at such a young age. Although it would've been more generous for you to join them in a game of kickball or just give them the ball, you were only a child."

"So are you suggesting that children shouldn't be held accountable for their actions?"

"Held accountable, yes. But at the same time, mistakes should be expected and forgiven. They don't know any better."

My eyes caught sight of him at that point; Timmy Jentson was running up behind Herbie. As Jeremy Scheckel threw the ball, Herbie jumped away. The ball bounced once before Timmy grabbed hold of it.

"Okay!" he yelled, raising his hand above his head. "Does anyone actually _want_ to play this stupid game?"

A few voices shouted that they didn't, while others yelled that it was stupid. No voices of support. Not even from Nick and Aaron. Herbie ran over to Timmy and reached for the ball. "Give it back!" he demanded.

Timmy ignored him. "We'll still have enough time to play an inning if we hurry!" Some of the children cheered, and they all started running to the baseball diamond on the other side of the field.

Herbie wasn't giving up that easily. I don't quite recall what I was thinking, but knowing myself as I do, I'm willing to bet that what Herbie did next was more about preventing Timmy from winning rather than saving the tagball game. He ran up alongside Timmy and brought his hand down hard, knocking the ball from his grip. Before Timmy could react, Herbie snatched it up and started running away.

"Give that back, you little twerp!" Timmy shouted, racing after him. Herbie ran with everything he had, zooming aimlessly across the playground. But Timmy's legs were strong, and he caught up with relative ease. He swung his meaty forearm like a club, bludgeoning Herbie across the back of the head. The blow sent him sprawling across the grass as the ball bounced away. Timmy lumbered overhead, showing no interest in retrieving it.

Doc's voice came from my right. "I have to ask you a question. Would you like to stop this?" A crowd of students began to gather to watch the boys.

I certainly hadn't expected _that_. "What?"

Doc spoke quickly. Timmy was already pulling Herbie up by the shirt. "Would you like to stop this?"

"You'd let me do that?"

"You are free do to as you wish," Doc said. "I was just curious what you wanted to do."

Herbie was screaming, "Let me go!"

Timmy had a generous amount of shirt in his clenched fist. "I told you to give it back! I warned you!"

Herbie struggled to get free, but Timmy was too strong. I knew that if I wanted to intervene, the time was now. But what would happen if I altered my history? What effects might it have? All I needed to do was deactivate the invisibility belt to scare them off, but what consequences could be brought about by such a change in history?

In that split second of hesitation, my decision was made for me. Timmy's fist rained down upon Herbie like a flesh sledgehammer. One punch. Two punches. Three. Four. Herbie held his hands up in a vain effort to protect himself. Five. Six. Blood ran from his nose and onto his shirt. Seven. Eight. Nine. His eyelids were starting to droop. With the tenth punch, Timmy threw him to the ground. Nick and Aaron made no move to save him. The other kids made "ooo's" and "aah's" and some even laughed.

But Timmy wasn't finished. He climbed on top of Herbie and pressed a knee into the side of his head, grinding his bloodied face into the grass and dirt. I wanted nothing more than to run to his side— _my_ side—but what effect would a timeline disruption have? What could happen?

Finally, four adults came running from the cafeteria. Doc's sympathetic voice accompanied his hand on my shoulder. "Herbert, I'm so sorry." The bell rang, sending children scurrying. Timmy didn't ease up until Mr. Wendel, one of the gym teachers, pulled him up. Mrs. Degato's face turned white when she kneeled down beside Herbie.

"Oh my God!" she screamed. "Someone get the nurse right away! Hurry!!"

Herbie wasn't moving other than the rising and falling of his chest with each breath. Doc took my arm and started to pull me away as more teachers came running. I couldn't take my eyes off of the little boy on the ground. I wanted to scream. I wanted to cry. I _really_ wanted to go wring Timmy's neck. I had no idea how badly he'd beaten me until now.

"How, exactly, was this supposed to help me?" I asked.

"Even though you may not realize it," Doc began, "you learned something here today."

"Really?" I snorted. "Like what?"

"Being told the answer to a question doesn't teach nearly as much as the journey to find it on one's own. What you learned today will become clear to you in time, Herbert."

"Can't say I'm too happy with that answer."

Doc had to stifle his laughter to avoid attracting attention. "No one ever is, Herbert. No one ever is."

"So are we done here?" I asked. I had seen more than enough.

"We leave whenever you're ready. Are you?"

I took a long look at the little boy on the ground. He was sitting upright now, and the nurse was holding a rag to his nose. "I'm ready."

We headed back across the field toward the spot where we left the Chronopod. Along the way, Doc asked, "Going forward, how did the events that transpired here affect you?"

I had to think about that one for a moment. Whenever this incident comes to mind, I always find myself feeling foolish for thinking that Timmy could have been reasonable. Foolish for thinking that Nick and Aaron would help defend me. Foolish for thinking I had a right to tell the kids what game to play. "I think my trust in people was a bit damaged," I finally said. "Rather than trying to stand up for myself in difficult situations, I started backing down. I'd give the more aggressive people what they wanted. I let people steal my lunch—when I was lucky enough to have one, that is—and push me around in the halls and stuff. And although I continued to be friends with Nick and Aaron for a short time, I kept my emotions distant. I stopped relying on their companionship so that I wouldn't feel so bad when they didn't want to play at lunch."

"What about new friends?" Doc asked. "Did it hold you back from trying to make new friends in the future?"

"It's possible. Nick and Aaron at least stuck with me until middle school, but when sixth grade arrived, they turned their backs on me. I didn't go out of my way to make friends after that, though I did have some acquaintances. By the time high school came around, I'd given up completely. So I suppose the altercation with Timmy might have been the starting point of my descent into isolation."

Doc was in full shrink mode at this point. "How about when you saw other kids being bullied? What did you think? How did you react?"

"It bothered me, of course. I mean, looking back, I probably should've done something to try to stop it because of how I wished people would've stopped Timmy when _I_ needed help. But I was too busy trying to do anything I could to _not_ be noticed by the troublemakers of the school."

"How about nowadays? When you see adults saying or doing hurtful things to each other, how does that make you feel?"

"Oh, now I'll be the first one to say something about it. When I was a kid, I was afraid of the abuse. I didn't know what the other kids were capable of, but I knew I wasn't strong enough to take them on. But now I'll put myself in the middle of it because I'm not afraid anymore. I've been beaten, cut, broken, burned, and everything else; I'm not worried about what some guy at work is going to say if I tell him to stop picking on the new guy or something like that."

"That's good to hear," Doc said. "So what happened to Timmy after the fight?"

"He got suspended for a while. When he came back, they put him in a different lunch period with the fifth graders in hopes that he wouldn't be bold enough to pick fights with them."

"And?"

"It didn't end well. From what I heard, he thought he was such a tough guy that he got in a tussle with a few of them. They followed him off school property one afternoon and beat the stuffing out of him. They messed him up pretty bad. Broke his nose, too."

"That's a shame. You'd think he'd know better than to pick fights with so many people. Eventually, it was bound to backfire on him."

"He was an idiot," I muttered. "He got what he deserved."

"Do you _really_ feel that way? Or is that anger speaking?"

I let out a long breath. He always knew. "Anger. I know I shouldn't think that way. I just get so frustrated with people who just _take_ what they want no matter who they have to walk over to get it."

"Well, he was a child," Doc said. "He had a lot he needed to learn about how to treat others. For whatever reason, he developed the perception that violence was the way to solve the problems in front of him. It is unfortunate that he had to experience what it was like for those on the receiving end of his abuse. I doubt he'd ever lost a fight before; it was probably a big shock for him."

"I suppose." Was all that abuse he dished out regularly just borne out of ignorance? "I guess he just . . . didn't know any better."
Wednesday – Day 3

And I thought yesterday had been bad.

This morning, Doc told me that he wanted to observe a bit of my childhood. Specifically, my relationship with my parents. He asked me to pick out a memory that I felt would give him a taste of my life at home. There were plenty of options from which to choose, but there was one specific day that stood out in my mind.

It was a crisp morning late in autumn. Doc and I arrived just down the road from my house. For the moment, the street was quiet. It would not stay that way. Most of the neighbors had gotten used to the screaming that emanated from our household on a daily basis, but I never did.

Our house was a run-down shack of a place. We never had the money for upkeep or repairs. Shingles were missing or crumbling; shutters were rusted and broken. The screen door was falling off its hinges. It was a disgrace. If my father had any sense of responsibility, he would've done something about our living conditions.

"It's quiet," Doc noted. "Is anyone home?"

"Mom and I should be," I replied. "But Mom is probably wasted."

Across the street, Donald Brock came out of his house and headed for his car. The last time I'd seen him, he was a good deal older with significant lines in his face. I waved to him out of habit before remembering the invisibility belt. He tossed a briefcase onto the passenger's seat of his sedan and drove off in a rush. Once he was out of sight, I pushed our old rickety gate open and approached the house. The screen was a mess, hanging halfway off of the frame and riddled with little holes. The inner door was open by about a foot or so. I was pretty confident I'd have no trouble entering. Herbie was probably going to be in the kitchen looking for _anything_ for breakfast. And Mom . . .

I reached through the broken screen and gave the door a nudge. It swung open wide enough to provide a view of the couch. Yup. Mom was passed out with a nearly-empty bottle of wine on its side next to the couch. I pulled the screen door open and started to enter. Doc didn't argue; he must've also seen her drunken state. I walked to a corner beside the couch where Dad's old newspapers were piled up. Doc followed my footsteps and stood beside me.

"Is someone there?" a little voice called from the kitchen. Herbie came running in, a bit older with a scar on the bridge of his nose. He was wearing an oversized t-shirt with flaming skulls on the back. I don't remember exactly, but I'm assuming Mom just gave me one of Dad's shirts rather than do laundry. Herbie looked around for a moment, confused about the apparent footsteps he thought he'd heard, then closed the front door and kneeled beside his mother. "Mom? Mom! I can't find anything to eat." He shook her arm.

"Uhhnngghh," she moaned, pulling away. "Jus' find sumfin..."

"There isn't anything," he said, shaking her again. She didn't respond. "Mom! Come on, you said you'd get bread yesterday!"

"They were out," she grumbled. "Go away."

"The store was out of bread?" Even ten-year-old Herbie wasn't buying that. When Mom didn't answer, he groaned in frustration and ran back into kitchen.

"Where's your father?" Doc whispered in my ear.

I've read a number of horror stories where, if the characters dare to speak the name of the devil, he hears their voice and comes to devour their souls. I kind of wondered if that's what Doc had done, because as soon as he asked the question, I heard Dad's pickup pull into the driveway. "He's here," I murmured. "Get ready. I don't exactly remember how this all happens, but we should be ready to move if it becomes necessary."

Dad's footsteps stomped across the path outside, and the door flew open. He didn't say a word, just stormed in and dropped a black duffel bag on the floor near the kitchen doorway. He'd been gone for nearly two weeks. We didn't know for sure where he'd gone, but Mom was pretty sure he was with another woman and that some rather sordid things were going on between them.

He was a big guy into the old-fashioned motorcycles of past years and a member of a gang of biker enthusiasts. A black bandana was tied around his head, and he was wearing his black leather jacket and jeans that he always donned when he'd hit the local bars. He was the kind of guy you didn't want to run into in a dark place. Or a well-lit place, for that matter.

Herbie came back into the room. He was carrying a glass of water. "Dad, Mom didn't buy any bread," he said. "Can you get some? I have to leave for school in an hour."

"Dammit Herbert," he growled, snatching up the stack of mail from the chair beside the door. "I just got in. Can't I rest my feet for even a minute without you nagging me?"

The little boy's face turned red as he hung his head. "Sorry, Dad. I was just hungry, that's all."

"Then why don't you get your good-for-nothing mother to make something for you?!" he yelled. "She ain't doin' nothin' else around this dump!"

Mom, it seems, wasn't quite as asleep as she'd wanted Herbie to think. "I been doin' more than you," she growled, pushing herself into a sitting position. She held her head with one hand while the other blindly grasped air beside the couch in search of the wine bottle. "Where the hell you been at?"

"You didn't pay the cable bill, dammit!" Dad yelled, throwing the envelope at her. "Now I ain't gonna be able to see the fight!"

"It's not like you're bringin' home the money to pay the bills," she shot back. Her hand finally found the wine bottle, and she gulped down a mouthful. "Now, where you been?"

"It just so happens," he began, yanking a rolled up bill out of his pocket, "that I been out bringin' home a paycheck while you been here getting plastered!" He threw the money at her. "Now get that damn cable bill paid!"

Mom unrolled the bill. It was a fifty. A single fifty dollar bill. "Fifty bucks?!" she exclaimed, standing. "You call that a paycheck? What, did you win this playing poker or something? This ain't even gonna pay for the groceries, let alone the bills!"

"Make it stretch. I ain't missin' the fight. Besides, I don't see _you_ helping out with money."

"Someone's gotta take care of Herbert!" She was getting closer to him, now. A long pink fingernail pointed back at Herbie. He looked white as a ghost, up against the wall beside the kitchen door. He knew what was coming.

"Can't that damn boy take care of himself yet?" Dad screamed back. Love you too, Pops.

"Maybe he'd be able to if you'd spend some time with him!" Mom screamed. She was inches from his face. "Instead, you're always running off with that hooker from the bar!"

Dad's eyes raged. Without a hint of hesitation, he balled up his fist and punched Mom in the mouth. Whether or not he used all his strength, I don't know, but it sent her staggering back toward the couch. He followed her closely, giving no room for escape. "Dammit, don't you ever call her a hooker!" he screamed.

Mom's lip was bleeding. She looked dazed, but she had enough clarity of mind to reach back for the glass ashtray on the end table and smash it across Dad's head. Herbie screamed and backed into the kitchen, tears flowing from his eyes. Though I hadn't realized it, they were flowing from mine, too.

Dad used some more colorful words for Mom that I'd rather not write here. Then he placed both hands on her chest and shoved with all his might, throwing her body onto the couch with frightful force. When she hit the seat, her head smacked into the window behind the couch and went through it, leaving a small hole in the center of a web of cracks, the lower section of which was coated with crimson. Mom instinctively grabbed the back of her head and slumped over.

I thought about intervening more than once. But again, I didn't want to mess with history. It was too great a risk to take. All I could do was watch . . . and cry.

Dad screamed and knocked over the chair and end table, smashing a lamp in his violent rage. Finally, he tore the door open and marched to his truck. A screech of tires later, he was gone.

Herbie rushed to his mother's side. "Mom? Mom, are you alright?"

Mom's speech was slurred. "Git 'way from me," she said, pushing him with one hand.

Herbie wasn't getting the hint. "You're bleeding! Let me help you!"

My mother, in a moment of what I can only call drunken brilliance, pulled her hand away from her scalp, stared at the blood that coated her fingers, then reached for the wine bottle. "It's not that bad."

And Herbie, in a moment of what I can only call stupid brilliance, grabbed the wine bottle and threw it into the kitchen as hard as he could. It shattered against the kitchen cabinets, sending the remaining wine splattering across the sink and floor.

Not surprisingly, Mom didn't like that. Her fist clocked Herbie right in the face. "How dare you?" she screamed as he dropped to the floor. I can still remember the pain of her fake diamond ring slashing through my cheek. "Dun' you _ever_ touch my wine!"

When it happened, I thought I deserved the beating that followed. Watching it happen in front of me today, I knew I didn't. Mom was just a crazy drunk. I don't know why I didn't see that as a kid. Maybe I was too young to understand what that meant. Maybe I was just stupid. Regardless, when my mother knelt down and started beating Herbie while blood trickled from the wound beneath her dirty blond curls, he didn't try to get away. Instinct brought his hands up to protect his face, but the little squirming he did came as a natural reaction to the pain of his mother's strikes. Otherwise, he accepted his punishment. It made me sick.

After a particularly stiff punch to his face caused his head to bounce against the hard floor, I began to inch forward. I couldn't let it go on. I had to stop it. If I didn't stop it, I was just as bad as my mother. I took another step forward. It couldn't change my history, could it? If I stopped her, would anything I knew about myself and my youth change? Would I even realize it if it did? Did it even matter in the face of what I was witnessing?

Again, I was saved from having to make the decision. My mother, breathing heavily, shifted from a squatting position to all fours, allowing Herbie to scramble to his feet. Her eyes were distant and unfocused beneath beads of sweat, and she wobbled back and forth like a tree in the wind. I thought she was going to vomit from the amount of alcohol she'd consumed.

Herbie wiped blood from his lips and stepped away. "Mom?" It seemed he had the same concern.

She finally slumped to the floor. The breaths stopped coming, and her eyes rolled back into her head. For Herbie, of course, it was a terrifying sight. "MOM!!" he screamed, dropping down and grabbing her by the shoulders. A couple of shakes later, he was up and running for the bedroom phone.

"We should go," I said while he was in the other room. "It's going to get quite busy around here when the paramedics arrive, and we'll have a tough time staying concealed."

Doc's voice startled me to my left. I thought he'd been on my right the whole time. "Are you sure?"

I stared at my mother with a mixture of anger, resentment, and frustration. Although the sight of her drunken body did bring forth a flood of those emotions, both pity and compassion were floating around in there, too. Somewhere. "She'll live," I said, heading for the door. "That's all I need to know."

We had the front door closed behind us before Herbie got back into the kitchen. Once we were on the sidewalk, Doc deactivated his invisibility belt. I looked around to be sure no one was watching, then followed suit.

"That must have been difficult to watch." Sometimes Doc had a knack for stating the obvious. "Did she attack you like that often?"

"Only when she was drunk," I replied. "So yeah, pretty often."

He pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his glasses as we walked. "It struck me how Herbie handled the beating; once it was over he wiped off the blood and moved on like it was a normal part of everyday life."

"Back then, it was. And I accepted that for some reason. I just told myself I deserved it. I assumed that all children were disciplined the same way."

"Might I pose another theory?"

I let out a long breath, gazing at the autumn leaves as we walked. "By all means."

"Perhaps it was because you just didn't want to consider the possibility that your mother might not have loved you. If she had a reason for the abuse, if she was doing it in order to _teach_ you something rather than to hurt you, then you might have seen it as an act of motherly love rather than an attack. It is not uncommon among children in abusive families to simply accept their circumstances because they want so badly to believe that their parents love them regardless of the living conditions."

"I guess it's a possibility."

Now he stopped and looked me in the eyes. "You know now, however, that her behavior was not acceptable by any stretch of the imagination. Correct?"

My eyes unconsciously shifted to the pavement. I was afraid he was going to ask why I didn't intervene. Why I didn't stop her from beating on Herbie. "Of course."

The question never came, though. There was a brief silence before Doc spoke again, shifting topics. "We've talked about your fear of your father in the past. Was this one of those times that he frightened you?"

"Yeah," I said. "In high school, I started getting more defiant with him. With Mom too, for that matter. But before that, I was pretty submissive to both of them. During middle school, I was trying to love them with God's love, and the Bible tells children to honor their parents. So I'd submit myself to Dad's verbal abuse and Mom's physical abuse in hopes that God would bring some good out of it all. He never did."

"I wouldn't say that," Doc told me.

"Really? What good came from today's incident?"

Doc grinned for some reason. "Let's just say it was another building block."

Was I supposed to understand that? Usually, when Doc says something cryptic like that, I'm supposed to decipher the clues in front of me to arrive at whatever point he was trying to make. This time, I had no idea. "I don't understand."

In the distance, ambulance and police sirens echoed. Doc took a look back toward my house before smiling at me again. "We're still building. Come, let's move on."

"Where are we going now?"

Around the corner, the Chronopod waited for us disguised as a parked aeromobile. "I want you to take me to another memory involving your relationship with your parents. Any one you'd like."

For some reason, I thought of one particular night when Mom and Dad took me to the county carnival that was set up on the high school football field every spring. A lot of things happened that night. Some good. Some bad. Some . . . strange. "All right," I said, "I think I know where we can go."

The carnival was held about a month or so before graduation each year, so most high school seniors spent their nights celebrating early. However, many parents from town brought their younger children to enjoy the attractions as well. Mom and Dad, on one of the nights when they seemed to be getting along, decided it would be fun to go. And, since I was their son, they figured they may as well take me along. Nice, right?

When Doc and I showed up, the night was already well underway. The fairgrounds were loaded with people, litter dotted the ground everywhere, colored lights from the various rides illuminated the night sky, and the scent of cheap hot dogs and fattening cakes wafted through the air. I wasn't exactly sure how we were going to find Herbie and my parents. The carnival's layout was poorly designed, and there were people everywhere.

Given the public atmosphere, Doc and I were able to wander about without needing to use the invisibility belts. We walked toward the main entrance where most of the food and games were located. I thought I remembered Mom and Dad buying a couple of beers around there, but I didn't see them anywhere. "This is going to be difficult," I said. "I don't remember the exact sequence of stops we made on this particular night."

"Well, then let's start with what you _do_ remember," Doc suggested. "What made you think of this night?"

"A few things," I told him. "But I guess the most important is what will happen at the Twister." That was a ride that rotated at high speeds with people inside, supposedly simulating the effects of a tornado. I never got to ride it, so I wouldn't know. Then again, I've never been inside a tornado, either.

"Then let's head in that direction," Doc said.

We chose a spot just across the path from the Twister's ticket collector. The poor guy had no idea what was about to happen. Within about twenty minutes, I saw them; Dad, Mom, and Herbie were headed in our direction. Dad had his arm around Mom, and she had her head on his shoulder. My dear, sweet, and decent Mother, was dressed in one of her slutty looking short skirts that showed far more than any son should ever be forced to see. Along with it, she wore a low-cut top that probably could've earned her criminal charges in a number of states. Dad was in his usual biker gear. Both had plastic cups full of beer in their hands. Herbie trailed along a good six or seven paces behind.

"They look like they're in good spirits," Doc noted. "But you look downright miserable."

"That's because they were just drunk," I told him. "And they wouldn't do anything I suggested. No rides. No games. No candy. Nothing. Granted, we had very little money to spare, but as a ten year old child, you don't come to a carnival expecting to just walk around and look at all the rides you can't ride and games you can't play. Besides, they weren't keeping me off the rides because of money, they were doing it because they didn't want to spare the time for me. Watch."

When they came upon the Twister, my mother's eyes lit up. She pointed at it excitedly and yammered on in my Dad's ear, presumably begging him to go on it. Doc and I casually moved a bit closer, all the while pretending to just be spectators watching the ride. Or maybe waiting for a friend. Either way, we were soon close enough to listen to the conversation.

"Come on, it'll be fun!" Mom was urging him.

My Dad actually had a smile on his face. "Maybe this one time." His voice sounded like pebbles rubbing together.

Behind them, Herbie started jumping up and down with a giant smile on his face. "Are we going to ride it, Dad? Are we?"

"Just your mother and I," he said, patting the boy on the head. "We only have enough cash for two riders."

The look of disappointment on Herbie's face would've made Grandpa cry. If he had been there, he would've paid any price to ensure that his grandson had a wonderful time. But not my parents. They thought only of themselves, usually at my expense. Often at each other's expense, as well.

The two of them got on line while Herbie waited on the other side of the entrance. Jealousy was evident in his face as he watched other parents climb into the Twister _with_ their children. Although the ride was designed with both adults and kids in mind, it was rare to see two middle-aged adults riding by themselves.

Then again, I didn't exactly view my parents as adults.

"At least they look like they're getting along," Doc noted. Indeed, anyone who saw them at that moment would've thought they got along great together. But I knew better. Now _and_ then.

"It's the liquor," I said. "And it won't last."

I kept my eyes on the crowd of people coming from the left. At any moment, Dad's mistress was going to appear. And my mother would not to be pleased to see her.

"Did you understand anything about the effects of alcohol as a child?" Doc asked me. "Did you understand why their behavior changed when they drank?"

"Yes and no," I answered. "I knew nothing about addiction back then. But I knew that when Mom drank something I wasn't allowed to have, whatever mood she was in at the time would intensify a hundred times over. If she was happy, she'd become euphoric. If she was angry, she'd throw fits of unbridled rage. More often than not, the latter is what occurred."

"So when you grabbed that bottle from your mother and smashed it in the kitchen, you knew exactly what you were doing?"

"To an extent. I just wanted her to calm down. Dial it back a few notches. I didn't realize that she was hooked on the stuff; I didn't even know it was possible back then. If I had, I probably would've done more to hide the booze or destroy it when she either wasn't looking or wasn't home. If she—" I stopped short as I saw her; Dad's "mistress" had emerged from the crowd. "Here we go," I said, casually motioning in her direction. "Watch that woman. The one with the skimpy pink dress and stilettos."

"I see her," Doc nodded.

I'd almost swear the woman had radar that told her exactly where my father was standing, because her eyes seemed to go straight to him. "Hey, big boy!" she squealed, waving her hands in the air. "I didn't know you were going to be here!"

Now, one might expect that a man whose two lovers had unexpectedly crossed paths might show a bit of nervousness or embarrassment. My father showed neither. "Hey, Stacy!" he shouted, a grin splitting his face. "How's my girl doing tonight?"

The woman, apparently named Stacy, scuttled over to my parents, smoothing her dress and adjusting her hair along the way. Dad gave her a big hug. Mom, on the other hand, stepped back a bit and crossed her arms. The look on her face said she was mere seconds away from a nuclear meltdown. If lasers could've shot from her eyes, they would've burned a hole through both Stacy and my father.

Doc lowered his voice. "I assume that's the woman your mother alluded to in the previous memory we visited."

I shrugged. "It might be. I don't know how many women my father saw behind Mom's back."

"So it wasn't a case of your father being torn between two women?"

"Not to my knowledge," I said, though truthfully I'd never considered the possibility that Dad had actually fallen in love with a woman other than my mother. "But I don't know for sure." I had always believed he was just out there seeking the company of as many women who would give him the time. And their bodies, of course. Each time his promiscuous life crossed paths with his family, he was with yet another woman. But the idea that Dad might have had deeper feelings for one . . . It gave me mixed feelings. If he did, then it meant that he wasn't as much of a womanizer as Mom and I had thought. But that wouldn't change the fact that he wasn't being loyal to his family.

Dad and Stacy were making small talk while Mom's eyes glowed with fire. Dad said something I couldn't hear, Stacy laughed and put her hand on his chest, and that was the final straw.

"Who the hell are you?!" Mom screamed, pushing my Dad to the side.

Stacy was startled, but she didn't back away. "Calm down, sweetie," she said, looking legitimately surprised by Mom's reaction. "It doesn't do any good to get all worked up."

Dad calmly tried to interject himself between the two women, but Mom pushed him away again. "I wouldn't have reason if you weren't putting your hands on my husband!"

The revelation that Dad was married apparently wasn't a revelation at all. "Well maybe if you cared for his needs a bit more, he wouldn't have to be fallin' into my arms instead!"

"How dare you!" Mom yelled, shoving Stacy with her free hand. "I can handle my husband's needs just fine, you home-wrecking whore!"

I looked over at Herbie. He was watching with glistening eyes. Although his parents hadn't done much to include him in their activities, he had been enjoying the fact that they were getting along. Now, however, he was watching all of that fall apart again.

Stacy flipped her giant blond curls over her shoulder. "Honey, you obviously don't know how to really please a man! Your little hugs don't satisfy his more intimate needs."

Sadly, little Herbie knew exactly what that meant. He'd known since he'd awoken one Saturday morning to the sounds of his parents having sex in the living room when he was eight years old. The poor boy had no idea what was going on; he thought he was hearing cries of pain. The sight that met him when he went into the living room had been something quite different.

If memory serves me, I had seen it at least four more times before this night at the carnival. And my mother wasn't always involved. What kind of a man brought his affair into his own home with his child asleep in the next room? The more I think about it now, the more sure I am that he _was_ nothing more than a womanizer.

A crowd of spectators was beginning to form a few feet away from the women. Dad stood beside them, red-faced but unapologetic, clearly trying to come up with a way to diffuse the situation.

"If you'd like," Stacy was saying, "I'd be more than happy to have you join us one night. I could show you both how to truly appreciate each other."

She'd pushed it too far. My mother screamed and tossed her beer in Stacy's face, blinding her long enough to land a solid punch to her chin. Before Dad could stop her, Mom tackled his not-so-secret lover to the ground and started wailing away with punch after punch. He tried to pull her off and got socked in the face for it. Stacy was trying to fight back, but Mom was both drunk and furious—a dangerous combination. The crowd of onlookers watched intently, some cheering while others just stared. Stacy's skirt had slipped up to her waist in the struggle. Clearly, that fact was more important than pulling the two women apart.

I shook my head in disgust as I watched it all play out. It's another part of society that angers me to no end. Sex is everything. And I mean _everything_. Every comedian drowns their acts in sexual references, every commercial and holovision show uses half-naked women to attract attention, and seemingly every male in the world withers at the sight of the female body. It is so much a part of our lives that it drives teenage girls and _younger_ to wear too-tight, form-fitting, skimpy and revealing clothing so that they can be considered "sexy." For the college-aged male, the only goal of any date seems to be to get the girl into bed. Sporting events use half-naked women to attract more men. Books, movies, video games—they all use sex to achieve their goals, and brainless people everywhere buy into it.

And on this night, it made a crowd of people turn into a bunch of useless drooling neanderthals just because they caught sight of a single woman's underwear.

People are pathetic.

I know that God doesn't want me to think that way. But when I see things like this, I can't help it. Here we have a drunk woman who is seriously intent on hurting another, and rather than intervene to help a fellow human being, people just stand and stare because they can see underwear. How can I NOT be disgusted by people?!

Anyway . . .

As the crowd grew bigger, Doc and I were forced to retreat back toward the pizza vendor a short way down the path. I couldn't see the fight anymore, just the backs of a couple dozen spectators. As we moved away, we were passed by a group of men wearing blue shirts. Wielding steel batons and equipped with communication earpieces, they rushed toward the crowd. When the man in the lead spoke, his voice was projected across the entire crowd. "Everyone move along!" he ordered as they pushed their way through. "Move along, now! Anyone who loiters here will be arrested!"

I could still hear Stacy screaming, but now I heard my mother as well. Security was likely trying to pry the women apart. The scattered boos that came from the onlookers seemed to confirm that.

"I said move along, people!" the voice said again. This time, his anger was evident. "Get going right now!!"

The first person to leave? Herbie. After all, we were taught in school to respect the authority of the police. He didn't know what to do, but he didn't want to get arrested. The police had been summoned to my house on more than one occasion prior to this night, and they always warned me to stay out of trouble before leaving. So when all this happened, I just wanted to get out of there.

"Where were you going?" Doc asked as we trailed a short distance behind him.

"I'm not really sure," I admitted. "If I remember right, I think I was trying to remember how to get home from here. Figured on walking, I suppose."

"How _did_ you wind up getting home?"

"I wound up asking a security officer for directions to my street. He asked where my parents were. When I told him I was alone, he asked if I'd wait for him to write down directions. But rather than do that, he called the police to escort me home. I guess the idea of a ten-year-old walking the streets in the dark was unsettling to him."

We followed Herbie a ways down the path past the kiddie rides and the game kiosks. When we neared the restrooms, I figured it was time to go. "Well, we've seen what I brought us here for," I said. "Should we head back?"

Doc was still watching Herbie. "Not just yet," he said. "If it's alright with you, I'd like to watch him for a few more minutes."

I wasn't really sure what he expected to see, but I didn't question the request. We followed Herbie back to the carnival entrance. He stopped just a few feet before the ticket booth, staring at something on the ground. It looked like a small wad of money bound by a silver metal clip.

I had completely forgotten about this.

Herbie picked up the cash and looked around. Doc and I acted like we were just chatting. He didn't seem to notice us any more than the rest of the people around him. Once he felt that no one was watching, he removed the clip and counted the money. It was somewhere around thirty or forty dollars if I remember right. After counting, he rolled the money back up and put it back in the clip.

"What is that?" Doc asked me. "I can't see too clearly from here."

"Lost money," I said. "Someone dropped it."

Herbie was looking around again. No one paid any attention to him. No one tried to claim the money. It was his for the taking.

"How much was it?" Doc asked.

"Somewhere around thirty, I believe."

"That's a nice amount of money for a child that age," Doc said with a smile. "He could go on all the rides at least once with that. Maybe even get a soda or a hot dog."

I shook my head. "He won't." After a moment, Herbie wrapped the money in his fist and walked through the exit. We followed him along the sidewalk toward the parking lot.

Doc still wanted to know what was going to happen to the money. "Did you use it to help your family? Thirty dollars could help buy some groceries."

"No, nothing quite so noble," I told him.

Near the gate that led to the parking lot, a man was explaining something to another security officer. He seemed to be quite distressed, waving his hands about and pointing to his pockets. The conversation became audible as Herbie approached.

"No, I checked my pockets a dozen times," the man was saying. "Are you sure no one turned any money in? Don't you have a lost and found or something?"

The officer shook his head with an expression of resignation. "Unfortunately, most people aren't about to hand over cash they find. There's no proof of ownership, so _anyone_ could say it belonged to them."

For some reason, the man almost looked as though he was going to cry. "This is unbelievable. I can't believe this is happening to me now. Of all the times, not now!"

The officer spoke with compassion. "I'm very sorry, Sir. But if someone does turn it in, we'll let you know right away."

Herbie had stopped walking. He was standing not ten feet beyond the gate, looking back at the man. So that we didn't look suspicious, Doc and I kept walking into the parking lot and approached one of the aeromobiles to give the appearance that we were leaving.

"Excuse me," I heard Herbie say. I couldn't resist looking back. "Is this yours?" he asked the man, holding up the bundle of money.

The stranger's face filled with such joy that his broad smile seemed to go from ear to ear. "Where did you find that?!" he shouted, dropping to his knees in front of Herbie. "Yes, that's mine! It was the only cash I had on me!"

Herbie handed over the money with a shy smile. "It was on the ground."

"Young man, you have no idea what you've done for me. Thank you so much!" Before Herbie could stop him, the man gave him a big hug. Then he thanked the security officer and headed off at a brisk walk.

"Do you know the way to Lockhardt Street?" Herbie asked the officer.

He seemed caught off-guard by the question. "I'm sorry, what was that?"

Doc pulled on my sleeve. "Come on, I'm curious about something." He led me away from Herbie and into the parking lot.

"Where are we going?" I asked.

"I want to know why that money was so important," Doc told me. "It seemed more than just lost money, don't you think? His reaction was too . . . dramatic for that. Once you're sure no one is looking, activate your invisibility belt."

I did as I was told. There weren't many people nearby. A few were sitting at a picnic bench a hundred or so yards away, and another group was walking toward the carnival entrance. They weren't looking anywhere near us. Then, of course, there was the man who lost his money, but he had his back to us a good twenty paces ahead. Doc suddenly vanished from sight. Then I did, too.

"Let's get closer," he whispered. I heard his footsteps quicken alongside mine, and pretty soon we were right behind the man. He had pulled out his earphone and was making a call.

"Room 913, please," he said. A few moments passed before he spoke again. "Judy? It's Greg. I'm on my way. Yes, I found it. Actually, a little boy found it. Can you believe that? Yes, what's the latest? Okay, but she's out of surgery? Well, that's _some_ good news. Will she recover? I see. Yes, I understand. Of course. I'm on my way. Thanks, I'll talk to you as soon as I get a cab. I hope it's not more than thirty-five dollars. It's all I have. Right. I'll talk to you soon."

He removed the earpiece for a moment and looked back toward the carnival. He spoke softly, almost inaudible. "You have no idea what you did for me tonight, kid. Thank God you were there." He brought up the earphone's holographic dialpad and typed in a few numbers before returning the device to his ear. After a moment, he turned and rushed toward the far end of the parking lot. The last thing I heard him say was, "Yes, I need a cab right away."

I moved to follow, but I felt Doc grab my arm. "That's all. I'm finished here if you are."

"What was that all about?" I asked.

His voice again betrayed his smile. "It's like I said. Building blocks."
Thursday – Day 4

Middle school was where the person I am today began to take shape. While I had trouble with bullies in elementary school, it wasn't anything like the trials that came with middle school. Those three years taught me that growing up also meant dumbing down, degrading others, and displaying an overall _lack_ of maturity. Odd, considering that the whole process of adolescence was supposed to _develop_ maturity. But that's not what I saw from the students around me. And for the first year or so, that's not how I acted, either.

Rumors in middle school were so much more than "Eww, Jimmy farted!" as it had been in previous years. Name-calling escalated far beyond "You're a poop head." These kids got downright dirty. The insults got harsher, the rumors got meaner, and the physical abuse was downright criminal. Literally, in some cases. I was watching the children that had shared my classroom for the previous six years as they attempted to behave in a manner that they believed made them more "grown up." And for the better portion of sixth grade, I was a part of it.

So that's what Doc wanted to see today. I'll be the first to admit that I was no angel when it came to the treatment of classmates. I don't think I was as bad as a lot of the bullies I encountered, but I certainly knew how to dish out the abuse at times. Doc had previously suggested that I was lashing out in response to the negative treatment I received from my peers. No offense meant to Doc, but I didn't need a psychiatrist to tell me that.

I've mentioned before that I made the conscious decision during my middle school years to treat people better by showing God's love. But that didn't happen until seventh grade. In sixth grade, I was a bit of a terror to a number of different people. It's not something I like to admit about myself, but it's not something I'm going to lie about either. Was it right of me? Of course not. I know that. I think I knew that then, too. But I was trying to defend myself. As much as I wanted to distance myself from my parents' behavior, and as much as I had the unending desire to be loved, there was a part of me that wondered if I was just being silly in expecting such things from the world.

So, given that all I knew was what I learned both at home and in school, what more could've been expected?

I know, I'm probably just trying to rationalize my bad behavior to some sort of acceptable level in my own mind. There is no excuse for it. I know it. I understand it. That's why I've tried so hard to be a better person ever since then.

Anyway, today's goal was to explore some of the less noble things I did to my fellow students. Doc wanted me to see the effects that _my_ teasing and harassment had on others. Needless to say, I dreaded it.

But before I describe the events that took place today, I want to at least give you an idea of why I did the things I did during this particular memory.

Going into middle school, I wasn't exactly a popular guy. But at the same time, I wasn't yet at the bottom of the ladder, either. Nick and Aaron were two boys that I considered to be friends, and a few other kids were willing to talk to me even though they didn't necessarily play with us at recess or hang out after school. I wasn't on top of the ladder nor at the bottom. I was just another student.

So when I arrived for my first day of sixth grade, I was not prepared for the environment that awaited me. The biggest surprise was the addition of another hundred or so students from the other two elementary schools of our area. That was a change I hadn't expected. The combining of two separate classes, each with their own cliques and cultures, was like mixing oil and water. Kids who had once been on top in terms of popularity suddenly found themselves on the bottom. At the same time, those who had been on the bottom suddenly found friends from the newcomers. It was a random shuffling of the deck; just about everyone found themselves in new positions of schoolyard fame. And me?

Yep. The bottom.

It was storming outside when Doc and I arrived. It was not uncommon for that time of year; the summer heat was still in full effect. A string of yellow buses rolled past the door one at a time, each stopping long enough for its payload of children to march through the rain to the front door. Above the school, four or five cranes were in the process of building a docking platform for the eventual conversion to an aerobus fleet as opposed to traditional ground vehicles. That wouldn't be completed until my second year of high school. Until then, the traditional loaf-of-bread shaped buses would remain the standard. I scanned the identification numbers printed on the sides of each in an effort to locate Herbie. His bus—rather, _my_ bus—was always number one-fifteen.

Doc and I walked across the muddy soccer field. The rain was soaking us to the bone; I'd forgotten the weather had been like this for my first day of middle school. It was actually kind of foreboding, now that I think about it. I've never minded walking in the rain. I actually enjoy it at times. But I felt bad for Doc. I couldn't see him, but he must've been drenched. "Was this your first day of middle school?" he asked me.

"Yes," I replied. "And I had no idea what I was walking into. I actually thought it was going to be fun. We had different teachers for each class, so there was more of a chance of getting some nice ones. We had a bigger cafeteria with more food choices—not that I ever had the money, but I let myself dream. The gym was bigger and we even had an auditorium for school assemblies as opposed to the folding chairs they used to set up in the elementary gym."

"Optimism? From you?"

I pursed my lips. "It was a long time ago. I learned my lesson."

Bus one-fifteen was now visible about two or three places back in line. Rather than stand in the rain, I suggested heading to my first classroom to wait for Herbie. Though we weren't visible to anyone around us, we _were_ soaking wet. I was worried that we were going to leave a trail of water in the halls, but our tracks just blended in with the footprints and drips left by other students. The hallways were wider than in elementary school, giving us plenty of room to walk without bumping into any of the kids. We made it to Miss Boyd's classroom without incident.

There were a couple of students there already, but I couldn't remember their names. Doc and I leaned against the rear counter, sopping wet. Over the course of the next twenty minutes, the room gradually filled with students. There were lots of kids I didn't recognize, but I saw Jim Browning, Alberto Vasquez, Shelly McConnell, and Biff Carney.

However, for Herbie, they were _all_ unfamiliar faces. In fact when he finally arrived, he took a confused look around before heading to the teacher's desk to confirm that he was indeed in the right class.

Once the students were seated and the bell had rung, Miss Boyd stood and introduced herself. Then, in my least favorite ritual of any new class, she went around and had everyone introduce themselves and name one exciting thing they did over the summer. It was the first official opportunity to get laughed at each year. Some kids had exciting vacations taking cruises with the family or going to space camp. But then there were others that couldn't afford to do anything exciting.

That was my category.

In previous years, I'd always told the truth about my summers. But here, in middle school, in front of all new classmates, I decided to make up a story instead. When Herbie stood to tell the class about his summer, he said, "I went to Disney World!"

"Oh, and what was your favorite part of Disney World?" Miss Boyd just had to ask him.

I could see Herbie struggling to come up with an answer. Having never been there, he could only guess based on what he'd seen in pictures and on the holovision. "I like the train," he eventually said.

Miss Boyd's face lit up. "Oh, I love trains!"

Herbie faked a smile and sat down. None of the students laughed at him.

"Disney World?" Doc whispered to me.

"I lied, of course. No child wants to stand in front of his classmates and say, 'I didn't do anything.' The teacher inevitably asks why. The last thing I wanted to do was admit that we couldn't afford anything."

The kid next to Herbie, a freckled kid named Henry Gobbens, started whispering something to him. I crept closer to listen in, trying hard not to let my wet shoes squeak against the floor.

"It was amazing," Henry was saying. "I'm going back next summer for three weeks!"

Herbie nodded, clearly not knowing what to say. "What's your name?" he finally whispered.

"Henry. What's yours?"

"Herbert."

The girl in front of Henry stood. "My name is Crystal, and this summer I volunteered with my father to help clean up our highways by picking up garbage."

Henry looked at Herbert and started giggling. Herbert joined in. Both of them _should_ have been scolded for it, but never were. Miss Boyd continued on as though she hadn't heard it. Crystal's face turned bright red, but she stood her ground without looking back at the boys.

I don't know why I laughed. Maybe I thought it was stupid of her to clean up other people's messes. Maybe I thought it was silly to volunteer rather than enjoy a vacation. Maybe I didn't understand why anyone would work for free. Whatever the reason, I know it was wrong. I'm pretty sure I knew then, too.

For the next few hours, we followed Herbie through his first day of middle school. Each class was filled with faces he didn't recognize. He was asked to introduce himself twice more, once describing his favorite food and another describing what he wanted to do when he grew up. And while I was not surprised to hear him list tacos as his favorite food, I _was_ surprised to hear him say he wanted to be an author when he grew up. I remember I wanted to be a police officer, a firefighter, a pilot, and even an athlete during the course of my childhood. But I don't remember ever wanting to be an author.

Henry was also in Herbie's fifth class of the day. I seem to remember attaching to him because he was the only person who really spoke to me, and Nick and Aaron where nowhere to be found. I didn't make friends easily, so I was willing to accept Henry.

When we followed Herbie into the cafeteria, that familiar anxiety came over me. In school, one of my biggest fears was always that I'd have no one to sit with at lunch. Just like in grade school, I'd worry that there wouldn't be any space for me, or if there was, it would only be with people who would make fun of me. That anxiety still follows me whenever I go into our break room at work or any public restaurant.

So when Herbie found Nick and Aaron sitting with a group of kids near the front of the cafeteria, I should've been relieved. But I knew what was about to happen.

Aaron was holding what looked like a deck of playing cards in his hand. Nick was staring intently beside him. Surrounding them both was a group of faces that Herbie didn't recognize. "Hey, guys!" he called to his friends.

Nick looked up, but there was no smile on his face. "Hey, Herbert," he said. His attention went right back to Aaron, who hadn't even looked up.

"Aaron, how's it going?" Herbie called. Others in the crowd were starting to stare at him with questioning looks.

Aaron didn't even respond. He dealt a single card to each of the six kids surrounding him. "Highest card wins my apple," he said.

I could see Herbie's smile beginning to falter. "Can I play?"

"I don't know, Herbert," Nick told me, taking his card from the table. "It's Aaron's game."

"Too crowded," Aaron said, still not looking up. "Sorry, Herb. Maybe some other time."

These boys were supposed to be my friends. "Come on, guys! Don't you have room for your best friend?"

Now Aaron's eyes rose. "Best friend? Where were you all summer, anyway? Disney World?"

Herbie's eyes went wide. "What? I didn't go to Disney World!"

Aaron shook his head and fiddled with the deck of cards. "Not what I heard. C'mon man, what kind of guy goes to Disney World and doesn't tell his best friends? My mom would've paid for a ticket for me to go with you!"

Nick frowned at Herbie. "And I would've done whatever extra chores I had to in order to get my mom to pay."

"It could've been awesome!" Aaron muttered. "But you didn't even tell us. Some friend you are!"

Herbie slammed his little fist on the table. "I didn't go to Disney World! I didn't go anywhere!"

"Not what I heard," Aaron said again. "Beat it, Herbie. We got more important things going on here."

I don't really know what I was thinking at this point. I know I was mad. I know I was hurt. And I was not going to just let it go.

The boys watched in shock as Herbie grabbed Aaron's apple—the same apple he'd offered as a prize moments earlier—and took a giant bite out of it. Then he dropped it on the floor and stomped on it, splattering mangled chunks everywhere. Aaron jumped to his feet as Herbie snatched up a juice bottle belonging to one of the other kids and threw it at him. The plastic bottle bounced off his head, spraying red juice everywhere.

"You little piece of—"

Herbie made a mad dash for the front of the cafeteria. The dean of students and the lunch ladies were up there, and that meant a safe haven from any repercussions for his brash actions. Aaron and Nick chased after him but broke off their pursuit when they saw Dean Marks. They would get Herbie back for his outburst not too long afterward, and the payback was well-deserved.

"Bold," Doc's voice came from beside me. "Reckless, but bold. Are you sure that was the right thing to do?"

I tried to speak softly so that only he would hear me. "I know it wasn't the right thing to do. And I regret it now. I regret a lot of things I did to other students before I learned of Christ's instructions of love."

"A lot of things?" Doc repeated. "Such as?"

"Let's head back to the Chronopod," I told him. "There are a few more incidents you should see."

We made a quick stop back in our own time period to change into a dry set of clothes before reconvening at the Chronopod an hour later. When we set out again, I showed Doc a number of different incidents where I had been less than kind to my fellow students. There was the time I was making jokes about Jenny Henderson's weight while she was giving an oral report in front of the class. She ran from the room in tears. On another day, I tripped poor Timmy Tiel when he was carrying a stack of heavy school books.

I wasn't mean because I disliked people—although the behavior of some kids did provoke negative reactions from me at times. No, I was mean because it got laughs out of Henry and his friends. With Nick and Aaron having turned against me, I was desperate to keep whatever friends I could. Of course that didn't justify it, but I was struggling to find my place in the sixth grade. And most of those things weren't premeditated. They were just things I did on impulse.

But the worst, by far, was what I did to Nick. That _was_ premeditated.

If I was Henry's sidekick, then Nick was Aaron's. Like me, Nick wasn't really secure in his position on the social ladder. Looking back, I can see that in the way he acted around both myself and Aaron. On his own, he almost seemed like he wanted to restore our friendship. But once he was with Aaron, he was someone else entirely. And after one particular incident in which Nick poured an entire pint of spoiled milk into my knapsack, I decided to show him that his betrayal would not go unanswered.

Now, before I tell you what I did, I need to explain what drove me to such drastic actions. Nick knew I came from a poor home. I didn't have the money to get a new backpack; that's why I used my tattered old knapsack. And I certainly couldn't afford to replace my books or supplies. So I had no choice but to continue to use the foul-smelling stuff. And after a few days of dealing with the stench and being harassed for it by other students, I got to a point where revenge was all I could think about.

It wasn't the right thing to do. But I didn't care. I wanted Nick to know that I would not take the abuse anymore. I find that funny now, considering that my guilt was never revealed.

The Chronopod dropped us off on the morning that my plan was to be executed. For my part, there was only one thing I really had to do to get it going. Then the rest would happen on its own. I'd left one minor hint of my involvement that I wasn't even sure Nick would pick up on, but even if he did, there would be no way to prove my connection to anything.

Doc, naturally, was curious. "What did you do?"

We were once again walking across the soccer field as the buses dropped students off at the door. Winter was almost over, so there was warmth in the breeze despite the barren trees. I quickened my pace when I saw bus one-fifteen in line. "I used the computer lab one day to type up a letter. But we'd better hurry or we won't be there in time to see it delivered."

We got to the main office with only minutes to spare. As I had expected, Nick entered to put his weekly article for the school paper into Mr. Burns' mailbox. He dropped his articles off _every_ Thursday morning. That was important because the presence of his article indicated that he had been in the office that morning. Minutes after he left, Herbie entered and dropped a folded letter into Miss Meyner's mailbox. The secretary, as anticipated, was too busy on the phone to notice him; she was always swamped with student absence calls at that time of the morning. Herbie left without saying a word and hurried to Miss Boyd's class.

"Now we wait," I whispered.

When I did it, I had no idea when Miss Meyner, Nick's math teacher, would find the letter. And since I didn't share any classes with Nick, I wasn't even sure I'd find out what happened as a result of it. But I wasn't worried about that. I figured that something this big would make the rounds, if only as rumor and nothing more, and that would tell me that the plan had been a success.

Today, however, I had the chance to witness events firsthand. Because no less than ten minutes later, Miss Meyner stopped in to pick up her mail before heading to her classroom for first period. She just picked it up and left, so I nudged Doc's elbow and whispered as softly as I could. "That was her. Let's go."

We caught up with her a short way down the hall. She was flipping through the mail as she walked, no doubt scanning through the various documents and bulletins that the school had left for her. But there was no mistaking when she came across the letter Herbie had left for her. She stopped short in the middle of the hall as the blood seemed to drain from her face. Doc later told me that he read the letter over her shoulder while she stared at it in horrific disbelief. I don't remember the exact wording of it, but it went something like this:

Dear Miss Meyner,

I can't keep this quiet anymore. I really need to tell you something. I've been deeply in love with you ever since my first day in your class. I can't pay attention to your lessons because I'm too busy staring at your beautiful eyes. I hope this doesn't make you feel weird. But I just can't help it. I've never had a girlfriend before, but I really hope one day you can give me my first kiss. I promise I won't tell anyone. I swear! You said your name was "Miss" Meyner, so you're not married yet, right? I hope I can be the one to marry you. You're very pretty and I think about you all the time, especially when I'm falling asleep. Do you think you'd kiss me? I'd like it, I know I would. If you want me to, I can come by class after school one day. Would you kiss me then? No one would see. No one would know. I think I love you. Please love me too, ok? Just don't tell anyone. I'll deny it if anyone asks. I won't get you in trouble.

Love,

Nick Trobolski

P.S. I like games but not kickball. I hate kickball. So if we were married, could we play something else?

Yeah, the spoiled milk thing really set me off.

I intentionally included some spelling errors and improper grammar to make sure it seemed legitimate. By the look on her face, I'd say I made a believer out of her. Doc told me it was appalling, and I agree. This was a horrible thing for me to do, and I'd have to say it is one of my bigger childhood regrets. Even at the time, despite the fact that I wanted to see Nick feel a taste of the embarrassment I felt every day when people got a whiff of my knapsack, there was a part of me that felt bad about it. Deep down, I wanted to be a better person than that. I didn't want to be the stereotypical delinquent child. But that's exactly what I was.

Anyway, Miss Meyner turned around and rushed back to the main office. Inside, she headed straight for Principal Patterson's personal office.

"Joe, I have a problem," she said, dropping the letter on his desk. "Apparently one of my students has fallen in love with me."

Mr. Patterson tried to hide his smile at first. "Miranda, this wouldn't be the first time one of our students has taken a liking to his or her teacher."

"This is more than that," she told him. "Read the letter. He openly requests for me to meet him in my classroom to kiss him. The last thing I need is for a parent to hear anything about this and get the wrong idea."

The principal's smile faded as he read my bogus letter. "Oh boy," he said softly. "We're going to have to bring the child in here and straighten him out. He should be transferred out of your class, as well."

"Are you sure that's wise?" she asked. "Suppose his parents want to know why he's being transferred? It says in the letter that he'll deny it if anyone asks, and you know they'll believe their son before they believe a public school teacher. But if we tell them about this, they might get the idea that this is something I provoked or encouraged! Especially with so many news reports of student/teacher relationships these days. This could ruin my career!"

Mr. Patterson stood up and held up his palms. "Miranda, calm down. First period is going to be starting in a few minutes. Why don't you go to class for now, and I'll see what I can do about this. Which class is this boy in?"

"Sixth period," she said with a sigh of resignation. "Right after lunch."

"All right. I'll bring him in for a talk to see if we can get this all straightened out."

"Fine. But I'm telling you, I'll sooner quit my job than lose my career over false allegations of some kind of affair with a student."

"You may want to reconsider that stance," Mr. Patterson said. "If you quit, it will give people more reason to believe you have something to hide. My advice is to just keep doing what you've always done best. Teach the kids. There's no need to panic just yet, okay?"

"Very well," Miss Meyner finally agreed. "Please just see that this is taken care of, alright?"

"I'll do my best, Miranda. Don't worry."

After she left the room, Mr. Patterson had the secretary find Nick's schedule so that he could be called down for a talk. Fifteen minutes later, Nick peeked through the doorway. He looked scared. If I'd seen that look on his face back then, I'd have felt a great satisfaction. Seeing it today, I felt disgusted with myself.

"You wanted to see me, Sir?" Nick asked, taking a slow step into the office.

"Yes, Nick," Mr. Patterson replied, removing his glasses. "Come in, and if you wouldn't mind, please close the door behind you."

Nick visibly gulped as he closed the door and took a seat in front of Mr. Patterson's desk. "Did I do something wrong?"

"No, Nick," Mr. Patterson began, "but I feel that we need to have a talk to clear up a few things."

Nick clearly didn't understand. But he just said, "Oh, okay. About what?"

There was an awkward pause; I got the feeling that Mr. Patterson wasn't sure how to deal with this sort of thing either. "About Miss Meyner," he finally said.

"Uhm, okay," Nick said again.

"Nick, it is perfectly normal for a boy your age to begin to have feelings for a person of the opposite sex. But sometimes our feelings can play tricks on us. You know, make us think things that would otherwise be considered inappropriate? That's all that's happening here."

"I don't understand," Nick said, shaking his head.

Mr. Patterson took a deep breath. "I'm talking about your letter to Miss Meyner," he said, placing the letter on the desk before the boy.

Nick's face went from confused to surprised to horrified to mortified within the span of twenty seconds. "Mr. Patterson, I didn't write this! I swear!" he exclaimed. "This isn't mine!"

"You don't have to lie, Nick," Mr. Patterson said. Clearly, he believed Nick was just denying ownership of the letter because that's what it stated he'd do. "Your feelings are normal. But they are misunderstood feelings. You don't love Miss Meyner, you just think you do."

"No, I don't!" Nick shouted. "I don't love her, and I don't _think_ I love her! Someone else wrote this letter, Mr. Patterson! I swear to you that I didn't do it!"

I don't think the principal was buying it, but he had to ask Nick outright. "So you aren't in love with Miss Meyner? You don't want her to meet you in her classroom after school?"

"NO!" Nick shouted. "No! No! No!"

"Calm down, Nicholas. Calm down. If you say you didn't write it, then I believe you. We'll try our best to find out who did."

Nick was on the verge of tears, but that seemed to calm him a bit. "Okay," he said with a sniffle. "I'm sorry I yelled."

"It's okay. Why don't you head on back to class, okay?"

With another sniffle and a nod, Nick left the principals office. Mr. Patterson sat back in his chair and put a hand to his forehead. "Judy?" he called to the secretary. "Do we have any aspirin?"

Doc and I left the office at that point and returned to the Chronopod. Once we were a safe distance away from the school, we deactivated our invisibility belts.

"That was creative, I'll give you that," Doc said. He wasn't smiling this time. "How did it make you feel to see Nick's reaction firsthand?"

"Horrible," I admitted. "Even back then, I started feeling pretty bad about after a while. I wanted to go and tell him how sorry I was, but I didn't want to get in trouble. I should've told him anyway. It would've been the right thing to do, and any punishment would've been deserved."

"Were there any long-lasting repercussions of this whole incident? Did anything happen to Nick or Miss Meyner?"

"Rumors ran around school. You know how kids are. The stories ranged from saying that he had a crush on her to saying the two were secretly married and that Nick was actually a thirty-year-old adult with a biological problem that made him appear to be a child. He handled it pretty well, for the most part. I think he suspected me because of the kickball comment I added, but it couldn't have been anything more than a faint suspicion, because he never once accused me of anything. And by seventh grade, the whole thing was ancient history, buried beneath whatever the newest rumors were. Thankfully, I had nothing to do with any of them."

"Most children in your position would've settled the matter with their fists," Doc said. "Did that thought ever cross your mind?"

"Yes, but never seriously. I'd fantasize about beating the snot out of both Nick and Aaron for the lies they told about me and the torment they put me through, but I never considered _actually_ doing it. I'm afraid to hurt another person, to be perfectly frank. I don't need that weight on my shoulders. Besides, I didn't want to be like my father in _any_ way."

"What did you take away from this whole thing? What did Herbie take away?"

Have you ever wanted to punch someone in the face and yet give them a hug all at the same time? Have you ever wanted to be kind and understanding of people yet feel the uncontrollable desire to smack them in the head at times? That's how I felt with a number of people growing up. That's how Herbie felt. I didn't really hate Nick. I missed our friendship, however shallow it may have been. I wanted him to see that I wasn't the person he believed I was. But when he hurt me, I was like a completely different person. I just wanted to show him that I wasn't going to sit there and take the abuse. But I went too far. And even back then, I knew it.

"For a long time, I had been unhappy with my own behavior," I answered. "I could see that my personality and actions were changing in a negative way. But when I'd do something mean and Henry and his friends would get a kick out of it, it made me feel appreciated. I wanted to be liked. More than anything, I wanted to be liked. But I wasn't happy with the things I did. I was appreciated for the wrong reasons. And I think this incident weighed the heaviest on my mind. I had gone beyond pushing someone's book off their desk or calling someone a name. The whole thing articulated my need for a change more clearly than anything I'd previously said or done. I don't know that I'd call it the last straw, because it wasn't as though this event caused some miraculous epiphany or anything like that. But it certainly weighed on me for a long time. And I didn't like that at _all_."

Doc remained silent for a moment as if waiting for me to go on. When I didn't, he asked, "What _did_ lead you to change?"

Before Doc actually asked the question, I would've expected the answer to be something cut and dry. But once it was out there for me to think about, I wasn't really sure what to say. "I . . . I don't really know," I told him. "Nick and Aaron kept picking on me in school, girls kept spreading rumors that I never showered because of the milk smell, and Mom and Dad were . . . well, Mom and Dad. Nothing encouraged or nurtured that desire to change because I was continuously surrounded by anger and hate. I don't know that I ever really _decided_ when or how I was going to improve myself until I saw that sermon on holovision one Sunday morning. I think that's when change found _me._ "

Now, Doc was grinning. "The heart of a man plans his way, but the Lord directs his steps."
Friday – Day 5

Another depressing day.

Given our talks regarding my sixth-grade mischief and my desire to become a better person, Doc told me this morning that he wanted to see some of the earlier days of my life as a Christian. He suggested that people's reactions to my new attitude likely had a severe effect on my perceptions of myself, God, and humanity in general. I'm sure they did; it was quite a shock to me when I helped Shawn Kaiser—I had made jokes about him on more than one occasion—pick up some books he dropped only to have him call me a vulgar name. So that was the focus of today's travels. And our first stop? My first conversation with my parents about Christ.

The day I became a born-again Christian was an exciting day for all the wrong reasons. As I've said before, I thought showing the love of Christ to others would in turn motivate them to show love to me. I also foolishly thought that being one of God's children meant that He would keep bad things from happening to me. Now, of course, I know that's not the case. Bad things happen to good people all the time in this world. Sometimes, it seems they happen _more_ often to the good than the bad. I've come to accept that, now. I don't understand it, but I accept it.

Back then, however, I expected the exact opposite. I thought being a Christian meant you had a safety barrier around you that would prevent people from hurting you. I mean, if God is our Father, why wouldn't He protect us from things that might hurt us? The whole idea excited me and filled me with an overwhelming joy. And it was joy I just couldn't wait to share with my parents. My foolish hope was that they would love me better if I loved them better. So when they woke up that morning after I asked Jesus into my life, I tried to tell them how God wanted them to love me. Doc and I arrived just after Pastor Hoskins' service ended. The door wasn't open this time, and Herbie was sitting on the couch with a box of cereal in his lap. There was no way we'd be able to get inside without being noticed, so we watched from the open living-room window.

With the service over, Herbie was flicking through the different holovision stations looking for something to watch. My Dad walked into the room wearing an old pair of torn jeans and a black leather vest. Surprisingly, he was carrying a glass of tap water rather than a beer. "What are you doing, kid?" he muttered as he dropped into the chair across from the couch.

"Not much," Herbie replied. "Just watched Pastor Hoskins."

Dad looked back with a raised eyebrow, though both eyes were nearly squinted shut. "Pastor _who_?"

"Hoskins. He was on just a little bit ago teaching about how God wants families to treat each other, and I think we should follow his directions."

My father roared with laughter. "And what were his directions? Send him a couple thousand bucks?"

I was too young to understand what he meant. "Why would that—"

"Herb, a church is just as much a business as any other company in this country," Dad said before gulping down half the glass of water. "Their ultimate goal is to make a profit. Ain't you ever heard them asking for donations? That's how they make their money."

Herbie shook his head. "But they use that money for student trips and charity donations."

"Then how do they pay their employees?" Dad asked. "How do they pay for those holovision shows? How do they afford those giant arenas where they preach their garbage?"

"Those things are necessary to help people," Herbie said. "Why would they take advantage of both God and people like that? It's a church; they're supposed to help people in need."

"Help people? Bah!" Dad laughed again. "It's all a scam to make you think you need some kind of magician to believe in otherwise your homes will be taken away. That's how they get people to open up their wallets and drop their hard earned dollars into the company. Who's gonna turn down a donation drive to help some cancer victim, huh? Those church people know exactly how to reach into purses and wallets to help themselves."

Herbie was defiant. He didn't know the answers to Dad's questions, but he was certain there had to be a reasonable explanation for all of it. "You're wrong."

"You can believe in that nonsense if you want, boy. But I ain't no fool. I'm keepin' my money where it's safe." He patted the pocket of his jeans.

Mom came into the room, her hair a mangled mess. "Who do you think you're foolin'?" she asked him. "You ain't got no money."

"That's cause my no good wife has done gone and spent it all," he grumbled, turning his attention back to the holovision.

"Mom, Dad says that churches steal from people," Herbie said. "Is that true?"

"How the hell should I know?" she growled, lighting a cigarette. "Everybody steals from everybody these days. Them God people ain't no different."

"But God says people are supposed to love each other. How can they love each other if they're stealing from each other?"

"Honey, ain't nobody lovin' each other 'round here. Don't listen to those Bible-thumpers. It's easy for them to say there's a God that loves 'em when they got all the money they need. Meanwhile people like us are stuck livin' like this."

Herbie put his head down for a moment and stared at the floor. He looked like he was trying to come up with something good to say, but at the time, he was armed only with the knowledge of what Pastor Hoskins had said just an hour earlier. "I'm sure there's a good reason for it," he said in a soft voice.

"Course there is." Mom openly glared at Dad. He pretended not to notice, so she emphasized her point by throwing a pillow at his head. "We ain't got nobody bringing in any real money to this family!"

"Dammit! I told you it's not that simple to find a job out there! And I ain't seen you lookin' for work, neither!"

Mom swore loudly as she jumped out of her chair. "I told you!" she yelled, pointing at Herbie, "I gotta take care of him!"

"He's old enough to fend for himself after school," Dad shot back. "Not like he's got any friends to get him into trouble. He'll probably—"

Apparently, Herbie had heard enough. "Why do you two always have to fight?!" he yelled, jumping up from the couch. "Why can't you just love each other like God says?!"

Mom turned her attention toward me. I could see the anger in her eyes. "Ain't you been listening? There is no God gonna come to save you, boy! Them stories are nothing but fairy tales!"

Herbie was in rare form that morning. He bravely stepped _toward_ Mom even though she seemed poised to strike. "That's not what Pastor Hoskins says! He says God is real and that I got Him in my life now just cause I asked Him to come in!"

"I don't like your attitude!" Mom growled. "And I don't want you watchin' that God show anymore!"

Herbie's eyes grew. "My attitude?! I just want you to love each other! To love _me_! I just want us to be a real family for once!"

When my father spoke, his voice was frighteningly calm. "You can't force love, Herbert." That was all he said. It was all he needed to say.

Herbie stormed through the kitchen and into his bedroom, slamming the door behind him. My mother slumped back onto the couch and took a big puff from her cigarette. After a brief silence, she muttered, "If you didn't let him watch that damn show, he wouldn't be—"

That set Dad off. "If _I_ didn't let him?! Since when is it my responsibility to watch what that kid does?!"

"You're his damn father!"

I had seen enough. I backed away from the window. "C'mon Doc, there's nothing more to see here."

I could only assume he was following me, but once we were back on the sidewalk, Doc spoke up. "So your first attempt to share the Word of God with others didn't exactly go over so well. I have to ask you why you continued to believe in and follow God despite what you just experienced? Why did you ignore everything your parents told you?"

It was a simple answer. "Hope. If I gave up hope, I'd have nothing to look forward to in life."

"But how did you rationalize your parents behavior? You believed that loving them as God instructed would in turn cause them to love you, did you not?"

"At that time, yes. But I started to think that maybe the reason God wasn't making them love each other or me was because I hadn't been obeying His commands. I had only just asked Christ into my life, so I hadn't had much of a chance to show Him that I could obey Him. In time, He'd surely see that I had changed, and _then_ He'd make people love me. At least, that's how I saw it."

In truth, that was probably the only thing that was keeping me going at that point. I wanted to believe that a time would come when God would protect me from my mother's fists, my father's hate, and my schoolyard torment. On top of that, I was starting to feel more and more lonely as I grew older. I would hear other kids in school talking about what they were going to do together after school or over the weekend, and I'd wish someone was making plans with _me_ for the weekend. Add with that a sudden and growing interest in girls—none of whom spared me so much as a glance—and I was beginning to feel pretty miserable not only about myself but the direction of my life.

But my brain kept telling me that it was only temporary. As long as I did what God asked of me and did it long enough to erase the bad things I'd previously done, He'd eventually reward me for my dedication. I'd have friends. My family would love me. A pretty girl would think I was handsome. I just needed to please God.

So when I went to school, I decided I was going to try to do the exact opposite of every negative impulse that came to me. If someone did something mean to me, I'd let it go rather than retaliate. If a hurtful comment came to mind, I would either say something uplifting or just keep my mouth shut. I'd do whatever it took to earn God's love so that He'd take care of me. And I'd show the people around me that it was okay to love each other because that's what God expects of us.

It's funny, actually. Today, of course, it seems silly that I actually expected people to care about each others' feelings. Humans don't want to love each other, they only want to degrade and belittle each other so that they themselves might be exalted. But when I was eleven, the need for God's love seemed so ridiculously obvious! Why _wouldn't_ people want to live in loving harmony with each other? The perfect world was just waiting to be claimed! All anyone ever needed to do was simply love each other!

Naive of me, I know. But that was my frame of mind going into school that week. I wanted people to love me, so I was going to show them love. It was as simple as that.

Not surprisingly, it wasn't simple at all. Doc and I followed Herbie as he went through his Monday, and every ounce of kindness he administered was met with either anger, laughter, or just general disdain. When Ronnie Chambers dropped his lunch money, Herbie picked it up for him. But Ronnie accused him of stealing when he gave it back. When Henry made fun of Jules Pagosa, Herbie neither laughed nor joined him. That earned him dirty looks from Henry. And, on top of that, when Jules told Miss Boyd, she said that both Henry _and_ Herbie had been harassing her.

But there were two incidents that week that really drove home just how hard it was going to be to love people with an unconditionally forgiving heart. One I should've expected. One I never could have.

The biggest weight on my mind was my feud with Aaron and Nick. I wanted to apologize for the mean things I'd done and said throughout the sixth grade and into seventh, although I kept quiet about the letter to Miss Meyner. Looking back, I should've confessed to that too, but it would've made little difference. The outcome of my interactions with Nick and Aaron would've been the same.

School had just ended for the day when the Chronopod dropped us off. In one of the few entertaining moments of this whole time-traveling experience, the capsule appeared, disguised as a large tree, right in front of a solitary schoolboy that was wandering through the woods beyond the soccer field. His notebook dropped to the ground as he watched two grown men seemingly climb out of the trunk of some kind of magical tree. I've never before seen a child with eyes that large.

I activated my invisibility belt immediately; better to let the kid think he was just imagining things. But Doc actually walked over to the boy and crouched down beside him.

"No one will believe what you've seen here today," he said through his usual warm smile. "But let this be a lesson to you that just because no one witnesses an event does not mean that the event never occurred." He activated his belt as he finished the sentence, disappearing before the boy. The little guy nodded and ran off, clearly spooked by the whole thing.

"What was that about?" I asked. "I thought the Chronopod was designed to appear in areas where there were no people around."

Doc didn't seem bothered. "No technology is perfect."

"But what about that boy? What did you mean by that stuff you said?"

"He will understand when the time is right. Come, let's go."

We caught up with Herbie at his locker. He was stuffing books into his knapsack as fast as he could. When Nick and Aaron passed behind him in a cluster of students, he snatched his jacket, slammed his locker, and chased after them. He had to reach them before they separated to go to their respective buses. "Guys, wait up!" he called, struggling to catch up. They either didn't hear or ignored him. I can still remember the pain of those books banging against my back as I ran. "Aaron! Nick! Wait!"

Aaron looked over his shoulder and rolled his eyes when he saw Herbie. "Go away!" he shouted. "Or I'll beat the tar out of you!"

"No! Listen! I need to talk to you! I want to apologize!" There was a very specific place that he was told to shove his apologies. Outside, just as they reached Aaron's bus, Herbie jumped in front of them. "Stop!" he exclaimed. "I want to be friends again. I'm sorry that I've been a jerk. I want to fix it!"

Aaron stood toe to toe with him. "There's no fixing it, Herbert. Don't you get it? We don't want to be friends with you. We don't like you. We have better friends now. You're not even in our league anymore!"

"But . . . " Herbie trailed off. "But we had so much fun together."

Aaron looked at him like he had three heads. "Fun? We never had fun with you! You never did anything we were interested in! You always wanted to invent stupid games like tagball when we just wanted to play kickball!" For a moment, I swore I saw a flash of recognition in Nick's face. It was as though he had just figured out the answer to some grand mystery. Perhaps one involving a math teacher. But then it was gone, just as quickly as it had appeared.

Herbie wanted to argue, but that wouldn't have been in the spirit of humility or forgiveness. "You're right," he said. "I'm sorry. I treated you both poorly and I admit it. Would you please forgive me?"

"How is it possible that you're not understanding this?" Aaron screamed. A crowd was beginning to form. It was an uncomfortably familiar scene. Herbie started backing away, but Aaron gave no space between them. "Are you really going to make me beat some sense into you?"

Nick was grinning. Both of his little hands were balled into fists. "We won't go easy on you, Herbert. Just get out of here, now!"

I'd be a big fat liar if I said there wasn't a part of Herbie that wanted to give them both bloody noses. Or give it his best shot, anyway. But he didn't. And I remember why. I couldn't let go of the hope that one day things might get better. If I punched either of those boys, not only would I wind up beaten and broken yet again, but I'd also be without God's love because I disobeyed his commandments. I had to be good, otherwise that hope for a better future that the message of Jesus Christ had instilled in me would be snuffed out.

Again, I now know that's not true. We aren't expected to be perfect. God is faithful to forgive our sins if we confess and repent. That's why Jesus was sent to die on the cross to begin with. The Bible says that the wages of sin is death. But since we're all sinners, if we all were made to pay that penalty, humanity would be extinct by now. So Jesus, the Son of God, the one man who never sinned, paid that penalty for us. The debt of death that should've fallen on us was lifted from our shoulders, paid for by Christ's blood. All we needed to do was accept that sacrifice, and in turn, accept Jesus.

Back then, however, I didn't understand that. I thought that if I screwed up again, God would leave me on my own. So, as difficult as it was, Herbie turned and walked away. He didn't want to give up. He didn't want to back down. But he didn't want to do something he would regret later.

"Did you hear that?" Doc's voice whispered in my ear.

"Hear what?"

"They're talking about you." He took my arm and pulled me toward the sidewalk across from the buses. A group of kids had gathered there expecting to see Herbie get beaten. Now, as they began to disperse, a conversation started to emerge from the rest of the chatter.

"No he's not!"

"Yes, he is."

"No! He's not! He tried to steal Ronnie's money today!"

"That didn't look like the kind of kid who'd steal someone's money."

With Doc guiding me, we followed the voices to three girls at the rear of the pack. Sarah Renard and Lucy Benham were arguing with Samantha Keiler. Sarah and Lucy were both in my math class, but Samantha didn't share any classes with me. Why would she be defending me against those two?

"I saw it happen," Lucy said, pointing in Herbie's general direction. "Ronnie accidentally dropped his lunch money this morning, and Herbie ran and snatched it up. He only gave it back when he saw that I was watching him!"

That was a bold-faced lie. But even if Herbie had been there to dispute it, he had no witnesses of his own to back up the story.

It didn't matter. Samantha wasn't buying it. "How do you know he would've kept it if you hadn't seen him?" she said, shaking her head. "Besides, even if he _did_ try to steal it—which I still don't believe—it doesn't change the fact that he just did a brave thing. Don't you remember how those three used to be together all the time?"

"Yeah, but they kicked him out of their group when he took Henry to Disney World instead of them," Sarah replied.

It amazes and disgusts me how stories can get so twisted. For the record, I _still_ have not been to Disney World.

Samantha shook her head. "Regardless of what happened, he just tried his best to fix it, and they threatened to beat him up because they're a couple of punks. I'm telling you, Herbert did the right thing today."

Lucy threw up her hands. "Whatever, I have to get to the bus. You coming, Sarah?"

The two girls ran off without allowing Samantha another word. She shook her head and headed in the other direction. I won't lie; it was heart-warming to see someone standing up for me. For little Herbie.

"I have a hunch," Doc murmured. "Would you mind if we followed her?"

"Who, Samantha?"

"If that's her name, yes."

"I suppose it's alright," I said. "Any reason why?"

We began following her at a safe distance. Even though we weren't visible, we didn't want her hearing our footsteps. "She seemed very emphatic about her support for you. I have a feeling there's a deeper reason behind it."

"How long are we going to follow her?"

"Not long," he assured me. "I just want to see what she does."

Samantha followed the path around the school and crossed the baseball field in the back. Two blocks beyond the school grounds, she opened the fence around a mint-green colored house and knocked on the front door. After a moment, she knocked again. "Aunt Peggy?"

"In the back, dear!"

Samantha hopped down the steps and followed the little cement path that led around the house. A middle-aged woman wearing an apron and gloves was on all fours in the middle of a small flower garden. She looked up when Samantha came around the corner, but she didn't smile. "Yes, Samantha? Is there something I can do for you?"

For some reason, Samantha suddenly seemed nervous. "Um, Aunt Peggy, can we talk for a minute?"

The woman nodded and pushed herself up, removing her gloves as she did. "What is it, dear?"

Samantha opened her mouth, then hesitated. She wrung her hands for a moment and then opened her mouth once more. Still nothing. Finally, she groaned and said, "Why is it so hard to do the right thing?"

Peggy let out a chuckle. "What's that, honey?"

"Like, I know why I came here just now, and I know what I want to say," Samantha began, stammering between words, "but that doesn't make it any easier to say it."

The older woman's face finally softened a bit. "Take your time, Sam."

Again, Samantha groaned and rolled her eyes. "I don't know what's wrong with me. I just saw someone at school almost get beat up by two other kids. The three of them all used to be friends a couple of years ago. But they stopped being friends last year, I think."

"I'm afraid I'm not following," Aunt Peggy said, squinting her eyes in the sunlight.

"They were going to beat him up when all he did was apologize and ask if they could be friends again!" Samantha told her. "He did the right thing. Why were they so mean to him?"

Now it was Peggy who didn't know what to say. "I . . . I don't know, dear. Boys can be like that, sometimes."

"And then Sarah and Lucy, they were telling me that he deserved to get beat up. So I tried to stick up for him and it made them mad at me."

"Forgive my asking, Samantha, but what does all this have to do with me?"

Samantha's eyes began to glisten. "I'm sorry, Aunt Peggy." Tears streamed down her face as she raced to her aunt. "I'm so sorry. I never meant to hurt you with anything I said or did. It was wrong of me, and I was just being selfish. You had every right to punish me and tell Mom and Dad about it. I wish I could take back all the hurtful things I said to you, but I couldn't bring myself to admit that I was wrong."

Peggy wrapped her arms around Samantha and held her tight. "It's okay, sweetheart," she whispered. "All is forgiven. It's okay. These things happen, but it warms my old heart that you came over here to do this for me. You've made me both happy and proud."

"I'm sorry," Samantha said again. "I'm so sorry."

"It's alright. Come, let's go inside and get some iced tea. You can call your mother and tell her where you are."

The little girl nodded with a sniffle as Peggy opened the back door for her. Once they were inside, Doc spoke. "Well, where to?"

I waited until we were back on the street to ask him. "How did you know that was going to happen?"

"When you've been a psychiatrist as long as I have, you learn to pick up on certain signals that people send out without even realizing it. Your actions really seemed to have struck a chord with her."

"You honestly didn't know anything about this?"

"How could I have?"

I don't know why I always question him. I've known him for a long time and he's always been honest and open with me. "I know," I finally said. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean anything by it."

That seemed to satisfy him. "Well then, shall we return to the Chronopod?"

The final memory I showed Doc today was an example of something that would become a running theme in my life. It seemed that every time I tried to love people more, they did their best to make me despise them more. I know, obviously, that they weren't acting with that specific purpose in mind, but sometimes it really _felt_ that way.

People generally don't realize the lasting effect their abuse can have on a person. My parents told me on several occasions to "toughen up." Bullies shrugged their shoulders and said, "It was just a joke." The adults in charge downplayed the severity of any complaints regarding bullies. All of this made me feel like a liar, like a weakling, and like I was very alone. No incident made this more clear than what happened that Friday.

When we got there, we located Herbie in the upstairs hallway pulling books out of the top compartment of his locker. There were a lot of kids around; many were dropping off books at the surrounding lockers before lunch while others were simply passing through on the way to their next destination. Still others were congregated in crowds at random places, laughing and chatting away. Little Herbie seemed to get swallowed in the middle of it all. I really don't know how I survived this school.

By this point, I had spent a week of having my attempts to love others thrown right back in my face. On top of all that, Henry wasn't very happy with me either. I'd just about stopped any and all bullying that I myself had done, so I wouldn't join in when he and his friends would start tearing into fellow students. My actions—or lack thereof—were ostracizing me, but I didn't want to join in on the jokes, the insults, or the abuse anymore. So that caused tension between us, and I was on the verge of finding myself entirely alone. He wouldn't fully turn his back on me until midway through the following school year, but the decline in our friendship had definitely begun. Looking back even today, I still don't regret it. He wasn't worth the time or effort that I put into our friendship; he was just another punk kid who thought he was better than the rest of the world, and I wanted to see someone put him in his place. I don't know if that ever happened though, because he and his family moved away.

"There," I told Doc, pointing down the hallway. A solid-looking kid—well, about as solid as an eleven year old can get, anyway—was on his way toward us. He was a sports-player, and would go on to be one of the stars of our high school basketball team. But he was also a well-known troublemaker. He'd instigated more fights than anyone else in our grade, often with no real reason. Some kids thought he just punched people when he got bored. I doubt it was that simple, but either way, I knew enough to stay out of his path.

He was carrying something with him that day, something that I didn't see until after the fact. Now, standing with Doc, I could see him rolling the little packet around in his hand. "See that one? Red shirt? Watch him."

There were no teachers in the hall. No adults whatsoever, in fact. The other students were too wrapped up in their own worlds. So when the boy, Randy Myers, saw me and opened the pack of matches, no one even noticed. Even today, watching him move toward me, I wanted to rip off my belt, leap into view, and beat him to within an inch of his life. I know, I know. I should have a more forgiving heart as a Christian. I'm trying. I'm really trying.

He didn't light me on fire that day. But he tried. While Herbie flipped through his notebook in search of a missing homework assignment, Randy struck the match across the back side of the packet. Now a few students looked up. Some stared with looks of anticipation as Randy moved in closer. But none said a word to Herbie. They were more interested in what they thought was going to happen rather than helping the poor kid out. With his elbows at his side as he looked through his notebook, Herbie's short sleeves were dangling down from his arms. Randy held the lit match against the sleeve hanging from his left arm and waited. The flame danced around the edge of the fabric for a moment or so as it tried to latch on. But the heat of the fire grew too close to Herbie's arm, and his head shot around just in time to see Randy shake the match out with a laugh. Rather than stick around to get blamed or caught, he raced down the hallway in the direction from which he had come.

Herbie looked down at the edge of his sleeve to see a charred circle of black where the match had been. Then, mortified, he looked at the students around him. Their lack of concern did nothing to comfort him; in fact, the thought that they were willing to watch someone try to set fire to his clothes rather than shout to warn him or step in to stop it was absolutely devastating. How could _this_ be how God rewarded him for trying to spread the love of Christ? How could things like this happen to people who were honestly trying to be better? Why did people continue to target him for random acts of abuse and humiliation?

No longer concerned with the search for his missing homework, Herbie slammed the door of his locker and hoisted his bag over his shoulder. Cradling his notebook in his arms, he scurried down the hall in the opposite direction, repeatedly looking over his shoulder until he disappeared around the corner. The other students returned to their day as though nothing had happened. To them, nothing _had_ happened. But to me, I'd just been taught a very harsh lesson that I believe instilled the initial seeds of my distrust and paranoia; seeds which sprouted and flourished during the following years.

Doc suggested as much when we returned to the Chronopod. "Do you think this incident fueled your nervousness around people?"

I let out a long breath. "As a child, I always tried to learn from my mistakes. It wasn't some sort of intellectual thing; I just felt stupid if I let the same mistake happen twice. If I was embarrassed the first time, I'd be mortified and devastated the second time. Whenever something bad happened, the first thing I did was blame myself for it. I told myself these things could've been prevented if I'd done this or if I'd done that. So when this happened, I remember thinking that I was stupid for allowing it to happen. That I should've been more aware of the people around me because I knew people didn't like me."

"But you do realize today that this wasn't your fault, right?" Doc asked me. "Even if you _had_ somehow provoked that young man, nothing would've made his actions acceptable. Nothing would've made you somehow deserving of being set on fire."

"It's funny," I said, almost grinning in spite of the lump in my throat. "Logic tells me that. The most basic level of my intelligence tells me that. But there's an overwhelmingly loud voice in my head that says I deserved whatever I got because I was unprepared for it. If he had set me on fire, it would've been my fault because I didn't see it coming. I know that doesn't make any sense, but that's how I feel. It's how I felt then, and how I feel now."

Doc put his hands on both of my shoulders and looked me square in the eyes. "You did _nothing_ wrong, Herbert. You did _nothing_ to deserve that. You need to stop placing the weight of the world on your shoulders. Sometimes people do bad things. Just as you have deep emotional issues that you're trying to work through, so do other people. And they react to them in their own ways. Not always good ways. In fact, _most_ often not. But their issues are not your fault. People do bad things sometimes. And although God brings good even out of the worst circumstances, most often, we don't get to see the results."

Everything he was saying made sense to me, but then, my common sense had already told me that. However, it did nothing to silence the overwhelming feeling that I somehow caused every painful memory in my life. "But what if I could've prevented these things? This wasn't the only incident this year. There was another incident when I was standing at my locker involving a girl named Anna. She was the girlfriend of one of the most popular guys in school. I didn't know her personally nor did I know anything about her, other than her name. But one day when I was pulling my books out of my locker, she came up behind me, reached through my legs, and grabbed a handful of something she had no right grabbing. It startled me so bad that I jumped off the floor as I turned around, and she just laughed and waved at me as she walked away."

"Could she have been interested in you?" Doc asked. "Granted, that's certainly not the way to express such interest, but did you ever consider the possibility?"

"No, because it wasn't a possibility," I told him. "I didn't share any classes with her. I didn't know her other than seeing her occasionally passing through the halls. I don't even remember how I knew her name. And she never tried to speak to me, never acknowledged me in the halls in any way, and after that day, I never heard a peep from her again."

"And you blame yourself for what she did as well?"

"It certainly drove home the feeling that I needed to be more aware of what was going on around me. To this day, I get very anxious whenever someone is behind me. Whether I'm walking through the aisles at work or standing in line at the bank, I get very jittery if people stand too close to me. I feel like I need to be ready in case they try to do something. Do what? I don't know. But that panic is there, and I believe it is because of the kinds of things that happened in middle school. It's where my paranoia and anxiety about people in general really began to grow to unhealthy proportions. God wants me to love and help other people. I can't do that if I'm terrified of them."

"Have you ever tried?"

More unhappy memories came to mind. "I did. During my first year of high school, I did."

"I thought you said you kept to yourself in high school," Doc said, cradling his chin with his thumb and forefinger like a scholar deep in thought.

"I did. But that was _in_ school. Outside of school, I forced myself to go out on a limb and join the local church's youth group. I thought maybe if I found people who believed in Jesus the way I did, I'd finally find a place where I could be accepted and loved. But what I found there did not represent the Spirit of God at all."

"What did you find?"

"Hypocrisy."
Monday – Day 6

The common misconception amongst most non-Christian circles is that we believers are nothing but self-righteous hypocrites eager to dish out judgment upon the rest of the world but uninterested or unwilling to be judged ourselves. For a large part of the Christian population, that is very true. But their actions and opinions do not represent the whole of the Christian faith, nor do they stand for the values of love and forgiveness that Christ taught. It hurts when people lump me into the same groups of extremists who killed pagans and their children years ago. Murder is not an act of love. Murder is not an act of forgiveness.

I also do not enjoy being lumped in with the priests and ministers and other Christian leaders who've been convicted of child molesting. Yes, it is a horrible crime. Yes, they should face punishment for what they've done. But just because I believe in salvation through Christ Jesus does not mean that I have some twisted desire to molest children. I want to see these criminals brought to justice just as much as anyone else. I don't condone, accept, or promote their actions. Such acts do not display God's love.

The fact that there are Christians who do not follow God's commands does not mean that God, Jesus, the Bible, or Christianity must be lies designed to milk the public out of their cash. People are imperfect. We make mistakes. We make bad decisions. We don't always do what is smart, fair, or right. We are imperfect beings, and we always will be imperfect beings. _None_ of that has any bearing on whether or not God and His Son are real or whether or not He loves us.

But looking back, I can't help but wonder if society's perception of Christianity played a part in the responses I was getting from fellow students as I tried to be a better person. Perhaps my previous sins just weren't forgivable in their eyes. Or maybe they didn't trust that my intentions were genuine. I don't know, but whatever the reason, they didn't want anything to do with me or my newfound kindness.

So I started to wonder if I'd been going about things correctly. All I knew about God was what I learned from Pastor Hoskins every week. And that was only on Sundays when I was able to watch his sermon _before_ Mom or Dad came in to shut it off. What if there was important information that I wasn't getting from Hoskins? I didn't own a Bible or know where to get one. Was that something you had to buy? Would churches give them out for free? I didn't know, but with my paranoia and anxiety about meeting new people growing by leaps and bounds as the days passed, I really wasn't in any frame of mind to just walk into a church and ask.

Then, after one particularly hard day of sitting alone at lunch, having spit-wads shot at me all day, and having my shirt used as a hand towel for the jocks during gym—yes, the one I was wearing—I finally got up the nerve to walk into a church. I just kept telling myself that nothing worse could happen to me that day. I figured I'd go inside, sit down in the back, and not bother anyone. If I stayed out of everyone's way and just blended in with the background, I might be able to hear the message of Christ without being targeted for one reason or another.

Now, keep in mind that I had never been inside a church before. I had no idea how they worked. I just assumed they had services every day so that people always had a chance to come hear about Jesus. And I figured they _had_ to have some sort of service at night as well, because otherwise school kids wouldn't have a chance to be included.

So when I walked eight blocks down to the local church after school, I was surprised to find that it was empty. There was a woman at a desk just inside the door, but there didn't appear to be many others in the building. She asked if she could help me, but fear got the better of me. I said, "No thank you," and left. On my way out, there were two stacks of fliers by the door. I didn't even look at what they were; I just took one of each and closed the door behind me. It wasn't until I got home that I read them. The first was an announcement regarding some kind of women's group meetings, but the second was an open invitation for young people to join the church youth group.

I didn't know the church had a youth group. I didn't even know what a youth group was! But the flier said that they held meetings every Tuesday night. There were games, music, and Bible studies. The ages welcome were from thirteen through nineteen. I was in eighth grade by this point, so I wasn't eligible for the group just yet. That didn't matter, though, because I wasn't in any way ready to put myself into a room full of teenagers. I was going to need some time to build up some sort of courage.

But when I finally turned thirteen, I told myself I was ready.

On a side note, I must say that watching Herbie grow up over the past few days has been remarkable. Today, I could almost see the little man inside beginning to take shape despite the baby fat in his cheeks.

Doc and I were waiting at the top of the church steps when he arrived. He looked more than a little apprehensive. Puffs of steam streamed from his nostrils as he marched through the winter evening. I could see the anxiety in his eyes; he was _not_ looking forward to this. But, despite all odds, there was hope in his heart that he'd finally find a place where he would be welcomed, accepted, appreciated, and loved. I almost pitied him as we followed inside. He had nothing but disappointment waiting.

The youth group met in the cafeteria below the church. Most of the tables were folded up and lined against the rear wall, though two were set up along the far end. To the left, four rows of chairs sat before a podium. Other than that, the floor was left wide open. I remember everything about the first time I walked into that room. It was an anxiety nightmare. And it was about to happen all over again.

Herbie stepped through the open doors and looked around. A group of teens had convened around one of the two tables. A few more peppered the chairs to the left. In the center, a group of teens stood in a circle tossing a ball back and forth. None of them looked familiar; they certainly didn't attend the same school as Herbie. And not one of them acknowledged his arrival.

I remember that I had considered leaving at that point. My nerves were going crazy. I mean, what right did I have to be there? All those kids seemed to be pretty comfortable with each other. This was _their_ established group, and I was just an outsider intruding on their territory. I know that doesn't really seem to be a logical conclusion to make, but that's how I felt. And I didn't want to intrude on their space.

Come to think of it, that is still a feeling that I get whenever I am somewhere unfamiliar. I feel like I don't have a right to be there. There's a constant worry in the back of my mind that others will be wondering who invited me. Can't really tell you why I have that feeling, to be honest. And most times I know it's not a reasonable feeling to have. But it's always there in the back of my mind eating away at my confidence and self-esteem.

Just as it looked like Herbie was about to leave, an older man entered behind him and slapped a firm hand on his shoulder. "Evening!" he said. "Good to have you here. Have a seat." As he walked toward the podium, he called to the rest of the teenagers. "Gather around everyone! Let's all take our seats."

Now that he'd been seen, Herbie couldn't just walk out. Sticking to his plan of staying out of people's targeting scope, he took the seat at the end of the rear row. It was closest to the doors. The others started sitting down as well, but to Herbie's dismay, not one of them said hello or introduced themselves. None of them waved or even looked at him. It was as though he didn't exist.

"Good evening, everyone!" the man at the podium said. "Looks like we've got two newcomers today, so let me introduce myself. I'm Pastor Eric. I'm the youth pastor here at New Oaks Church. We like to get to know our members personally here, so why don't you both introduce yourself? We'll start with you." He said, pointing to a slender male in the second row.

"Well, I'm Bobby, and I—"

"Bobby, why don't you stand up?" Pastor Eric interrupted. "That way everyone can see you."

So much for staying out of the targeting scopes. I could already see Herbie fidgeting in his chair. This was not starting out well.

Bobby stood up and waved. "I'm Bobby," he said again, "and I'm from Cherry Wood High School." That was in a neighboring county. "I play basketball and football and I'm told I'm one hell of a ladies' man." He straightened his shirt as he said that as though he actually meant it. I later found out that he really did.

"Oh boy, look out girls!" Pastor Eric said, pointing at some of the different ladies in the group. Scattered laughs rolled through the teens. Eric then turned his eyes to Herbie. "And what about you?"

Back then, I thought I hid my nervousness well. But watching Herbie stand up, he may as well have had a neon sign around his neck that flashed the words "I'M NERVOUS!"

"Hi, I'm Herbert. I was just hoping to make some friends and learn more about Jesus."

Silence. No one looked at him. No one said anything. Without exaggeration, you could hear Herbie's heart pounding. The agonizing lack of reaction went on for at least five seconds before Pastor Eric finally spoke. If that doesn't seem like a long time, try counting five real-time seconds before replying the next time you have a conversation with someone. In a high-anxiety situation, it's a lifetime.

"Okay, well it's great to have you here, Herbert."

For the next ten minutes, Eric went over announcements regarding future events and some recent contests. He didn't bother to explain any of these things to the newcomers or invite them to join in on the activities. Some inside jokes were made, a few interactions took place between different teens, but no one included Herbie. It was very . . . alienating.

Following that, Pastor Eric dismissed everyone to social hour. Social hour was basically an hour of free time. Some chatted, some played games, some danced to music in the back of the room. The whole thing, obviously, was meant as a chance for the teens to get to know one another in an environment other than school.

Herbie sat there at first, clearly unsure of what to do as everyone got up and spread across the room. Then he stood and looked around for a few minutes before approaching a group at the table. They seemed to be setting up some kind of card game that Herbie didn't recognize. He pulled up a chair, but there was no space for him. Sure, if everyone had shifted their chairs down a bit, he would've been able to fit in, but no one took the initiative. So he sat behind two of the boys, not right in front of the table but not completely out of reach either. Still, no one noted his presence.

"Why didn't you speak up?" Doc whispered. "They don't even seem to know you're there."

"Precisely why I didn't speak up," I responded. "No one even looked at me. I felt like such an outsider. It was difficult for me to speak up when I felt so unwanted."

The kids were laughing and joking with each other as the cards were dealt. Herbie tried to laugh along with some of the remarks being made. He tried to let his guard down and find a way to fit in. But no one dealt him any cards. Once again, he was the outsider. Could he have done more to be a part of the group? Maybe. But to be honest, it's incredibly hard for someone with a bleeding heart to offer it up on a platter.

For the most part, the game was relatively uneventful. No one bothered to explain the rules so that Herbie could follow along. They just went through hand after hand, laughing and joking and having a good time. After about twenty minutes, however, the conversation took a turn I would not have expected from a group of Christians.

"You think you got a chance?" one of the kids was saying, picking up his cards. "I hope you've been practicing!" He was looking at the dealer.

"He ain't got time to practice," someone else said. "He's too busy hanging out with his boyfriend!"

"Hey, hey, hey," the dealer held his hands up. "I may not be popular with the girls, but I'm no fag."

Herbie's fake smile vanished.

"I bet you've never even gotten a girl's shirt off," another boy taunted.

What?!

"I've gotten further than you have," he retorted.

"Not with Jenna, I bet!" the first said, pointing at the girl in the pink sweater.

She snorted. "That's for sure. Takes more than a burger and a movie to get my top off."

Herbie couldn't believe what he was hearing. I know; I remember. Even if I didn't, the look on his face told the story. These kids were Christians? They were vulgar, crude, and even prejudiced. _This_ was how the God-loving behaved? They weren't all that different from his classmates. I realize they were still kids, but I had hoped I'd find a cleaner atmosphere here.

The conversation continued in that manner for another twenty minutes or so before Pastor Eric returned for a brief sermon. However, rather than uplifting and encouraging and empowering everyone, he spent most of the time practically yelling about the differences between biblical Christians and present day Christians. Jesus said that faith as small as the mustard seed could move mountains. Yet no such things happen in the modern world. It was Eric's contention that the miracles performed by the disciples in Christ's day don't happen anymore because humanity's faith is now but a fraction of what it was back then. It was an interesting subject, but Eric's delivery was full of anger and frustration. He didn't encourage good works and strong faith. He made me feel bad about myself. He made me feel like I failed God. Like I was spitting in the face of Jesus and His sacrifice. It was quite a depressing lesson.

Then came the after-sermon reminders. Apparently, the majority of the group's members were scheduled to take part in a few skits during an upcoming Sunday service. The plan was to use present-day analogies to show how we should and should not react to people in the world around us. The topic interested me, but not for participation purposes. I wanted to know how to act. How to respond when they treated me harshly. How to forgive people who shoved my head into lockers daily.

Again, the conversation took a very disconcerting turn. One scene had been planned to show us how to handle people who don't share the Christian lifestyle. In it, one of the teens was to portray a gay character. Pastor Eric made a big deal about playing the part with excessive flamboyance, using several clichés generally applied to homosexuals. It was one thing to hear the kids use a word like "fag" to describe gay people. That was bad enough. But to hear a youth group leader—a _pastor_!!—use stereotypes to generalize homosexuals was unfathomable.

On that subject, I feel the need to say something. Yes, Christians believe that homosexuality is a sin as written in the Bible. Does that mean we have the right to hate, abuse, exclude, or attack people who take part in that lifestyle?

Absolutely not.

It blows my mind that churches and youth groups and other religious organizations would have the audacity to treat gay people in this manner. No one is perfect. That is stated and demonstrated quite clearly in the Bible. And while the Bible states that the homosexual lifestyle is sinful, we should not under any circumstances place ourselves above them simply because we don't take part in that particular sin. We have all sinned. Lying, cheating, stealing, lusting, pride, arrogance, hate—everyone struggles with these things on a daily basis. Jesus came for the sinners. They're the ones that he dined with. They're the ones he traveled with. They're the ones he taught. To treat them as second-class citizens is downright shameful and hypocritical.

One more thing. I know homosexuals are often insulted by the fact that Christians believe they are living sinful lifestyles. I am very sorry. But at the same time, we are entitled to our own beliefs. The same freedom that allows us to hold that belief also allows you to hold yours. We need to learn to agree to disagree. Both sides.

Okay, back to today's entry.

Herbie left that first night of youth group a bit depressed. There were a lot of things that were nothing like what he'd imagined, and a number of things that were a good deal worse than he could've expected. But that flame of hope within wouldn't die, no matter how small it got.

"Did you ever come back to this church?" Doc asked me as we followed the kids into the parking lot.

"For a time," I told him. "I wanted to believe that I could make friends eventually. There was a voice inside that kept telling me I needed to be patient and keep putting myself out there. I grew to hate that voice after a while."

"What did you find when you returned?"

"More disappointment," I answered. "C'mon, I'll show you."

To this day, it still bugs me. I realize that teenagers are still growing both in maturity and morals, but Pastor Eric should've at least supervised them to curb the more crude and vulgar discussions. But then, his own morality in reference to more sensitive subjects left a bit to be desired. It is no wonder that people have the opinions they do about Christians when so many churches are spreading prejudiced perceptions such as these.

Oh well. He gave me a Bible before I left. At least I got that.

The next memory, of course, was the Sunday service when the skits took place. I got up early and left home before Mom and Dad even rolled out of bed that day. I didn't know anything about church service, so I wore some old jeans and a sweatshirt. Ended up feeling pretty out of place.

Herbie sat in the last pew at the end of the row. The choice had placed him right beside the sanctuary doors. That way, if he started to feel uncomfortable, he could get outside and away from everyone with relative ease.

"You look like a nervous wreck," Doc said. We had chosen seats of our own near the far wall where few people sat. The only doors on that side were emergency exits. Best of all, we could just blend into the crowd without needing the invisibility belts.

"Which one of me?" I asked. If anything, I would've bet money that _I_ was more nervous than Herbie.

Apparently, Doc didn't agree. "Herbie," he said. "I can see him shaking from here."

I glanced over at my former self. "It's funny. Despite what happened at the youth group, I still expected everyone to be warm and friendly. But at the same time, I was terrified that some random strangers were going to try to talk to me. The more I had withdrawn into my solitary shell, the less of a conversationalist I became. I would get so nervous and flustered that I wouldn't know what to say."

"But isn't that why you were here to begin with?" Doc asked me. "To get to know people and try to build friendships?"

"Yes, but that didn't take away the fear. I wanted to make friends and find some sort of acceptance, but I was afraid I was going to be disappointed again."

The fears were unnecessary. Aside from the few polite smiles he got from people scooting past to open sections of the pews, Herbie's presence went largely ignored. Even when he finally spotted Jenna, the girl wearing the pink sweater from youth group, she didn't so much as smile or wave, despite making solid eye contact.

"Why didn't you say anything to anyone?" Doc asked. "Comment on someone's hair. Ask how long they'd attended. Just say hello!"

"Between my years of school, my differences with my parents, and the fresh memory of youth group in my mind, my confidence was shot. I couldn't bring myself to step out onto the metaphorical ledge.

"Do you think things might have been different if you _had_ spoken up?"

I shrugged. "Don't know. Part of me believed that it was arrogant for people to exclude and ignore me. But then, looking back on it, they might have thought the same of me."

"Introverted people often appear arrogant to the unsuspecting world. But you _can_ change that."

The sermon, taught by Pastor Rick Adams, was interesting. It was about the trials that Job faced when God allowed Satan to take everything—his family, his home, livestock—just to prove that Job's faith would never falter. I remember thinking that must have been the kind of faith that Pastor Eric had been talking about in youth group. I couldn't imagine going through such trials without losing faith that God was taking care of me.

I realize that the lesson of Job teaches that God's purpose for us is not only more important than our own selfish desires but also the best thing for us regardless of whether or not we see it. Every Christian will be the first to say that Job's example is one that all of us should follow. Very few, if any, would say the same if placed _in_ his shoes. Or sandals. Whatever.

Then came the skits. This was what I'd been waiting to see. Would they go through with the crass generalization of homosexuals? It should've been expected that a church would have more respect than to use an overly animated and excessively exaggerated actor to play the part of the sinner in the situation. But I've come to learn that many churches are more concerned with grabbing people's attention than being biblically correct.

The first two skits were forgettable. One told the story of a small boy who was ridiculed for being short. But instead of letting their words hurt him, he used his stature in several predictably comedic ways. The point, obviously, was not to let our differences get us down because each one is an advantage that we have over the rest of the world.

The second story was about a bunch of boys in the gym locker room who discovered that one of their classmates had a problem with body odor. They rigged up a couple of pranks before he returned, including a couple of fresh sticks of deodorant in his locker and a bucket of soapy water above it. The boys hid before he could return, and quite unrealistically, he laughed hysterically when the bucket of water dumped all over him. He laughed again when he found the deodorant and held them up to the sky like an adventurer who just found a magic potion. The idea of that one was that being able to laugh at yourself can get you through difficult situations.

The third and final skit was the one I'd been waiting for. Tom, Shanna, Kesha, Erin, Mike, and James filed onto the stage. The girls were all wearing cheerleader's uniforms while each of the guys wore their high school jackets. I could also see Theo to the side of the stage. He was dressed in a sparkling pink dress and a flowing blond wig. Great, so he was not only going to play a homosexual character, but a cross-dressing one as well?

"This is going to make me cringe, isn't it?" Doc asked me.

"The other two didn't?"

The girls lined up beside each other with their backs to the audience and the boys off to the side. They pretended they were at their lockers, and when Pastor Eric gave them the cue from the side of the stage, the scene began.

Shanna launched into her lines, practically yelling across the church. "Can you believe that guy who came to youth group last week?"

"How could he even leave his house looking like that?" Kesha asked, taking great care to emphasize every time the pitch of her voice changed.

Erin closed her imaginary locker and picked up what I could only assume were imaginary books. "At least he won't be back. Pastor won't let someone like _that_ come to our church again!"

Shanna stuck her nose in the air. "I don't see why he let that weirdo inside in the first place."

Wow.

"You know how those gays are," Erin said, shaking her head in disgust. "They think they have the right to do _anything_ that normal people do."

Just . . . Wow.

At this point, the men walked in, laughing as though one of them had just told a great joke. Mike waved when he looked at the girls. "Afternoon, ladies." Seeing the disgusted looks on their faces, his smile disappeared. "Something seems to be bothering you. Would you like to talk about it?"

Seriously, _who_ wrote this?

"We were just talking about that guy Theo that came to youth group." Kesha let out a disgusted snort. "Seems like they let _anyone_ in these days."

"Oh, you mean the queen in the skirt?" Tom asked with a laugh. He and James slapped hands.

"Hey, I bet he's at home doing his nails right now!" James put in. "Maybe trying on a new bra!" Everyone started laughing. Everyone except Mike.

"Come on, guys!" he said, using the most serious face and voice he could put together. "Let's not be mean to him. He's got feelings, too."

Shanna shook her head. "Who cares? That homo needs to stay away from us!"

Cue Theo.

His clicking heels echoed as he stepped onto stage. The audience chuckled softly as he tried his best to look natural in his costume. He had obviously taken Pastor Eric's advice to heart; he walked with one hand out to the side, pinky in the air. The other hand was planted firmly on his hip. Disgustingly, he added an extra jiggle to his rear as he walked. Batting giant eyelashes, he smiled through ruby red lipstick. "Hey guys!!" He drew out the word "guys" so that it lasted a good four seconds. Then he emphasized every other word. " _What_ is _up_ with _ya'll_?"

"How's it going, Hotness?" Tom bit his lip as he said it.

Theo's character didn't realize it had been sarcastic. He opened his mouth in a wide smile. "You know what they say," he began, bending down and running his hands down his legs suggestively. "You're only as hot as the heat you give off!"

What? Wait, what did that even mean?

"But seriously, ya'll!" Theo went on. "I'm super excited because there's a big _sale_ at the _mall_! Every designer purse is half-off! What do you say ladies, you want to come with me and get in on this fashion action?"

Each of the girls was doing their best to look both annoyed and disgusted, scrunching their noses and shaking their heads. With the exception of Mike, the guys were stifling laughs behind their hands. If I had been up there, I would've been hiding my face.

Finally, Erin blew her stack. "Can't you take a hint? We don't like you! So take your disgusting, sinful, cross-dressing butt out of here!"

Although his acting was terrible, Theo managed a genuinely hurt expression. "Are you . . . serious?"

"No, Theo," Mike said, stepping forward. "She's not." But Erin was nodding with wide eyes.

"No!" Theo shouted, stomping his heels. "She meant it! I saw the look on her face! She hates me!" He was forcing his voice to crack to give the illusion he was crying. Sounded more to me like he needed a cough drop.

"Well maybe if you weren't such a homo, I wouldn't have reason to!" Erin screamed.

"Enough!" Mike yelled, silencing both of them. "Theo, I apologize on behalf of all of us. This isn't how we should be behaving." He looked at Erin and tried to plead with her. "Come on, Erin. Jesus wouldn't turn Theo away. Jesus loves him just as much as He loves us."

Suddenly, it seemed Tom had undergone a change of heart. "Yes, he's right. I'm sorry, Theo. I shouldn't have laughed at you."

"Same goes for me," Kesha said. "I'm sorry, Theo. The sale sounds like tons of fun."

James and Shanna nodded in agreement and apologized as well. That left Erin.

"Come on, Erin," Mike begged. "Maybe one day he'll see our side of things and maybe he won't. But that shouldn't stop us from loving him as a human being. He doesn't have to agree with us to be an important person. All he has to be . . . is human."

Finally, Erin nodded in agreement. "You're right, Mike. As always! I'm sorry, Theo. Will you forgive me?"

Theo crossed his arms and sulked. "Will you come with us to the mall?" he asked.

Erin laughed and nodded. "Of course! We'll all go!"

As the group walked off stage, James provided the scene-ending joke. "I don't have to get a purse, do I?"

I agreed with the message. Love the sinner, hate the sin. I get that. That's not what I had a problem with. My problem was their portrayal of the homosexual character. Yes, there are people out there who dress and behave as Theo did. However, they are _not_ the majority of the homosexual population. No distinction was made in this skit. The assumption was that all gay people look and act like that.

Back then, after seeing this for the first time, I started thinking that I wasn't so sure I wanted to be a part of this church anymore. They were just furthering the stereotype that Christians have no real knowledge about homosexuals other than the incorrect assumption that they wish they _were_ the opposite sex.

After the service, Doc and I stayed in our seats while everyone else filed into the foyer. "That was interesting," Doc mumbled. "What did you think of that?"

"I just don't understand how an establishment that claims to love all people would portray someone in such an exaggerated manner just to get a point across."

"And these two memories were your first real interactions with a Christian church?"

"With _any_ church," I corrected him. "Mom and Dad sure didn't take me to these kinds of places as a kid. I had to find my own way here. I really hoped this place would not only help me feel closer to God but also set me on the right path to finding love and acceptance. Instead, I felt just as alienated here as I did anywhere else in my life. It kind of made me start wondering if _I_ was the problem. Was my understanding of love wrong? Was my understanding of God's love wrong?"

"Did you try any other churches after this? There are many congregations out there that embrace the lessons of love and forgiveness which Jesus taught. Churches that emphasize the laws of God without singling out or embarrassing anyone. Maybe a different atmosphere and different leadership might have helped."

"I thought about it, but the next closest Christian church was too far away. I couldn't walk there in a reasonable amount of time. So I kept coming back here for a few weeks even though I felt so uncomfortable."

"Why did you finally stop?"

I couldn't help but laugh at that one. "It's a long story. Better if you see for yourself."

Herbie's last visit to the church took place just a couple of weeks later. When Doc and I walked into the group session, Herbie was watching the others play some kind of board game. After a few minutes, Erin entered, carrying a thick notebook in her arms. It had clearly seen a lot of wear, and colored tabs lined its side where she'd marked her notes. She presented it to Pastor Eric with a smile.

"Good evening, Erin," he said, opening the book. "What's this?"

"It's for my Sunday School class," she said. "I went over the curriculum that the church provided, and I felt like it was lacking in real substance. The lessons all seem to center around very basic topics with no biblical references." Pastor Eric didn't look too happy. He nodded as he flipped through the pages of her notebook without saying a word. So Erin kept going. "For example, lesson three is about how to be a good friend. Love and loyalty and faithfulness are listed, but I thought it would be great if we used some examples of each of these qualities from the Bible. This would show the kids how much God values such behavior."

Again, Pastor Eric nodded. By this time, Erin seemed to be picking up on his demeanor. Her previously beaming smile was fading fast. When he did speak, his voice was calm but firm. "I appreciate what you're trying to do, but this isn't your responsibility."

"What?" Erin's eyes bulged. "But I was only trying to connect what I will be teaching to the segments of the Bible that teach us about these things. The whole point was to show the kids where a Christian learns values like compassion and love. I was just—"

"I understand, Erin," Pastor Eric cut her off. "But the church meticulously crafts these lesson plans and you can't just overhaul them without the approval of the elders."

For a moment, it looked like she was going to cry. "Can't I submit my lessons to the elders for approval? Please?"

Pastor Eric took a deep breath. I would almost describe the expression on his face as forced restraint. "The elders are very busy, Erin. They don't exactly have the free time to listen to a child tell them why her lessons are better than their own."

"But . . . I spent weeks on these. I researched and studied and wrote and prayed and organized and—"

"All right, Erin," he finally said, closing the notebook. "I'll pass it along. But I can't promise anything. Okay?"

"Thank you," Erin said, her smile returning. "Thank you so much!"

As she walked away, Pastor Eric closed the notebook and thrust it onto the shelf beneath the podium. It blew my mind that any pastor would feel such a need to crush the ambitions and great intentions of a teenager who simply wanted to glorify God and share His love with her students.

"I assume that was what you wanted me to see," Doc said. We stood in the furthest corner from everyone and kept our voices low.

"There's one more thing that will happen shortly," I told him. "In the meantime, do _you_ think he was right? I sure didn't then, and I sure don't now."

"No, I certainly do not. It's a shame to see the good intentions of young people getting trampled by others who feel threatened."

"Threatened? You think Pastor Eric felt threatened?"

"He sure seemed to be on the defensive. Perhaps he had a hand in creating the lesson plans that she's trying to change. Or he could be trying to protect the interests of the elders. Can you imagine what the congregation would think if word got out that their children were being taught lessons created by some teenage girl? Or that her lessons were chosen to _replace_ the curriculum that the good, honest, responsible, trustworthy elders had approved?"

"Either way, it means that the lessons of the Bible and the instructions and love of Jesus Christ are being made to take a backseat to something that amounts to little more than interoffice politics."

"It happens far too often, I'm afraid," Doc said with a sigh. "The selfishness and pride of men drives them to place their own egos before God's message. But let me ask you, do you think that makes them bad people?"

I wasn't sure I understood. "Who? People like the pastor?"

"Yes. People who get so wrapped up in their own self-promotion that they lose humility in the process."

There was no need to think about that one. "No. They're not bad people. Just misguided. Maybe a bit selfish. They're trying so hard to protect themselves that they lose sight of what's important. We all share those traits in one way or another. I'm selfish about a lot of things, I'm sure."

Doc sounded proud. "Very good. I didn't have to say it myself. We all get selfish sometimes, especially when we feel as though someone is trying to push us aside to become the focus of attention."

"I wish that _I_ was the focus of attention for a change," I muttered. "Is that a bad thing? Is that pride?"

"Everyone needs attention at some point or another. God put us here _for_ relationships. Only through interacting with others can we really affect lives. But there's a difference between healthy interaction with people and shameless self-promotion. From everything I've seen, you weren't trying to put yourself in front of anyone. You just wanted to be a part of a relationship."

"I never found it. At least, not here. I did find a relationship during junior year of high school, but it ended up being the last straw. She was the reason I gave up trying to fit in once and for all. And she's the reason I've lived alone for as many years as I have."

"Annie?"

I nodded. "Annie."

Of all the topics we've discussed during my time in therapy, Annie is probably the subject we've covered the most. She was my first and only "girlfriend," although I've since realized that she and I had quite different definitions of the word. I know I haven't mentioned her much in this journal. I wouldn't know where to really begin. I had thought I'd finally found someone who loved me. It put me on top of the world for a few precious months. Had I known, of course, that the whole thing was a scam, I probably would've felt a bit differently about it.

I'm not making any sense. I guess we'd better start at the beginning. Tomorrow, then.

Tonight, there was still one thing left for Doc to see. At the end of the night, when the members of the youth group split up and headed home, Herbie foolishly left without his gloves. He returned to the room just as Pastor Eric dropped Erin's notebook into the trash can.

All of her hard work was tossed into the trash by a man who called himself "Pastor."

He stared at Herbie expectantly until Herbie pulled his gaze from the trash and made eye contact. "S-Sorry," he stammered. "I forgot my gloves."

Eric didn't move. His glare was almost daring Herbie to comment on what he'd witnessed. "Have a good night, Herbert."

Needless to say, I didn't comment.

And I never returned.
Tuesday – Day 7

Doc seemed concerned when I arrived at his office today. "Are you sure you want to go through with this? You don't have to, you know. I won't force you if you're not comfortable."

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. "I know. But if we're going to honestly explore the events that made me the person I am today, then we don't have a choice. The fallout from my relationship with Annie had a lasting impact on how I view society."

He led me to the storage room. "What if seeing her again increases your feelings of anger and resentment?"

"I suppose that's a risk," I said, taking my seat in the Chronopod, "but the possibility for a better future is at stake." After a moment, I shrugged and added, "Besides, this whole time-traveling thing was _your_ idea."

Sitting here writing this, I'm starting to think that Doc wasn't really concerned about the effect today's travels might have had on me. I think he wanted to know how committed I was. Not just to this particular session, but the journey to improve myself in general. Actually, knowing Doc, it's more likely that he wanted _me_ to know how committed I was. After all, if I wanted to continue despite the possible consequences, then I must have had hope somewhere deep inside that I could be fixed. That I could break free from this life of anxiety and depression and learn to be the man that God created me to be.

Maybe that's why he smiled as he said, "Well then, let's see what sixteen-year-old Herbie is up to."

Much of my junior year of high school played out like a bad chick flick. It started out like any other year—new classes, same bullies, same jokes. However, when I began my high school career, I had finally accepted that no one was going to befriend me. I was no longer looking for friendship, acceptance, or love. School kids weren't trustworthy; they were bloodthirsty monsters. Nothing I did or didn't do would lead me to find that sense of belonging that I so desperately desired. And while I spent a good portion of ninth grade experimenting with the church and its youth group, I made no similar attempts to interact with my classmates. They had made it quite clear that I was destined to be a loner, so I decided to embrace that role.

Rather than sitting near the front of my classes, I headed straight for the back. Instead of trying to talk to people, I kept to myself. When others picked on me, I acted like I didn't hear them instead of trying to defend myself. My occasional class participation dropped to zero. In the halls, I walked with my head down and my eyes forward, sparing no time for anything or anyone. I sat alone at lunch. I sat alone on the aerobus. And I took pride in the reputation I developed as a result of my behavior, as embarrassed as I am to admit that now.

There's one in every class. It's that crazy kid you see in the back of the room. Not the usual breed of "crazy" that wanders the halls of most schools in packs. Those are the ones that typically dress in all black. They'll wear army boots and shirts with skulls or assorted names of death metal bands. All that will be topped off with jet black hair and sometimes makeup, piercings, tattoos, or all three. Oftentimes, they'll be into drugs and drinking. These kids think they're tough. They try to convince the "normal" people around them that they're tough.

They're not.

No, the kind of crazy kid in the back of the room that _I'm_ talking about is the one who doesn't need to change his appearance or interests for his classmates to be uneasy around him. His strange behavior and separation from the rest of society are enough to make people wonder about the stability of his mental disposition. He stares into space for long periods of time. When he does look at you, his glare cuts through you. He doesn't have to change anything about himself to convince anyone because he's not _trying_ to evoke a reaction from people. It's not an act to get people's attention, he's just plain disturbed.

But me? I wasn't crazy. It was the façade that I used to protect myself. In my case, it _was_ an act. That's not to say I sat down and planned it all out. "Okay, here's how I'm going to convince everyone that I'm a serial killer." No, it wasn't like that at all. But once I started keeping to myself and sitting in the back of my classes, people started whispering. I could hear it even if they thought I couldn't.

"Damn, he looks like a psycho."

"The guy freaks me out."

"Look at the guy in the back. Doesn't he look like one of those guys who just goes crazy and shoots everyone?"

Yes, those were the comments being made around me. About me. And after all those years of having fear instilled in me by others, a part of me was very excited about the idea of turning those tables. So I used it to my advantage. When I caught someone looking at me, I'd stare right back with cold narrow eyes. If I was called on in class—many teachers have the habit of calling on kids who aren't participating—I would look like I didn't care if I knew the answer rather than allowing myself to appear either happy or embarrassed. My expression said I always had something else on my mind, and whatever it was wasn't pleasant. I didn't need to alter my appearance. I just played off of what everyone else was saying.

Don't get me wrong, I still got picked on by some of the other students. But it didn't happen nearly as often. When it did, I didn't run away. I didn't show fear. I was not going to allow pain—emotional or otherwise—to control my life anymore. When I was threatened, I faced it head on. If someone punched me, I spat out the blood and told them I wanted more. I had to toughen up. I _had_ to. There was no other choice if I wanted to survive long enough to escape those miserable halls.

That was just my way of dealing with school. Outside, I figured I could return to my normal self. And since I still wanted to make a difference in the world for God, I volunteered to work at a local soup kitchen three days a week after school. It was difficult putting myself into that sort of a situation because of my fear of people, but I really felt that it was something I needed to do. So I worked there for four years while looking for a paying job. I suppose a part of me hoped for a chance to make some friends there, but most of the other volunteers were far older than me. I felt intimidated, so I didn't really talk to them or try to build relationships. I just did what they asked and went home at six every day.

Other than withdrawing from social situations, I don't think I display any of those characteristics nowadays. Still, I know I shouldn't have been doing _any_ of it. God wants us to interact with the world. He wants us to love the people in the world. He wants us to share His love with the people of the world. I can't do that if I'm isolating myself.

During my freshman year of high school, I closed most people out of my life. In sophomore year, I closed _everyone_ out. But when junior year came around, my intentions to do the same were undermined by a seemingly angelic girl named Annie. She was a red-headed girl that shared my Social Sciences class. I didn't know much about her when we met; she had attended different elementary and middle schools. But she managed to grab my attention relatively quickly, and for a while, I thought my life was finally going to move in a better direction.

I would finally have the love and acceptance I'd been pursuing for so long.

My first encounter with her occurred about a month into the school year. Doc and I entered the classroom as our teacher, Mr. Boboco, assigned a research project about the biggest social problems in our country. Herbie was sitting in the last seat of the second row, hair dangling in his eyes as he scribbled doodles in his notebook. Having never seen myself from another's perspective before, I was a bit surprised at just how angry he looked. His skin was pale, his eyes were dark, and an ever-so-slight frown seemed permanently etched into his face.

I hated group projects. So when this assignment was announced, I could almost see Herbie's heart drop to his feet. Mr. Boboco said that he had already divided everyone into teams, so at least no one would need to worry about finding a group to join. The students were instructed to arrange their desks into circles to discuss ideas, and Herbie wound up between Sherman Jimsen and Annie Berkely.

At first, no one seemed to notice him. Nicole Sherry took the lead, deciding that our topic was going to be poverty, and David Scott suggested looking at the effectiveness of government aide. The two of them went back and forth while everyone else sat there either staring at their books or blankly watching them discuss the direction of our project. But then I saw that Annie was periodically glancing at Herbie. Not at his notes, not at his book, but at _him_. I don't think I had noticed that back when I was the young man in that chair.

"How does everyone else feel about that?" Nicole asked the group. They went around to everyone, one by one. We had eight members in our group, and each of them nodded their approval. Howard Chukowski suggested something for the oral part of our presentation, which Nicole and David seemed to like. Eventually, they got to Herbie.

"Whatever," he said without looking up from his book. "Just tell me what you need me to do and I'll get it done."

"Same here," Annie said.

It was determined that we'd break up into pairs to work on different aspects of the project after school. I know that Herbie didn't care who he got paired with; having to collaborate with _anyone_ was going to be an anxiety nightmare. But when all other pairings had been decided and Annie and Herbie were the only two left, Annie allowed herself a brief smile.

And I swore I heard Doc murmur, "I think she likes you."

At the end of the school day, while Herbie was on his way through the halls toward the main exit, Annie ran up beside him. "Hey, did you want to work on the project today? I figured that if we just got our part done right away, we wouldn't have to worry about it for the next month."

Keep in mind that although I had withdrawn from society and generally didn't want to talk to anyone, it didn't mean that I _hated_ people. "I suppose," Herbie said softly. "But my house isn't exactly a great place to get work done. Do you want to go to the library or something?"

That just about made Annie's day. "Okay! Let me just call my mother and let her know where I'll be. Do you need to contact your parents?"

Herbie stifled a laugh. "Trust me, they'll be happier not knowing."

The school library was open late every day, so Annie and Herbie grabbed seats at two available computers and got to work. At first, it was all business. Our goal was to write a two-page report on what kind of aide had been offered to the poor and homeless by both the state and federal governments over the course of the past year. At first, Herbie didn't think they'd be able to fill two pages with that kind of information because it was just going to be a listing of dollar amounts.

"Well, there are other aspects, too," Annie said, rotating her chair toward him. "The homeless shelters and soup kitchens provide food rather than money, so that's something we can write about. And there's the credit program and community work-for-food programs."

I found it kind of humorous to watch. Today, I could easily write a fifty page paper about all this stuff. But back then I couldn't even see how we'd fill _two_.

"Those programs are bogus," Herbie muttered, turning back to his screen. "They don't work."

Annie scrunched her forehead, obviously confused. "What makes you say that?"

I remembered that moment. At that point, Herbie was considering whether or not he should tell her about his family's financial situation. There was the obvious possibility that she'd laugh at him. The less obvious but more likely possibility was that she wouldn't say anything about it at first, but then she'd tell her friends, and word would travel around school like wildfire. I mean, there were students who knew I was poor, but they never knew _how_ poor. I hadn't exactly sent out announcements regarding my dysfunctional family.

But, for whatever reason, Herbie decided to go ahead and let the cat out of the bag.

"My mom has tried to get us on those programs a number of times. They keep rejecting us." He stopped short of saying that she was being rejected because what money she did make went to booze.

Annie didn't seem to know what to say to that. "Oh. I'm sorry."

But Herbie didn't want sympathy. He didn't want anyone to think he was weak. "It's fine. We've gotten by just fine without help, and we'll keep on doing it."

"Do you mind if I ask . . . what happened?" She was definitely scared, but apparently she was interested enough to take the risk. "I mean, I just thought it could help us with the report." She added that last part to try to rationalize the question.

Ever since the Disney World incident, I've adhered to a strict policy against lying in any way, shape, or form. But I certainly didn't want her to know that my parents were drunks, either. "My mother has trouble keeping jobs," Herbie said. "And my father has trouble _getting_ jobs."

"What about you?" she asked him. "Do you have a job?"

"I've applied to a couple of places, but they won't let me work until I have reliable transportation."

"I'm sorry," she said again. "What do you do for money?"

With his anxiety skyrocketing, Herbie shifted gears. He didn't want to talk about his family and their financial problems. "We get by," he said in a harder voice. "Can we get back to the report?"

"Of course," Annie nodded, turning back to her computer. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean anything—"

"It's fine," he cut her off. "Let's just get this thing done and over with."

Over the next hour, they chose three different subjects and separated them into six paragraphs of material. All they had to do was research the topics and organize all the material into the paragraphs. But that would have to wait until their next study session, Annie told him, because her mother had arrived to drive her home.

Herbie walked her out to the curb where her mother was waiting in their brand-new aeromobile. "Would you like a ride home?" Annie asked him.

"I'll be fine," Herbie told her. A brisk autumn wind blew as he said it.

"All right." She stared at him for a minute as though she had something else to say. Then she yanked a piece of paper out of the pocket of her jacket. "Here."

Herbie took it and unfolded it. Written inside was a phone number. "What's this?" he asked.

"Just in case," she said with a smile. "I mean, if you want to talk about the report."

"Oh, okay." He shoved the paper into his jeans. "Thanks."

It wasn't until after the car disappeared around the corner that Herbie realized what was going on. She was interested in him. She _had_ to be. Why else would she have been acting so weird?

"She seemed nice enough," Doc said. "She was kind to you even when you were cold to her."

"I know. But like you told me, there is reason and purpose to all things."

"That there is," he agreed. "What was hers?"

As I've previously mentioned, Doc and I have covered my time with Annie on numerous occasions. But he has a way of revisiting subjects, often asking the same questions he did the previous time. I'm sure he's trying to lead me toward something but refuses to tell me what.

I didn't know much about girls or dating at that time. Still don't today, honestly. So I wasn't sure if I was going to call Annie or not. A part of me wanted to. Deep down under the cold visage that I'd worked so hard to build, I still had a faint yet unyielding hope that I'd one day find someone who cared about me. But the rest of me knew that this was a dangerous risk likely to end in more heartbreak. By this point in my life, I had learned to expect rejection and therefore took every step to guard my heart from any more scars. So, despite my lifelong search for acceptance, my first instinct was to toss Annie's phone number into the trash.

Knowing what I know now, I wish I had.

But for some reason, I didn't. I kept it. Stared at it. Memorized it. Thought about the possibilities every night. I tried to avoid Annie in school because I didn't want to act one way or another. If I let my guard down, I'd seem interested. If I kept myself closed off, I'd seem uninterested. I really didn't know which side of the fence I was on.

But it was impossible to avoid her in the one class we shared. And regardless of my fears, I didn't want to be rude.

So when Mr. Boboco gave us another class period two weeks later to work on our project, I had to face her. We worked together to assemble the information we'd researched on our own. Pretty soon, our part of the project was nearing completion. Annie suggested one more afternoon in the library. It was there that her elegant beauty and creative wits brought my guard tumbling down. Standing on the curb waiting for her mother to arrive that afternoon, she gave me my first kiss. And any remaining reservations I may have had about letting someone get close to me withered away.

On the way home that day, I made a promise to myself. It's a promise that has both haunted and protected me ever since. I decided that Annie would be my last attempt to interact with the world. My last attempt at a relationship of _any_ kind. Now, I realize that high school love rarely lasts forever. However, if the time came that we decided to go our separate ways, I wanted our separation to be amicable. I didn't want her to hate me. I didn't want her to insult me.

I didn't want her to betray me.

I wanted everything to be open and honest regardless of how much the truth could sometimes hurt. Yes, I know that breakups like that are more than uncommon. I was young, in love, and desperate for whatever attention anyone was willing to give. So I convinced myself to take the risk.

Within a week, we were officially dating. I told her all about my family and why I don't like to bring them up. I also explained to her why I'm always so cold and quiet. She seemed very understanding of it all. She told me she wouldn't judge me and invited me to her house a week or so later so I could meet her family. The younger of her brothers was friendly, but her parents and other brother seemed to be annoyed by my presence in their house. Especially her father, who seemed to always be screaming about something. It didn't matter to me, though. If Annie wanted me there, I was going to be there.

And in hindsight, that's where I really started to go wrong. I focused all of my time, energy, and effort on making her happy. Whatever it took, that's what I did. I think, over time, that my vision began to narrow. My sights were focused only on her and what she wanted. And nothing that was happening around me or _to_ me had any effect on my life. Sometimes, that was a great thing. I wasn't nervous around strangers when I was with her. I wasn't bothered by the insults at school. I had someone who appreciated me. I _finally_ had someone who cared about me. That was the only important thing to me.

So important that it left me blind to the betrayal that she was plotting right in front of my face.

Previously, Annie had dated a lot of guys. I didn't know this before I got involved. One named Brian _really_ broke her heart. But so did a guy named Dave. And Chris, too. Then there was Eddie. The list of names grew daily. I didn't care; we had never sat down and discussed her entire dating history, so I wasn't bothered whenever a new name came up. I just assumed it was someone that just hadn't yet made his way into our conversations. Stupid, I know.

Anyway, one Friday after school, she suggested we get something to eat at a nearby pizzeria. It sounded like fun to me, so I was all for it. It was this memory that Doc and I visited next.

"This will be a brief stop," I told him as we sat down near the rear of the restaurant.

Within ten minutes, I spotted Herbie and Annie approaching through the window. When they came inside, Annie locked eyes with the young male working behind the counter and froze. There was Brian, her ex-boyfriend, wearing a big white apron and a red and green striped shirt. His eyes grew when he saw her, then narrowed when he looked at Herbie. Of course, Herbie's obsession with Annie being what it was, he glared back at Brian and took a small step forward, positioning himself between the two.

"You look ready for a brawl," Doc noted, keeping his voice low.

"I was. Don't really know why," I admitted. "I guess her stories of how much he'd hurt her led me to feel like I needed to protect her. From what? I don't really know. He wasn't a physical threat to her. Looking back, I suppose I was just puffing up my chest and trying to look intimidating for once in my life. It felt good to have the upper-hand on someone else for a change."

"Did you?"

I didn't answer.

Annie mumbled in Herbie's ear that she wanted to leave, so he escorted her out. Of course, I didn't know it at the time, but that encounter hadn't been an accident. She'd known exactly where Brian worked.

See where I'm going with this? Rather, where _she_ was going?

There were a lot of similar signs which would've given me a good indication of where our relationship was headed if I'd only opened my eyes. She talked about her ex-boyfriends a lot. More specifically, she talked about how I was getting everything they never would. Aside from that, she started getting kind of touchy with me. Things I'd say would offend her when no offense was intended or expected. She always expressed interest in joining me at the soup kitchen but never came to see me when I was there. I always seemed to be pushing for more time together while she wanted more time apart. Her family hated me, too. Even the brother that had seemed to like me at first was no longer speaking to me. At the time, I was sure I'd done something wrong, but I never found out what it was. Now, I'm not really sure I did _anything_.

Stranger things began to happen. Around four months into the relationship, she started ditching planned dates with me. She'd decide at the last minute that she instead wanted to hang out with another friend. Sometimes I'd get stood up. But I was always forgiving. I believed that I was special to her. I believed she'd never let me go, so I believed our relationship was safe. She kept telling me how much she loved me despite our occasional problems. Foolishly, I accepted her at her word.

But something happened about two months before the junior prom. Something that _should've_ set off alarms in my head.

Herbie and Annie were standing on the sidewalk in front of her house when Doc and I approached. We wore the invisibility belts this time; there would be no blending in on that quiet street. Annie lived on the north side of town in a beautiful two-story house with several bedrooms and two bathrooms. She and I often looked at the stars on clear nights, talking about anything and everything. I enjoyed it. It was peaceful and comfortable—two things I learned to appreciate when I could find them—and I cherished the memories of those nights long after Annie and I had parted ways.

Well, _most_ of them, anyway.

"I wish I had this kind of view from my backyard," Herbie was saying. "All I can see are power lines and street lamps. Drowns out any stars I might be able to see."

"Really?" Annie turned her attention to the lamp post less than fifty yards away. "We have those, too. Why don't they block out the stars here?"

"Yours are few and far between," Herbie told her. "We've got far more of 'em on our street. Probably to flush out as many dark spots as possible. When I was younger, our area was a haven for drug dealers and muggers. Things have gotten better since then, but I wouldn't say it's exactly safe."

Annie gazed into the evening sky. The moonlight glistened in her eyes. "I hope it's this clear on prom night."

"Me too."

Herbie fell silent after that. He was looking at the sky, but unfocused eyes gave away the weight on his shoulders. Leading up to the prom, I had grand aspirations of giving Annie the greatest night of her high school years, a night she'd remember for the rest of her life. I wanted to get her a limo and a beautiful corsage. On top of that, I'd planned to buy a nice tuxedo from the men's clothing store downtown. All of this would cost a pretty penny, of course.

So I stepped up my job searching. I looked for anything I could get, whether it was cooking burgers or parking aeromobiles. But no one wanted to hire me. Most part-time jobs had already been snatched up by students with reliable transportation, and what work _was_ available was during school hours. Try as I might, I couldn't get anyone to give me a break. So, as we stared at the stars that night, I was hoping and praying that Annie would be understanding if I couldn't afford the total package for prom night.

"Something's on your mind," Doc said. "It seems the mention of the prom rattled your nerves."

I let out a long breath, staring at my former self. My naive, stupid, blind self. "More than you know."

When Herbie started rolling pebbles beneath his feet while avoiding eye contact with Annie, I knew what he was about to ask.

"For the longest time," he began, gulping hard between words, "I just assumed I wouldn't be going to the prom. Never thought I could find a date." He paused for a moment, but Annie didn't reply. She just kept looking at the sky. "How about you? Did you always assume you'd be going?"

She nodded. "Yes, though I imagined I'd be going with Brian."

That caught Herbie off-guard. "But . . . you're happy that you're going with me instead, right?"

"Sure," she said. "I mean, if he asked me, I'd probably go with him. But he won't do that."

I wanted to take off the invisibility belt, walk up to Herbie, and plant a giant red flag on the street in front of him. He was obviously taken aback, and it showed in his face. But he didn't do what he _should've_ done. In retrospect, I wish I'd let her believe we were going together all the way up until prom day and then stood her up. I was no boyfriend, no love interest, not even a friend. I was a tool. A pawn.

"Wait a minute," Herbie said, eyes filling with a mixture of anger and pain. "You'd still go with him even though you and I are a couple?"

"Of course," she said matter-of-factly. "It's been my dream for years to have him escort me to the prom. You know that; we've talked about it."

"We've talked about how he was an ex-boyfriend of yours that meant a lot to you at that time! Not someone you still loved! Not someone you'd prefer to be with over me!"

Annie continued to behave as though it was no big deal. "Herbert, calm down," she said, finally facing him. "I'm not going with him. I'm going with you."

"That's not the point. You'd _prefer_ to go with him."

She looked at him as though he was being completely irrational. "So? Why is that a big deal? I'm with you, and we're going to prom together."

"A girl should _want_ to go to prom with her boyfriend," Herbie told her. "You make it sound like I'm your second choice. Like you're only going with me because Brian is unavailable."

"No, that's not it." She shook her head with a slight huff of frustration. "It's always been a dream of mine, that's all. Don't you have any dreams? Haven't you ever wished for things to go a certain way? Not that you're unhappy because something happened differently; it just wasn't what you had expected."

I don't know if I really believed what she was telling me or if I just didn't want to let anything get in the way of the only relationship I'd ever had. But I _wanted_ to believe her. It showed in Herbie's face. His anger softened a little, but his eyes were still narrow with suspicion. "So you're happy to be going with me?"

"Of course!" she said with a smile. She knew exactly how to manipulate me. That smile made me melt every time.

Herbie wrapped his arms around her. "You're everything to me, you know. You're my world. You're my reason for breathing, the light of my life, the joy in my heart."

She returned the hug, but said nothing. What a fool I was.

At that point, Annie's mother emerged from the front door of the house. "Annie, come on now!" she snapped. "It's nearly eleven, and it's a school night. Time to come inside!" The door slammed shut as the last word was spoken. She made no acknowledgement of Herbie's presence.

"I wish I knew what I did to make her so angry with me," Herbie said with a sigh.

"You didn't do anything," Annie reassured him. "She's just angry with me for being up so late. Don't worry about it."

Doc and I watched as the two said their goodbyes. Minutes later, Annie was back in her house, and Herbie's silhouette was fading in the distance.

"How did that make you feel?" Doc asked me once both were gone.

"Then or now?"

"Both."

I stared at Annie's house and tried to push back the memories that had held me prisoner in a world of false love and broken promises. For some reason, even knowing what Annie was, there is a part of me today that still feels a sense of attachment and adoration for the time we spent together. I've fought to keep it hidden within the dark recesses of my mind, buried deep beneath my anger and resentment—both toward Annie and myself—over her deception and eventual betrayal. But seeing her today had stirred the pot, so to speak.

"Are you alright?"

"Yes," I finally answered. "I just don't know what's wrong with me. Even now, watching her lie to my face, I still feel affection for her beneath the bitterness. Why? Why do I still care even after all she did to me?"

"She was an important part of your life, Herbert. She showed you what it was like to have someone actually care about you. To love you. To hold you, support you, and encourage you. That's not something you'd ever really experienced before. And you haven't since then, either. That's why she's still special to you."

I lowered myself onto the curb adjacent to her house. "But she _didn't_ care. She didn't love me. She was just using me."

"Let me ask you something. Do you regret your time spent with her? Honestly ask yourself. Would you be happier today if the two of you had never met?"

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. I didn't want to lie to him. Yes, Annie had left a scar on my heart. Despite that, I wouldn't trade my memories of her for all the riches in the world. If not for her, I'd _never_ have experienced the affection of another, the comfort of her touch, the warmth of her embrace. She made me feel like I could do anything. My anxiety vanished in her presence. People no longer frightened me. And I'd give anything to feel that way again.

And Doc already knew that. "Perhaps your heart is content to live with the memory of the experience rather than erase it due to the outcome."

I continued to stare at her house. "Maybe. I just wish those good times weren't tainted by the bad."

Everything came to a head a week before the prom. I really should've seen it coming, but I was too head-over-heels in love. Annie was everything to me. I'd have walked across the country naked in the snow just to be able to see her. Nothing else mattered, not my family or school or bullies or God. And _that's_ why my next encounter with Brian hit me like a bullet through my chest.

However, Doc and I had been traveling for a number of hours and I was drained, both emotionally and physically. Doc suggested we end our session and continue tomorrow. I agreed—not because I wanted to, but because I needed to. I guess I still think I'm tougher than I really am, because today was far more difficult than I'd anticipated. I thought being more than a decade removed from the situation would've helped me distance myself from the events that transpired to _some_ degree, but sitting on that curb outside Annie's house, I could practically feel my heart bleeding all over again.

I'm not looking forward to tomorrow.
Wednesday – Day 8

I woke up this morning with a knot in my chest. Anxiety does that to me sometimes. I didn't want to go to Doc's office. And for the first time, I considered telling him I couldn't make it. I thought better of it, though. Guess I still have a bit of conscience left inside, because I didn't want to walk away from the opportunity to make peace with my past. Not that I've found any such peace thus far, but I need to at least wait until this whole time-travel experiment is over before I can say whether or not these experiences have helped.

That meant I _had_ to see Doc today.

Worse, that meant I had to witness Annie's betrayal all over again.

Doc and I arrived just before the end of Herbie's algebra class. We made it to the first floor hallway just as the bell rang. At that time of the day, Herbie and Annie would usually meet at his locker for a few moments before going on to their next classes. But this time, Annie was nowhere to be found. Instead, Herbie arrived to find Brian blocking access to his locker. There was no choice but to acknowledge him. "What do you want?"

"I think you have a pretty good idea," Brian said, shoving Herbie back. "You've been walking around with my girl for far too long. It ends now."

Herbie, still blindly in love and ready to die to defend his girl, narrowed his eyes. "She's not yours," he snarled. "You let her go. Now she's chosen to be with me."

"You moron, she's not with you. She was just wasting time with you until we worked things out. You're not her boyfriend, you've just been holding my spot for me. And now I'm taking it back."

"I won't let you take her from me," Herbie growled. "And neither will she. You'll see."

"You don't have a choice, punk. So I suggest you move along. _Now._ "

I don't take kindly to orders or threats. If you tell me you're going to hurt me, I _will_ respond with a challenging defiance. Smart? No. But that's me.

Herbie's eyes raged with fire. "I'm not going anywhere." His fists were clenched, too.

Brian gave him a shove. "Look man, don't make me have to hurt you. I really don't want to have to put you in a hospital."

"Why? You think I'd come visit you?"

Brian's friend Alan Kuller stood behind his buddy, egging him on with unnecessary comments. "Beat him down, man! Beat him down! He deserves it. Look at him; that little runt can't hurt you!" He had been making those sorts of comments throughout the whole exchange.

I guess Brian decided to take his advice. His fist connected solidly with Herbie's jaw, driving two teeth right through his tongue. It hurt, but Herbie had received his share of beatings before, so it was not unfamiliar territory. And this time, he was not going to walk away without leaving some marks of his own. Blood immediately poured from his tongue, so while Alan cheered and Brian shouted common tough-guy expressions such as, "How do you like that, punk? You want some more?" Herbie leaned forward with a defiant sneer and spat a mouthful of blood right into Brian's face. His reaction of shock and disgust gave Herbie the opening to drive his knuckles straight into Brian's nose.

"That's it?" Herbie asked with an almost sadistic grin. Blood trickled down his chin. "You're going to have to do far better than that to put me down."

Brian was holding his nose with a grimace that I know was quite satisfying to Herbie. "You'd better start running now, because if I get my hands on you again, you're a dead man!!"

A crowd of spectators was beginning to gather. Herbie's cold stare was begging for a retaliation. Brian looked ready to follow through, but a shout from the far end of the hall stopped him short. Annie emerged from the crowd, running as fast as she could. When she finally reached the two, she positioned herself between them.

"Stop it!" she yelled. "Both of you stop it right now!"

"Talk to _him_ ," Herbie muttered. "I'm just defending myself."

Brian's next sentence was one I should've seen coming. He looked at Annie and shouted, "I thought you said you were going to tell him this morning!"

I could almost see Herbie's heart sinking to his feet. Still, his jaw was set in anger. "Tell me what, Annie? What is he talking about?"

"Well, you remember what I said about wanting to go to the prom with him, right?"

Herbie's eyes began to fill with water. "Yes, but you said that was a long time ago."

Annie flicked her eyelashes at him. "I know, but he asked me this morning."

Herbie didn't ask for her answer. It wasn't necessary. Her tone of voice and body language gave her away. "But I asked you months ago. You're supposed to be my girlfriend. What kind of girlfriend goes to the prom with another man? You said you were going with me!"

"She's not your girlfriend!" Brian shouted at him. "And she's going to prom with me. End of story."

There have been a few times in my life when my emotions took such control over me that I have said things that I know I couldn't back up. This is one such time. "In a minute, you're going to find yourself rolling into prom in a wheelchair!"

Brian growled and tried to take a step toward Herbie, but Annie pushed her hand into his chest. "Stop!" Turning back to Herbie, the words that crushed my world came rolling out of her mouth. "Look, I'll just go with him, ok? It'll solve the problem and he won't want to fight you anymore."

"How would that solve anything?" Herbie asked in disbelief. "How could you do this to me?!"

Her eyebrows shifted down as her tone of voice hardened. "I told you that I've wanted this for a very long time. Don't you want me to be happy? Don't you want prom to be special for me?"

"Okay kids, break it up!" One of the English teachers, Mr. Sitari, came out of a nearby classroom. As if to emphasize his point, the bell rang. "You should all be in your classes by now," he scolded. "Now get moving or I'll be forced to write late slips for each of you."

The audience of students dispersed like roaches under a spotlight. As they scurried off, Brian took hold of Annie's arm. "Come on, let's go."

She didn't resist. She just looked at Herbie and said, "We'll talk later." Then she, too, was gone.

Herbie didn't seem to hear her or notice her departure. Out of all the painful events of my youth, this ranked up there with the worst. The hollow feeling that rolled through my chest as I stood there staring into space is still fresh in my mind today. For years, I had done everything I could to shield myself from the emotional damage that other people seemed so intent on inflicting upon me. And yet, there I was, broken in half by the girl I'd willingly let behind my emotional walls. I'd brought it upon myself, and it cemented my determination that no one— _no one_ —would ever get close to me again.

Mr. Sitari tapped on Herbie's shoulder, but he didn't respond. "Young man, you've got three seconds to get moving before I summon the principal!"

Finally, Herbie walked away. But he didn't go to his locker or to class. With tears running down his cheeks, he walked down the hall, around the corner, and through the main doors into the rain. Doc and I stopped following him there. I remember going into the wooded area behind the school and dropping down against a tree, crying my eyes out for the majority of the afternoon in the pouring rain.

"Did the two of you ever talk about any of this?" Doc's voice pierced the silence of the barren hallway. We walked out to the entrance vestibule where we could have a private conversation without needing to brave the weather.

"I called her later that night," I said. "That's when she openly showed her true colors."

"How? What happened?"

Although I would've preferred to let him see for himself, there was no real way for Doc and I to listen in on the phone call. So I told him about it. "The first time, her mother answered. I asked to speak to Annie but was told she was out bowling with her brothers. She told me to call back a few hours later. When I did, John answered. He was her oldest brother."

"And what did he say?"

"To put it simply, he tore me to shreds. Apparently, Annie had told him everything—and I mean _everything_ —about me. He knew I was poor. He knew my parents were abusive drunks. He knew everything that I had told her in private. And he used everything as ammunition, firing round after round straight into my heart. He told me that he and Annie had joked about my house for weeks behind my back. That he'd driven by my home and seen my father puking on the driveway after what I assume was another night at the bar. He laughed at me for not being able to take the abuse I received in school from bullies. He said it was almost sad to him that I honestly thought someone like me could find a date for the prom. And it was even sadder that I thought Annie could be that date. Said my mother was a whore, my father was a bum, and my life was a catastrophic mistake that has only served to inconvenience everyone I've ever interacted with."

"My goodness," Doc murmured. "Is that all?"

Not even close. "There was much more to the conversation than all that. Between each of his jabs, I tried to defend myself. But I believed much, if not all, of what he said. That made it hard to really come up with a defense. The only time I really disagreed was when he attacked me for being a Christian and told me I was weak for being a slave to an invisible deity that never existed."

"I see. I imagine it was fairly easy to close yourself off to the world after something like that."

My eyes began to water as the memories of that day played out in my mind. "The whole thing had gone down exactly as I'd feared," I said. "There would be no amicable separation. No close friendship afterward. She said she loved me. How could she say that to me if she didn't mean it?"

"High school love is rarely honest and true. Many teenagers mistake their feelings of attraction for love. I suspect the same happened to Annie."

"Maybe," I said with a sigh. "There was a point in our relationship when I told her I loved her and that I didn't want her to say it back unless she was absolutely _sure_. For my part, I had agonized over whether or not I wanted to say it to her because I didn't want to find I was misreading my own feelings. But all I could think about was her. To be in her arms, to be by her side, to laugh with her, to cry with her, to help her when she was down and to fall into her embrace when I was hurt. I couldn't imagine love being anything more than that."

"Unfortunately, the majority of teens want what they want and that's that. If they want to be in love, then they'll often jump at the first signs of _any_ positive feelings toward someone. They'll believe it's love because it makes them happy to think of it that way in the short term."

But there was more to it than that. "I don't know if it's true or not, but I later heard that Annie was using me from the beginning. She didn't want me at all, she was just determined to get Brian back into her life. Apparently, the guy was very territorial, and seeing me with his former girlfriend made him jealous. Allegedly, Annie knew that would happen from day one."

"I'm not so sure I believe it," Doc said. "Annie seemed to have genuine feelings for you in the memories you've shown me. Who told you that?"

"Her friend Kristin. One afternoon a week or two later, when I was trying to get Annie to talk to me, Kristin cut me off in the hall and blurted it all out. Said I should just leave Annie alone because I hadn't meant anything to her to begin with."

"From what we've witnessed, the truth is far more likely to be somewhere in the middle. She seemed interested in you, but there's no doubt that her interest in Brian played a part in the whole thing as well."

I shrugged my shoulders. "Either way, it didn't make a difference to me then and it doesn't make a difference to me now. The bottom line is that I put myself out there on a limb one last time, trusting in humanity to show me that there was at least _one_ person out there who cared about me. Just _one_ person who could be trusted. And the outcome hurt more than any of the other beatings I had received over the course of my life. I tried to win Annie's attention back for a few weeks, but by finals, I was done. I closed off to people completely."

"And how do you feel about her today?"

I shrugged my shoulders. "More resentful than anything else. I certainly don't love her anymore. I can see her for what she was, now. I know the reality of what our relationship was to her. But back then, I was desperate to hold onto the companionship. I just didn't want to let it go, but in the end, the decision wasn't in my hands."

Doc knew the overall story from our previous therapy sessions, so he had a good idea of where Herbie's emotional hurricane had taken him next. "So you decided to commit suicide?"

"Well, I didn't definitively decide to do it. But I started to think about it. My parents didn't want me. I had no friends. My girlfriend had used me to win the heart of another guy. I had no real goals or prospects for my life. My grades were average. I wasn't special to anyone. There was no one who would've realized I was gone. I had nothing to motivate me to keep going, and all I wanted was to be free from the daily torment of this ridiculous society."

"What about God? Didn't you believe that God had put you here for a purpose?"

"Yes, but I hated the purpose. Still do."

"Really?" This is one aspect of myself that Doc and I have never discussed before. "What do you believe your purpose to be?"

I took a deep breath before speaking. This was going to be tough to explain. Well, maybe not tough, but perhaps hard to swallow. "I'm the whipping boy. The best way I can describe it is to use this example. A person might see a friend killed by a drunk driver. That horrible tragedy inspires the person to never drink and drive. So the death of the friend has worked to the advantage of someone else. A greater purpose. That's what I think I am. I think I'm the tragedy that someone else might be watching. I'm the one that people can look at as an example of what _not_ to do."

Doc was silent for a moment. Because he was invisible, I couldn't see his expression. "So let me get this straight," he finally said. "You think that God put you on this earth to suffer through hardships so that others might learn and benefit from your struggles?"

That about summed it up. "Yeah, I do."

I can only assume that he was trying to find a way to articulate his words properly before he spoke. Eventually, he said, "God didn't put you here to suffer, Herbert. That wasn't His purpose or plan for you. But at the same time, life isn't about living happily or unhappily. It isn't about making money or rising to fame. It isn't about how many friends you have or whether or not you are loved. The only thing that matters in life is that we are called to serve both Him and the rest of humanity."

"So serving God will make me miserable?" I asked him. "It sounds like a pretty depressing outlook to have."

"If you continue to search for joy in the _things of this world_ , you're going to continue to be disappointed. You need to find joy in doing God's will. Your joy should come from the good news of Jesus Christ. When you donate your hard-earned money to someone in need, you should feel joy. When you help an old lady carry her groceries, you should feel joy. When you wake up every day knowing that you've got another day full of chances to spread God's love, you should feel joy. And that joy should not be a self-promoting feeling of pride in your actions, but a selfless excitement that you can love other people the way God loves you. Bad things happen, yes. God will handle those. And he will be glorified through them in one way or another. But life isn't about what you can get out of it. Life is about what you put into it."

I stood in silence. I had no reply to that. His reasoning had actually raised a very good question. Why _don't_ I find joy in helping others? The obvious answer, of course, is that others don't appreciate it. You lend a helping hand to someone, and they trample all over you. Then again, we're not supposed to offer ourselves as sacrifices in exchange for praise. We're supposed to offer ourselves as sacrifices so that God may be praised. But what kind of man would be happy with such a lifestyle?

I suppose, if my _goal_ was to see God praised, then such a thing would make me happy. Was that it? Was that the key to everything wrong in my life?

"Doc, how am I supposed to believe that the thousands of children who die every day have been selected to die by God because it serves some form of good? How am I supposed to believe that people with debilitating diseases are suffering because God says it's good? How can I accept that the helpless woman getting raped in the alley is getting exactly what God intended?"

"Because you're looking at it backwards," he told me. "God doesn't _cause_ any of these things to happen. God didn't create pain, God didn't create evil, and God didn't create suffering. Evil, pain, and suffering are what happen in the _absence_ of God."

"But God exists everywhere," I retorted. "That's what I was always told. God is omnipresent."

"He is, but humanity has been granted free will. That free will gives us the chance to either accept Him or deny Him. God _is_ everywhere; you are correct. But we have to reach out and accept His love."

"So the starving, the poor, the abused, they're all struggling because they haven't accepted Christ into their lives? I have a hard time believing that. There are plenty of Christians out there in abusive relationships, are struggling to pay bills, or have already lost everything."

"When I say we must accept Christ's love, I don't mean that He will grant us immunity to the pain and dangers of the world. He grants the understanding and peace to accept the world. The courage and wisdom to change it. When you were trying to show love in middle school, you were doing precisely what God intended for us to do when He put us here. He never said it would be easy. He never said it would be painless. In fact, Jesus said we'd each suffer because of Him. The pain continues because we're trying to bring a message of love and peace to a hateful and sinful world. And the rest of humanity uses its freedom of choice to reject us, abuse us, and even kill us for it."

Tears of frustration rolled down my cheek. "Why? Why do they torment me when all I want to do is good?"

"Man, by nature, is sinful," Doc said again. "Sin is selfish, deceitful, angry, jealous, vengeful, immoral, and deadly. And so man shares in those traits."

"So you're saying that the tragic things that happen, like poverty, starvation and murder, are all happening because of sin rather than God?"

Doc sounded like he was smiling. "That's correct."

"And the pain and suffering these things cause are all a part of His plan?"

"Not a part of His plan," he corrected me, "but He incorporates them into the plan. He works the hardships and struggles together to benefit His purpose."

"That doesn't make me feel any better," I admitted.

"Why not?"

"It means I'm right. He's just using my hardships to His advantage. In the meantime, I'm left to suffer in a world that doesn't want me."

"You're still looking at it wrong. It doesn't matter whether or not the world wants you. God wants you. Allow yourself to find fulfillment in His love. In loving your neighbor. Find joy in that! Embrace it!"

Everything he was saying made sense to me. But I just couldn't get past the hurt. How could I just ignore the things people have said to me? How could I just accept the abuse? How could I disregard the hardships I had endured for so long? "I just don't know how to let go, Doc. I don't know how to put the pain behind me and be happy doing things for others. I mean, I _want_ to do things for others, but I don't know how that could possibly heal the scars."

Doc took a deep breath. "Let me ask you this: Do you think you would've ever sat down to watch Pastor Hoskins if your family was filled with love and happiness? If you were the popular guy at school? If you were happy with who you were and the life you had? Would you have felt that same desire to spread love and kindness to others if you didn't have an overwhelming need for it yourself?"

Honestly, I couldn't answer that. "I don't know. Maybe. Maybe not. I'm sure there are _some_ people out there who are loving and kind yet never had to face the kinds of things I've dealt with."

"Hardships come in all sizes, colors, and shapes, Herbert. And I can tell you from many years of experience that there's not a soul on this planet who hasn't struggled through the trials of life at one point or another. But we pick ourselves up, wipe away the tears, and use what we've learned to benefit others."

It still didn't make sense to me. "I've never seen my problems benefit anyone else."

"Just because you do not see it doesn't mean it didn't happen. Remember, faith is a key aspect to a relationship with Christ. You have to believe that all things are tied together because you cannot possibly witness it all for yourself."

"I just don't get it," I sighed. "I don't get how I can possibly find peace with my life, whether it's past, present, or future, if I can't see how the struggles I've endured have benefited the world. If I can't see how the hardships that people endure—especially those who are worse off than me!—have benefited the world. Doc, how can I hear that a crazed madman blew up a school in another country and not ask God why in the world He allowed those innocent children to be murdered?"

Doc's voice was somber. "The sadness will always be there. It is an unfortunate fact of life in this world. No matter what we do, we'll never truly understand it. We just have to have faith that God is in control. In time, He will heal the scars. It feels helpless sometimes, I know. But we can take comfort in knowing that God understands all things, events, people, and purposes far better and far deeper than humans are capable of thinking."

Maybe I'm stubborn. Maybe I'm selfish. Maybe I'm stupid. Maybe it's all three, I don't know. But Doc's words just weren't enough. "That's not a good enough answer for me. I need more."

"Well, our journey's not finished, Herbert. Perhaps we'll make more progress tomorrow."

"Doc?"

"Yes?"

I hesitated for a moment, knowing that my request was stupid. But I needed to ask anyway. "Would you tell me again that God loves me?"

"Not only does He love you, Herbert, but He's reaching out to you. And He has _great_ things planned for you. You just need to . . . take His hand."
Thursday – Day 9

If junior year was the final nail in the coffin of my quest for happiness, then senior year dumped six feet of dirt into the grave.

As I grew older, my parents' behavior had gotten considerably worse, if you can believe that. Mom would frequently lose her voice due to her constant screaming. She'd yell about anything; the bills, the house, the rain . . . Whatever got on her nerves. But at the same time, she had pretty much thrown her hands up and allowed my dad to mess around with as many women as he wanted. That, of course, pleased him to no end. The thing is, Mom started seeing other men. I don't know why my father had a problem with this since it got her off his back, but he did. And he'd show it in his old tried and true way of conveying his feelings.

He'd sock her on the jaw when she wasn't expecting it.

Yeah, the spousal abuse had not only continued, it had grown to dangerous proportions. I remember one day when I came home from school to find a brand-new pistol sitting out in the open on their bed. Mom was at work at the time—she'd managed to land a part-time job at the local Department of Motor Vehicles—but Dad's truck was in front of the house. At first, I couldn't find him. The gun was just sitting there. I moved a little closer out of nothing more than sheer curiosity, and my father burst through the back door and stormed into the bedroom. He shoved me to the floor with a string of obscenities before grabbing the gun, jumping into his truck, and racing off. I don't know where he went that day or if he hurt anyone, but I can say with a fair amount of certainty that he didn't bring the thing home for the protection of his beloved family.

I told my mother about it the next day, and she told me I was crazy. She said that if I _had_ seen what I thought, it was probably for hunting or the firing range or something. I never understood why she always gave him the benefit of the doubt no matter how absurd the situation. Meanwhile, Dad hadn't come back. And he didn't return for a week, if I remember right. Doc thinks Mom was trying to convince herself that _anything_ Dad did was okay with her so that they wouldn't fight anymore. I'm sorry, Doc, but nothing can convince me that Mom somehow believed it was okay for her husband to punch her in the head when she disagreed with him. To kick her in the ribs when she was on the ground. To pull her up by her hair just to scream in her face. If she thought that was an acceptable way for a husband to treat a wife, then the booze must have killed _every_ brain cell in her skull.

I guess that's not impossible, considering how much she drank. It's a wonder that she _wasn't_ a casualty of alcohol poisoning.

As for me, I'd long since put an end to my mother's abuse toward me. When I was fourteen, Mom had gotten angry with me for going out without telling her. I don't remember where I'd gone; I was probably wandering through the park or something. Regardless, she was screaming in my face. I knew the slaps would come next, and punches would follow. So I did something I'd never before done.

I grabbed the phone, locked myself in my room, and called the cops.

I'd never called the police on my mother before. Not due to her abuse of me, anyway. I'd called them a few times when she and Dad got excessively violent with each other, but my reasoning was always that I was afraid for my mother's safety. When they showed up, they sometimes asked if I had ever been abused, but I'd always lie and say no. I didn't want to be put into a foster home or be taken away from the life I knew, as silly as that sounds.

But this time, I was done. And I told her as much when I hung up the phone. I screamed at her through the door that I was going to tell the police everything if she didn't promise to stop. To my great surprise, she did.

To my even greater surprise, she followed through with that promise.

But she was happy to wail away on Dad. His ladies, too. And Dad returned the favor, giving one of her "gentlemen" a broken nose and black eye. I started finding reasons not to go home. I'd miss my bus just to take the long walk home. I'd go to the park a few blocks away and wander aimlessly until dark. I couldn't stand to be around any of it. Their behavior disgusted me. Their lifestyles disgusted me. _They_ disgusted me. The drama in that damn house seemed to drag on with no end in sight.

Until that fateful day in March.

I warned Doc ahead of time that what he was going to witness was something that no one should ever have to see. I warned him it would be dangerous. I warned him that it was going to be traumatizing. I warned him that I have frequent nightmares replaying the incident over and over every time I sleep. I've tried very hard to forget the events of that day. I've tried very hard to erase it from the imprints of my memory. Doc knew what happened, but no more details than that. I've never wanted to talk about it, and I've never wanted to confront it. But on Doc's advice, I did so today. And it only served to reopen the wound.

It was eerily quiet around my house when Doc and I walked through the open door. My mother was sitting on the couch watching the holovision in her pink hoodie and jeans. Herbie was in his bedroom scribbling song lyrics in a notebook; I'd gone through a phase where I wanted to be the lead vocalist in a band. It seemed like a peaceful Thursday afternoon. But the peace was about to be shattered.

My father's pickup barreled into the driveway and screeched to a halt. He was screaming obscenities as he jumped out of the cab. When he charged through the door, he was waving the gun around and shouting something about my mother's affair.

"How dare you go sleepin' around behin' my back!" he yelled. "I oughta beat your—"

Mom leapt to her feet, seemingly unfazed by the weapon he was brandishing. "You're kidding me, right?!" she asked, holding up her hands. " _You're_ gonna come cryin' to me about _my_ cheating? You been with more whores than I got fillings in the past year alone!"

Herbie showed up in the doorway wearing an oversized black sweatshirt and some ratty old jeans. He said nothing, but his eyes flickered with signs of a raging fire within.

"I can do whatever I want!" Dad yelled at her, using the gun to point at himself as though it was his own finger. "I'm the man of this house, and my business is my business!"

Mom crossed her arms and snorted in disgust. "You ain't been a man in twenty years! When was the last time you brought home a paycheck, huh? And not money you done scammed outta some sucker at the bar. An actual paycheck for workin' a job!"

He gave her a shove, his finger wrapped around the trigger. "Money is money! It don't matter where I get it so long as I do! 'Sides, that don't make it okay for you to be out there hangin' on other men!"

Mom raised her arm and slapped him as hard as she could. "You don't want me to hang on _you_!" she screamed. "For twenty damn years I been tryin' to win your attention! So long as you're gonna be sharin' sheets with sluts, I'm gonna get my affection where I can!"

The butt of the gun struck her cheekbone, knocking her to the couch. "I'm the man of this house!" Dad screamed again. "And you're gonna do what I say!"

Her cheek had been split open, and blood trickled down her jaw. "I ain't your little slave that you can just order around," she growled, returning to her feet.

Suddenly, my father aimed the gun at her forehead. The blood drained from Herbie's face. Mom didn't help the situation. She pressed her head against the weapon's barrel. That made Dad seethe with anger. "I'll do it, I _swear_ I'll do it!"

"Then do it!" she screamed, tempting him with the unthinkable. "Pull the damn trigger and end it!"

I looked at Herbie; he seemed torn between stopping them both and not wanting to get shot. Watching him made me feel selfish. How could I not have acted? Why didn't I do anything?

Then it happened. Mom knocked the gun away with her forearm and grabbed hold of Dad's wrist. With both hands, she twisted his arm as she darted behind his back in an attempt to wrench the weapon free. Dad struggled against her, pushing and pulling and twisting and yelling, until the inevitable shot rang out.

Herbie's breath caught; I seem to think I didn't take another for at least four hours. Mom dropped to her knees, a crimson stain spreading across her shirt. With little more than a whimper, she slumped to the floor, clutching the wound. My father stood over her for a moment, eyes wide in apparent shock. Still, despite his pale face, he didn't exactly look like he regretted it. His chest heaved with each breath, and he stared at the gun as though it was both the holy grail and a hissing cobra. I wonder if _he_ even knew how he felt.

Then his head whipped around. Herbie's eyes grew to the size of golf balls. There was no question what the old man had planned next. And Herbie wasn't about to stick around for it. He nearly exploded through the back door and raced into the yard with Doc and I close behind. Adrenaline carried him over the old fence and through several neighbor's lawns before he emerged along the street behind ours, running with enough energy to carry him across the state line.

"I'm sorry, Herbert," Doc said in a low voice. "I'm so terribly sorry."

I wasn't listening. A sudden realization was beginning to dawn on me. "I have to see," I murmured, turning back toward the house. "I have to see."

I ran back inside the house. There, on the living room floor, I found my father cradling my mother in his arms. It was almost surreal to see him showing that kind of affection. Her chest was heaving with short erratic breaths. Blood was gathering on the floor beneath them. Her life was fading. And my father was crying.

My father was _crying_.

I couldn't believe what I was seeing. The old man, _my_ old man, was showing something I didn't believe existed in that black heart of his. Remorse. Regret. Sadness. Sorrow. Pain.

"I'm sorry, Honey!" he cried, pulling Mom close. "I'm so sorry! I _told_ you we done needed to get off the D!" The "D" referred to "Dread," a highly addictive narcotic that was popular at the time. Among the side-effects were violent fits of rage. Alcohol compounded the effects.

My mother smiled at him. She _smiled_ at my _father_! "You know just as much as me that things are gonna be better this way." She reached up and brushed some of his graying hair from his eyes. "Just see that Herbie doesn't go off and throw his life away, ya hear me?"

Dad shook his head, sobbing uncontrollably. "I ain't no father," he groaned. "I don't know the first thing about how to take care of that boy."

"You don't have to take care of him," she whispered. "Just make sure he don't think of followin' after us. Don't let him get mixed up in this kinda nonsense. He's gonna do big things with himself. You'll see."

"But what am I gonna do without you?" Dad pleaded. "I ain't nothin' without you, ya know. Them other girls, they don't give me what you've always given me. It's why I married you an' not them!"

My mother's eyelids seemed to be drooping, but she still had enough left in her to respond. "Do you know why I married you? Because I believe in you. The whole reason I get so angry when you ain't got a job is cause I know the potential you got inside you! Yeah, we had problems. But you never gave up on me and left me for good. Ya always came home, one way or another."

I was struggling to hold my emotions together as I watched. My mother and father, seemingly eternal enemies with horns forever locked in battle, were crying in each other's arms over the journey's sudden end. And when Dad leaned over my mother and whispered, "I love you," I nearly lost control of my emotions. I had to get out of the house. I raced through the still-open front door and just ran. I ran and ran and ran. I had no idea where I was going. I just had to get far away from that house. I kept running until I could no longer breathe. Until my chest was on fire. Then I ran some more.

I didn't stop until I was halfway across town. I collapsed on a bench outside a fast-food restaurant, wheezing for air while simultaneously crying my eyes out. I just couldn't believe what I'd witnessed. My father and mother cared about each other after all! And my mother believed in me! And Dad loved her! It was all too much to handle.

I thought about where Herbie was at that moment. I remembered that night all too well. Fleeing from Dad, I thought the best place would be somewhere public. So I had gone to the local playground and sat on the swings while I bawled my eyes out and tried to make sense of everything. As far as I knew, my father was a heartless murderer. I thought I was going to be his next target. Life would never be the same. I'd have no option but to leave home and live on the streets. And I'd always have to be somewhere public so that I'd be safe. I'd be eating out of people's garbage and sleeping under overpasses. Everything would change. The life that I'd grown used to was over.

Of course, that's not how things actually turned out. But I was preparing for them in my head. Then I thought it might be better to just be shot and killed by my father than to wander around the streets slowly starving to death. I gave that a lot of thought. The image of my mother's body falling to the floor played over and over in my mind. She was gone. Forever. And it was all because of my dad. He could take me just as easily. He could end my miserable trudge through this ridiculous world. All I had to do was go home.

So that's what I did.

Given the choice between a quick gunshot or weeks of an empty stomach, I chose the gun. And with my hands in my pockets and my eyes fixed on my feet, I spent an hour making my way back home. But when I got there, Dad's truck wasn't in the driveway. Inside, the house was empty. Mom's body was gone and the blood was cleaned up. Dad was gone, too. To this day, I don't know what he did with her body. And I'm not sure I want to know. What I do know is that when he came back to the house three days later, he seemed to be sober. He didn't say a word to me, and I didn't dare say anything to him. I never saw him touch _any_ of his hunting equipment or any other type of weapon ever again. And I never realized that until I was sitting on that bench today.

"Are you alright?"

How he found me, I have no idea. But there was Doc, casually walking up to the bench like he'd known I was there all along. He wasn't using his invisibility belt anymore; come to think of it, I must've shaken mine loose while I was running, because the buckle was undone and I was sitting in plain sight for all to see.

"Herbert, are you alright?" he asked again.

"Honestly?" I began, my mind returning to my parents, "I really don't know. I don't know what to think about anything I just saw. Did my parents really love each other all along? Did my mother honestly believe in me? I thought they hated each other _and_ me!"

"Many people have difficulty expressing love," Doc said, sitting down beside me. "They want so badly to protect the people they care about that they end up strangling them in the process. It seems possible now that your mother's abuse may have been her own way of trying to take care of you. To teach you. To guide you. It wasn't the right way to go about it, of course. And it most certainly doesn't make it acceptable. But her heart, her goals, her intentions—they may have been driven by a more nurturing nature than we might have previously believed."

My thoughts were all over the place. "My Dad _wanted_ to be better. He didn't want to be the cheating drugged-up drunk that he was. He wanted to take care of his family. He just had no faith in himself and too much pride to admit it. Why couldn't he have shown it to us? Why did our family have to turn out like this?"

"There are many possibilities," Doc replied. "But no definitive answers. Fear is a much more powerful emotion than many people will admit. It can hold captive even the most powerful giants. It's irrational and paralyzing. In the case of your father, he watched his family crumble and tear itself apart, but that wasn't enough to motivate him to quit the drugs and the drinking, the parties and promiscuity. There is a distinct possibility that he was so afraid of failing that he subconsciously set far lower goals. By never really putting his full effort into anything, he'd never be at risk for honest and true failure."

"You think he was afraid of what we'd say if he got a job and couldn't handle it or something?"

"I can't say for sure, Herbert. I'm just posing it as a possibility."

I held my head in my hands for a few minutes, tears silently rolling down my cheeks. I had taken my parents' behavior at face value for my entire life, never considering the possibility of something deeper. I assumed they were selfish, stupid, irresponsible, uncaring, and unloving people. But while there may be some truth to that, I now wonder if there just might have been more loving, compassionate, and dedicated parents hidden beneath all that.

I have believed for the entirety of my life that my parents did not love me.

Is it possible that I was wrong?

What else have I been wrong about?

"I was so cold," I sobbed. "When Dad had his heart attack a few years later, I was so cold. The doctor called me at work—I'm not even sure where he got the number—to tell me the news. I don't even remember what I said, but I know how I felt. I was almost . . . satisfied. Not very Christian-like, I know."

"And how do you feel now?"

I looked up at Doc. He was smiling down at me. "What?"

"How do you feel about your father right now?"

Separating my emotions proved difficult at that moment. "Sad. Sad and sorry. So terribly sorry. I wish I had known what was going on beneath that heartless exterior."

"In a situation like that, it can be easy to pass judgment based on your previous experiences. Your father had a history of avoiding responsibilities and neglecting his family while indulging in other less noble excesses. But even through all of his careless decisions and lack of morality, God was using those events to further His will."

That didn't make much sense to me. "How did my mother's death have a positive effect on anything?"

"Well, you mentioned that your mother had been working a job when she died. Isn't that right? So who paid the bills after she was gone?"

I hadn't thought about that. I was so wrapped up in my fear of my father, mourning for my mother, and desperation to get a job and get out on my own that I didn't often think about what my father was doing. Was it possible he'd . . . gotten a job?

Doc didn't wait for me to say it. "If your father did indeed muster the will and courage to get a job and pay the bills so that the pair of you might have a roof over your heads, what then would you say of God's will? Repentance from a man who spent decades at the bottom of a beer bottle is a pretty positive outcome, don't you think?"

Again, I put my head in my hands. "But why did my mom have to die for him to act?"

"It all goes back to free will, Herbert. Bad things happen because we make bad decisions. Man chose sin over God in the Garden of Eden long ago. Remember what you learned yesterday? Pain, suffering, disaster, and death—they're all by-products of sin. God didn't let your mother die, nor did He cause it. That unfortunate responsibility falls on your father's shoulders. But God used that tragedy to bring about a positive result. That's how He works in our lives."

"He could've stopped it," I snapped, anger welling beneath the pain. "God is all-powerful. He could've stopped the whole thing from happening somehow!"

"He could've," Doc admitted. "But He didn't. God will not rescue us every time we get ourselves into trouble. We'd never learn anything that way. We'd never grow, never mature, and never take responsibility for ourselves and our actions."

"Why do we need to grow? Why should we need to mature? We're all just going to die one day anyway. What's the point of all this?"

"Are you asking me for the meaning of life? Why we exist?"

I knew in my heart that there were no answers to such questions. But I was angry. "Yeah," I muttered, wiping my nose with the back of my hand. "According to God's plan, we're born, we live, we accept Him, we die, and we live eternally with Him in Heaven. Right? So what's the point of all that?"

"I can't answer that, Herbert." Doc leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. "I wish I could. But just as a dog cannot comprehend how to operate an aeromobile, just as a tree cannot build a clock, just as a fly cannot complete a jigsaw puzzle, so too are our intellects limited. We cannot understand the meaning of life or the ultimate purpose behind God's plan because it is simply beyond our realm of understanding. That's why we have no choice but to rely on faith in Him to see us through a world we cannot understand for reasons we cannot fathom."

"I know." My voice was hoarse from the emotional overload. "I know. I just wish I understood why life has to be this way. It's hard to accept."

"It is," Doc chuckled. "I won't deny that for a second."

My thoughts drifted back to my father. I no longer thought of him as an immature and stubborn womanizer, though there is plenty of truth in that. I saw him as a sad, lonely, broken shell of a man trying to piece together the shattered remains of the life he could've had. How could I have not seen the change? I had stayed in that house nearly two years after Mom died. He was barely ever home. I remember stacks of bills on the table every day, but if he _hadn't_ been paying them, we should've lost everything. Holovision service, electricity, telephone, all of it! I was so wrapped up in my job and my search for both an aeromobile and an apartment that I didn't even stop to think about it.

"You alright?" Doc asked after a minute or two.

"I had no idea. I had no idea what was going on behind my back. Or right in front of my face, for that matter."

"Most people don't, Herbert," he said, placing a hand on my shoulder. "It is human nature to make our judgments based largely—if not _entirely_ —on what we see."

"I just assumed that Dad continued in his selfish ways after Mom was gone. It never crossed my mind that her tragedy might have brought about a positive change in his life. I had told myself over and over again that the events of my life served God's purpose, but did I ever actually _believe_ it?"

"That's what it means to have faith. That's where real joy, peace, and contentment come from. When you know—and I mean _know_ —that things happen for a reason. A good reason."

"How can _anyone_ find that kind of peace without seeing the positive outcome for themselves?"

"Many don't," Doc told me. "Many live their lives just as you have. They're miserable, hurting, and searching for answers. They can't accept the answers God gives because the pain is just too deep. They want more. They need more. Something more solid than another lecture about submitting to God's will. The problem is that they expect to be able to understand everything. And when they can't, they dismiss the whole notion of God and assume He must not be there to begin with. But that peace that they're searching for is there for the taking. All they have to do is surrender everything to Him."

"You make it sound like it's the easiest thing in the world," I grumbled. "It's not quite so simple."

"No, it's not simple. Far from it. But if they can do it, they'll find that life can be far more pleasant, more joyful, and more fulfilling than they ever thought possible. If _you_ can do it, Herbert, your life can be something you probably never thought it could be. You can be someone you probably never thought you could be."

"So how do I do it?"

Doc stood and smiled down on me with that fatherly warmth. "You're well on your way. Just a couple more blocks to go."
Friday – Day 10

It should come as no surprise to anyone that I couldn't afford to go to college. Likewise, I didn't have the money for an aeromobile. That meant that the only jobs I could try for had to be within walking distance of my house. Sure, I probably could've taken the aerobus to reach more distant locations, but I was trying to save every penny toward both an aeromobile and a place of my own. On top of that, the aerobus mass transit system was only a few years old at the time, and the prices were still pretty high. Having to pay that fare twice daily would've taken a significant chunk out of the already meager income I brought home each month. So I walked.

The day I graduated high school was the happiest day of my life. No longer having to bear the abuse and ridicule of my fellow students, I was free to start fresh, begin again, and move forward with a clean slate. My only concern was that I'd run into the same types of troubles in the workplace that I'd encountered at school. I prayed and prayed to God that there wouldn't be any bullies, any cliques, or any of the juvenile torment that had plagued my high school years.

My fears were all misplaced. I shouldn't have been worried about my coworkers.

I should've been worried about the customers.

I spent the last few weeks of school pretty much going from door to door asking businesses if they were hiring. I knew I needed a full time job with as many hours as they'd be willing to give me if I was ever to get out on my own. I couldn't tell you how many jobs I applied to, but the majority of them never called. I believe I ended up getting five interviews over the course of the fall. Three rejected me because of my lack of experience. The forth rejected me due to lack of education. The fifth was the grocery store I work at today. They hired me on full-time as a cashier. Nights and weekends. Ah, the joys of retail.

But seeing as how I didn't have a personal life to speak of or any friends vying for my time, working those hours was just fine with me. My only focus was getting an aeromobile and an apartment so that I could get as far away from Dad as I could. So I showed up early every day—hair combed, uniform clean, ready to work. And work me, they did.

When we stepped out of the Chronopod—now disguised as a parked aeromobile—the sight that greeted us wasn't all that different from the job I walk into nowadays. The old Grocery King sign had yet to be replaced, and the broken front door that constantly jammed still stood between customers and their purchases. Both issues have since been fixed. If only I had known back then that I'd be here today watching over myself!

Okay, that sentence made my head hurt.

We wore our invisibility belts today. During the earlier years of my life, we could've gotten away without them in a public place. But now, Herbie and I looked too similar. It was better to be safe than sorry.

"So," Doc began as we leaned against the wall beside the entrance. "What's going through your mind?"

"Nothing special," I told him. "I was thinking—" I paused as a young lady passed us. "I was just thinking about how nervous I was the first time I walked through these doors as an employee."

"That's only natural. Most people feel that way when they start their first job. When they start _any_ job, actually."

"It was more than the job, though. This was my chance to show not only myself but the rest of the world that I was not a reflection of my parents. That I was my own person—responsible, independent, strong, and able. But there was a voice, a hissing whisper of a voice, that had been telling me for years that I would turn out just like my father. I had this self-imposed weight on my shoulders that I'd never amount to anything, so when I got this job, I told myself that I had to work harder, longer, and better than anyone else who had come before me."

"That's quite a bit of pressure to put on yourself, don't you think?"

"Not for me. Not when the only examples I had to follow came from my parents. I had to be different. I know it sounds strange, given that I'd never touched a drop of alcohol, but I had to at least prove to myself, if no one else, that I was not going to turn out to be a violent drunk. That I could go places they never did. I was so scared that I'd turn out like them."

"That doesn't sound strange. We tend to—"

I hated to interrupt, but Herbie had appeared at the end of the block. "Here he comes." He was biting his lip and staring at the ground as he walked, fists gripping the brown paper bag that carried his lunch. "Wow, do I always wear my fear so openly for the world to see?"

"It's not a well-kept secret," Doc admitted. "But it's not abnormal, either. Most people have telltale signs of fear that manifest themselves whenever they're uncomfortable."

He didn't look up once. Like a prisoner marching to the gallows, he walked at a steady pace, eyes locked on the pavement right up until the moment he walked through the doors. Doc and I followed as he made his way to the customer service counter and asked for a manager. Dean Shenwitz, a cocky man with a loud voice, shook Herbie's hand and led him through a door behind the counter.

"That's the cash office," I told Doc. "He'll be in there for a few minutes filling out paperwork."

"The manager seemed pleasant. Was he a good guy to work for?"

"He was a spineless two-faced coward of a man." I shuddered, remembering some of the arguments I would eventually have with him. "He managed through intimidation. Rather than motivate, train, and encourage people, he simple told us that he'd get someone to replace us if we couldn't do what he wanted."

"You weren't motivated by that? I'd think a desire to avoid termination would drive one to work harder."

"For some people, it worked. But very few. In my experience, I've found that employees are far more likely to work hard for someone they respect. If they don't respect their supervisor, they won't care about the supervisor _or_ the job."

About twenty minutes later, Herbie emerged from the back room carrying a brown and green Grocery King collared shirt. We followed as Dean brought him to the back of the store and into the warehouse. The lunch room and employee lockers were back there, as were the bathrooms.

"Change into uniform and meet me in aisle three," Dean said. His patience seemed to be wearing thin. I don't doubt that he was anxious to pawn me off on someone else so that he could go back to his office to make more spreadsheets and chat on the phone with his wife. "Eric is going to show you how to merch the shelves. I was going to start you on register right away, but the training sim isn't working right. Jennifer will let you know when it's straightened out."

Now, of course, I know what he was talking about. But back then, I had no idea. And Herbie's blank face said so. "Okay," he just said with a nod. "Thanks, Dean."

Dean was about to walk away when his head whipped around. "That's Mr. Shenwitz to you. You need to learn to address adults with the respect they deserve."

First mistake. And Herbie knew it. "Y-yes, sir. I'm sorry, Mr. Shenwitz."

Dean walked off in a huff as the bathroom door closed behind Herbie. Doc and I waited just outside the door, watching Joe, Danny, and Stephan load pallets of product to be moved to the floor. When I first started, the warehouse always intimidated me. These guys moved a large amount of heavy freight in a very short period of time, and I didn't want to interrupt their work by making them wait for me to pass through. Sometimes I wouldn't even go to the lunch room on my break because I felt like I was intruding on their space. Not that they gave me any reason to feel that way, mind you. It was just my own insecurity. They were actually three great guys.

When Herbie emerged in his crisp new Grocery King shirt, he nodded meek hellos to the warehouse employees and headed to aisle three. Eric, a thin young man with a budding beard and wire glasses, was kneeled there. He was working with the canned goods, straightening and organizing the display. Herbie's arrival did not disturb his work; it wasn't until Herbie spoke that he finally looked up.

"Hello," Herbie began, "are you Eric?"

"Yeah," Eric responded, rising to his feet. "I guess you're Herbert?"

Herbie managed a nervous smile. "That's me. Is Mr. Shenwitz around? He told me to meet him here."

"He's gone, but he told me what he wants you to do. We're—"

"Excuse me," an old man interrupted from behind. "You two don't look like you're doing anything. Maybe you could help someone out?" He chuckled like he'd made a brilliant joke. Herbie forced a laugh.

Eric didn't. "What can I do for you?"

"Well, you people used to have the Wholeman's tomato sauce in the cans. Now they got 'em all in glass jars. What happened to the cans?"

"That was a decision made by Wholeman's, Sir." Eric told him. "We have no control over how they package their products."

Back then, a question like that would've stumped me. How was I supposed to know why a company would present their sauce one way or the other? Nowadays, the question annoys me. How I _am_ supposed to know?

"It's ridiculous!" the man responded, shaking his hands in the air. "How do they expect the stuff to last in bottles like that? I tell ya, I'm gonna have to start buying that Neaman's stuff over at Shopper's Choice!"

Herbie looked nervous. As a new employee, I didn't know much, but I knew the prospect of losing a customer was a bad thing. Eric didn't seem to care.

"I do apologize," he said without a touch of sincerity, "but we do have Italia's Delight sauce. That comes in cans."

The old grump waved the suggestion away with a groan. "I can get two and a half cans of Neaman's for the same price as one of those Italia brands."

I'm really not sure what the guy expected us to do for him. We're not a manufacturer, we're just a retailer. It wasn't like we could go into the back and can some sauce for him.

"Unfortunately, that's all we have," Eric explained. "You may want to try to contact Wholeman's directly to share your feedback." That was the best suggestion we could've given.

Of course, that wasn't enough. "I'll just go to Shopper's Choice," the customer grunted, walking away. "This place is goin' downhill, I tell ya."

As he shuffled down the aisle, Herbie looked to Eric. "Should we get Mr. Shenwitz to talk to him?"

"He wouldn't want to be bothered with that. Besides, he's just going to say the same thing I did."

I felt Doc tugging on my sleeve. We were too close to Herbie and Eric to speak freely, so I headed further into the aisle where no one would hear. "What is it?"

"How do you feel about what you just saw?" he asked, barely audible. "Herbie seemed like he wanted to do more to help that customer."

"I didn't get it back then. I thought, like most people, that the customer was always right. Now that I have years of experience behind me, I know that's nowhere near true. On the surface, that phrase teaches a sound business concept of doing whatever it takes to make sure the customer leaves happy. The problem is that people exploit that motto by demanding the unreasonable and expecting us to comply. It is one of many reasons I've lost so much faith in mankind."

"I see. You think he was being unreasonable?"

The question surprised me a bit. "Well, what would you have had me do? I had no power to decide what kind of products the store carried or how they were packaged. I still don't."

"I see." Doc said again. "So you feel your interactions with customers have damaged your opinion of humanity?"

"Absolutely," I answered, watching Eric teach Herbie the basics of stocking the shelves. It's not rocket science; the products just need to be put behind the proper price tags in neat straight lines. "People don't think about anyone but themselves when they become customers. All they care about is finding the cheapest deal for the best product and they don't think twice about trampling over others to get it. Remember the stampede at the Circuit Center last Christmas? Two kids died because customers just _had_ to get a deal on a new holovision."

"I'll admit, people often let their greed overpower their sense of right and wrong," Doc sighed, "but are you so innocent? Do you not have faults?"

I couldn't see him, but I glared in his direction anyway. "I'm well-aware of my shortcomings. I know I'm not perfect, but I've never let lust for money drive me to hurt anyone."

"So you feel that makes you a better person than them?"

I knew the point he was trying to make. "No, I don't. I know I'm not better than anyone. But I still can't bring myself to look past the selfishness of some of these people. Come on, let's go back to the Chronopod. I'll show you what I mean."

There was a day two years ago when I had an attack of conscience. Actually, I believe God had put something on my heart—something I still struggle with today. Jesus was sent to die for the sins of mankind despite the fact that mankind did not deserve it. And we still don't. But his forgiveness is there for anyone who wants it regardless of what they have or have not done. If the Lord can be that forgiving—no matter what the crime—then I should be able to forgive, too.

I felt that God wanted me to look for the good in people. After a long night of tearful prayers, I went to work one day deciding that I was going to look past people's faults and find the good in each and every person with whom I interacted. Some redeeming quality, some positive aspect to their personality, _something._ If God was telling me it was there, then it _had_ to be there.

Right?

I recall that day vividly. The sun was shining through the window of my apartment when I rolled out of bed. I felt reinvigorated. I felt optimistic. I felt ready to maintain a more positive outlook on life, people, and the world around me. I showered, toasted a bagel, and grabbed a bottle of water on my way out the door. Spring was in full bloom; the sweet aroma of morning dew rode a gentle breeze past my doorway as I locked up. It felt like a new beginning. In my mind, it _was_.

Herbie had just rounded the corner of the block when Doc and I climbed out of the Chronopod. Although I had owned an aeromobile by this point in my life, I enjoyed walking to work when I could. It was only a few blocks, and some mornings were too beautiful to miss. We hurried into the store right behind him. It didn't take long for trouble to rear its ugly head.

Sasha was working the customer service register, and her face lit up when she saw Herbie enter. "Herbert! I need your help!" Her customer, a middle-aged woman with what looked like a permanent scowl etched into her face, stared at him, hand gripping the counter as she impatiently tapped her foot.

Usually, I would head to the back to drop off my jacket and lunch. "Can I run to the back real quick?" Herbie asked.

The woman folded her arms with a snort. "Sure, we'll all be happy to wait while you make yourself comfortable!" she sneered.

So much for that. "No, that's not what I meant at all," Herbie said, walking over to the counter. "What can I do for you?"

Sasha opened her mouth to explain, but the woman allowed her no opportunity to speak.

"This _girl_ ," she emphasized the world "girl" as if to imply she meant something more derogatory, "is refusing to give me a cash refund for my items. It's absolutely absurd!" Her scowl deepened as she spoke. "Everything is unopened! They're all brand-new products that I purchased yesterday afternoon!"

Herbie looked to Sasha, knowing that there was more to the story. "What's up?"

"She paid by check. Total was one seventy-eight and change."

Because of the extreme rarity of checks and the ease of creating counterfeits in our technology-driven society, businesses and banks alike take no chances when faced with a situation such as this one. Businesses need time to be sure the check clears, and banks need time to deposit the funds into the appropriate accounts. As such, most companies will not issue cash refunds on checks over a certain amount. Grocery King's allowance is one hundred dollars. We _are_ allowed to make exceptions if the purchase date is more than five days prior, but that almost never happens. Regardless, the woman purchased the items on the previous day, and company policy was to issue a check in the amount of the refund from our corporate office. Cash was not permissible under any circumstances.

Herbert went behind the counter and looked at the screen. "May I ask why you're returning all of this, Ma'am?"

"I got it all cheaper elsewhere," she muttered. "I don't see what that has to do with your store refusing to give me back my money."

"It was more of out of curiosity," he explained. "We don't usually get returns this large."

"Well then I guess your customers don't shop around for the best prices," she snarled back. "Now, I demand that you refund my money!"

I could almost _see_ Herbie tell himself to look for the good in this woman. "Unfortunately, I can't do that. Company policy requires that we issue you a check in the amount of your refund. It will be mailed from our corporate office within one to three days after your check clears."

The woman pointed an artificial fingernail at Sasha. "She already said that. And I'm not accepting that offer. No one told me that when I paid for the items in the first place. Had I known that, I wouldn't have shopped here to begin with!"

"All return policies are posted at each register and on the back of your receipt," Herbie explained.

"Who reads receipts?" she shot back. "No one looks at those! They aren't binding contracts! Get a manager! I want someone who will actually help me."

Sometimes, we all want things we can't have. At that time, I _was_ the manager of the customer service department. And I had been explicitly reminded by corporate that the check refund policy is non-negotiable. "I am the manager," Herbie told her. "And if I _could_ help you further than this, I would. There are certain-"

Now she raised her voice to talk over him. "You're not helping me! You're not doing anything for me! You're giving me the same garbage story she's giving me!" Again, she pointed at Sasha.

And again, Herbie tried to explain. "There are certain-"

"I don't want to hear about rules and policies!" she shouted over him again. "I want my money and I'm not leaving without it!"

"There are-"

"Plenty of businesses bend the rules to make sure their customers are happy! Don't you want happy customers? Don't you?! I guess not!" She was trying to make a scene. That much was evident from the way her eyes darted from side to side to see if anyone was watching.

Looking at Herbie's face, I could see that he had given up trying to find any good in this woman. His stare was cold, his eyes narrow. He didn't say anything this time. Sasha kept quiet, but she looked ready to leap over the counter and tackle the lady.

"Well?" the customer growled after a few moments of Herbie's silence. "Don't you have anything to say to me?"

Herbie spoke in a low and steady voice; the voice that comes out whenever I'm trying to keep my raging anger under control. "That all depends on whether or not you intend to let me finish my sentence."

"The only sentence that should come out of your mouth is an apology!" she shouted at him. "Who is your boss? I want your supervisor this instant!"

Herbie gladly picked up the phone and paged Randy Mueller—he had taken over as general manager when Dean left the company a year earlier—to the service desk. Meanwhile, a sizable line had formed behind this stubborn lady, and many of those waiting were rolling their eyes at her. Sasha leaned to the side and said to the next customer, "We'll be with you as soon as we can. I apologize for the wait."

"They'll be with you as soon as they do the right thing," the woman added. "Your wait is their fault, not mine!"

When Randy arrived at the service desk, Herbie opened his mouth to explain the situation. Not surprisingly, he didn't get a word out.

"Listen," the lady began, putting both hands on the counter. "You really need to hire some competent people who have a clue about customer service. These two don't know the first thing about putting the customer first!"

"What seems to be the trouble?" Randy asked her, completely ignoring her comment.

She let out an exaggerated sigh as if to say she was tired of explaining herself. She wouldn't have had to if she'd let Herbie speak. "I bought these groceries yesterday. I want to return them today. These two buffoons won't give me back my cash."

Randy glanced at the computer screen. "You didn't pay by cash. You paid by check."

"Same thing," she said, rubbing her forehead.

"Not at all, actually," he told her. "A check is nothing more than a promissory note saying you have the money to pay for your products. We don't actually get paid for anything until the check clears and the bank deposits the proper amount into our account. That process generally takes several days."

"Well, when the check clears, you'll have that cash. So there's no reason why you can't give me cash now!"

Randy pressed a couple of buttons on the screen, and her transaction vanished. "Sasha, please take the next customer in line. Ma'am, if you wouldn't mind stepping over here," he shifted to the right side of the counter to give Sasha room to work, "I'd be happy to explain the situation to you." The woman made her reluctance to follow quite clear through her body language, but she complied.

I loved the way Randy dealt with customers. His voice never raised, he never let himself appear angry, and he never allowed anyone to bully him into doing what they wanted. "There are a number of reasons why we cannot give you a cash refund," he told her. "But there are really only two important reasons. First, your check has not yet cleared. I cannot give you money that hasn't been deposited into our account yet. Second, neither Herbert nor I have the authority to override this particular policy. Our corporate office has taken a very firm stance on the subject, and they do not allow the stores to make exceptions for any reason whatsoever. There are certain aspects of the return policy that we have the ability to waive, but the check refund policy is not one of them."

I know it was wrong, but I took pleasure in seeing the look on the woman's face as she finally began to realize that she was not going to be getting cash back. "This isn't fair," she mumbled. "I'm not waiting for a check from you people."

Randy didn't miss a beat. "Then I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to remove your products from my service counter and take them with you."

With a glare of what I can only call hatred directed at Herbie, the woman groaned. "Fine! I'll take a check."

Randy nodded. "Absolutely. Sasha will take care of it when she finishes with her current customer." He turned to Herbie before heading back to the sales floor. "Let me know when you've finished counting the safe. I had a discrepancy this morning and I want to know if you find it."

"Will do," Herbie answered.

As soon as Randy was gone, the woman started swearing under her breath, repeating over and over that we didn't know a thing about customer service. Herbie visibly bit his tongue and started toward the warehouse. He was still wearing his jacket and carrying his lunch.

"She was a fiery one, eh?" Doc said softly.

"She was the first of several difficult customers I ran into on this particular day. C'mon."

The Chronopod made it easy to jump ahead to the important parts of the day. The next difficult customer I remember running into was a middle-aged man who had a problem with the price of a product. Sasha called me to the service counter, and the customer proceeded to tell me that we were intentionally misleading customers with incorrect price labels. I tried to explain that there were several thousand individual price tags in the store and that accidents do happen. That got me nowhere. Even after I told him we'd refund the difference to his credit card, he continued to ramble on with threats of a lawsuit and complaints of our incompetence.

The price difference? Thirty-nine cents.

An hour or so later, I was heading through aisle seven with a customer when I came across a shattered jar of pickles on the floor. The juice had almost spread to either side of the aisle, and shards of broken glass were everywhere—some even lodged into the pickles themselves. When we discovered the mess, I told my customer that I'd have to go and get someone to clean it right away. I noticed there was a woman browsing the shelves not five feet beyond the spill, so I asked her to please be careful.

She spared me a frown and grumbled, "Yeah, sorry about that. You got the shelves so packed here that it fell when I moved something else."

She was the person who'd knocked it off the shelf, yet she didn't tell anyone. Her apology wasn't exactly heartfelt, and to top it all off, there were tracks of pickle juice running right up to the glistening wheels of her shopping cart. So she had made the mess, didn't care, and actually appeared to have rolled her cart right through it. It was unbelievable.

But the cherry that topped off my day was a customer who thought he was going to take advantage of a promotion we were running. Easter Sunday was approaching, and many people were shopping for party and dinner supplies ahead of the holiday weekend. Grocery King will usually make a number of significant price cuts before holidays to attract customers. This particular year, the theme was barbeque. So all sorts of products for backyard barbequing were dramatically reduced in price. The Grocery King brand of plastic utensils, for example, was priced at ten cents for thirty utensils. We took massive profit hits on those items in exchange for bringing customers into the store, and as such, the company usually limited the quantities available to five hundred packages per store.

As you might imagine, five hundred units didn't stretch very far in a week-long sale at a busy grocery store leading up to a holiday weekend.

The advertisement specified that there was a limit of three per customer on all sale items marked below fifty cents. Most people accepted this while others would briefly try to argue before giving up. However, there was a man that I encountered near the end of my shift that just would not accept the situation.

The front of the store was pretty crowded, making it difficult for Doc and I to find a good place to stand where we wouldn't be trampled. Herbie was working on the register just in front of two vending machines and an arcade cabinet. So I led Doc to the aisle that ran lengthwise behind the registers, and we positioned ourselves between the machines where no one would bump into us. I could see the soon-to-be angry customer waiting in Herbie's line. In his shopping cart, he had stacked thirty packs of utensils. The look on his face said he knew about the quantity limit, but those rules couldn't possibly apply to _him_ , right?

When his turn came, he placed three boxes on the register's conveyor belt and waited. Herbie looked at his cart and said, "I just want to make sure you're aware that the limit is three per customer. I'll have to charge you full price for the rest of those."

"I know," the man said. "That's why I'm going to ring them up separately."

Herbie shook his head. "No, it's not three per transaction, it's three _per customer_. That means you can only get three for the sale price."

"That's absurd," the man groaned. "I have a number of events coming up and I need these!"

"I'm not stopping you from buying as many as you need, Sir," Herbie clarified again. "But I'll have to charge you full price for any packages beyond the initial three."

"Why can't you just ring them up in separate transactions? What the hell is the difference?"

"Well, aside from the time it would take to do all of that while forcing everyone else in line to wait, we only have just so many of these items and they are in very high demand right now."

The man's voice began to raise not only in volume but pitch as well. "What are you talking about? You've got a giant display full of these things over there!" he pointed randomly toward the sales floor. "And I bet you've got more in the back!"

Contrary to his assumption, there were no more in the back. And that "full" display he mentioned was the last of the original four that we had set up at the beginning of the week. "What you see on the floor is what we have," Herbie told him. "And as I said, the demand for the sale items is quite high."

"Yeah, but you're still getting ten cents for every box, so I don't see why it matters whether it's me or someone else who buys them!"

"It's a matter of customer service," Herbie tried to explain. "I could either sell these all to you for the sale price and make one customer happy, or sell them to other shoppers and make nine more happy."

"But you've got tons back there!" he argued again. "This is absurd. Get me the manager!"

"I manage this department, Sir. I can only give you three items at the sale price."

The man eyeballed Herbie for a moment dropping a dollar on the counter. "Fine, whatever. You just lost a customer."

If losing him meant we could make nine other customers happy, I was fine with that.

He left his cart where it was, forcing Herbie to come around the counter and shove it out of the way for the next woman in line. With so many people waiting, there was no time to worry about returning the products to their display. Instead, Herbie left it against the end of the register between his line and the next.

But it wasn't over. While ringing up his next customer, Herbie kept an eye on the window. As he'd anticipated, the man walked through the exit, tossed his bag into the trunk of his aeromobile, and came right back into the store. He casually grabbed three more boxes of utensils out of his cart and headed to another line further down. Herbie picked up the phone and dialed the extension to the cashier working that register.

"Naomi, it's me. There's a guy in your line in a green striped shirt with the plastic utensils from the ad. Please don't let him buy them. He's trying to pull a fast one on me. Yeah, that's him. Okay. Thanks."

If the guy hadn't fought with me and given me a hassle over the whole deal, I probably would've let it slide. But his selfish attitude pushed me over the edge. Even after I explained to him that we wanted to be sure other people had just as much of a chance to take advantage of the sale, he still tried to go behind my back and get more than his share. So I made sure it didn't happen.

It was the exclamation point on the end of a ridiculous day. I don't often get that many problem customers in a _single_ day. It was as though people knew I was looking to find some good in them and wanted to prove otherwise. Almost as if they were saying, "You think we're good people? Let us show you just how rotten we can be!"

And Doc knew it. "So your first day of trying to find compassion for people didn't turn out so well, huh?" he asked when we got back to the Chronopod.

I almost laughed at that, considering the events we'd watched unfold. "Not at all. I mean, I know it does no good to bottle it up and let it eat away at me, but some people just know how to push my buttons. Either they're self-centered, greedy and selfish, or just plain stupid! My brain just can't fathom how some of these people manage to dress themselves in the morning."

"Perhaps they just don't understand," Doc suggested. "They don't know what it's like to be on the other side of the counter."

"I realize that, but what these people lack is a basic sense of decency. What kind of a person shatters glass all over an area where parents regularly bring children and doesn't warn anyone? Was it laziness? Was it fear we'd make her pay for the pickles? Are either of those things worth the risk of serious injury to a child? Or even an adult?"

"People make stupid decisions sometimes. I'll agree there. But sometimes they do it because they're trying to avoid making the difficult ones."

I shrugged my shoulders at that. "What's so difficult about informing a store employee about broken glass?"

Doc crossed his arms. "Fear of embarrassment? You, of all people, should know something about that."

"Over broken glass?" I asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Well, what would _you_ have done? What would have been your first reaction if you'd broken merchandise in a store and created a safety hazard in the process? Your _honest_ initial reaction?"

Doc always knows. I didn't want to answer out of embarrassment, but there was no sense in trying to avoid to it. "I would have looked around to see if anyone had witnessed the accident. If they had, I'd feel mortified. If they hadn't, I would have probably told an employee about the mess without admitting guilt in the process. I hate causing people trouble. It makes me feel like a burden on society."

He smiled at me, seemingly proud of my admission. "It seems you might have a little more in common with your customers than you thought."

Perhaps that one woman. Perhaps. But we have a _large_ customer base. "Are you trying to tell me that _every_ angry customer, _every_ selfish shopper, _every_ inconsiderate grouch—they all have good reasons for their behavior?"

"People don't develop habits, emotions, and attitudes without reason. If something makes them impatient or angry, if something brings about embarrassment, those emotions come from something in their lives that developed such reactions. Just as your fears and anxiety come from your previous encounters with people, the behaviors and feelings of others come from their own experiences."

I stared at the store for a long time, random thoughts and feelings dancing in my head. For a while, I didn't feel like these time-travel sessions were making much of a difference. But these last couple of days have come with revelations. A new perspective of the world has been opening up to me, and I can almost feel that fading flicker of hope deep within starting to come alive again. Maybe there's more going on right in front of me than I ever cared to see. Maybe I'm too wrapped up in my own misery to be able to sense the struggles of those around me. Am I really that self-absorbed? Am I really such a hypocrite?

Tomorrow is scheduled to be our last journey through time. It's the first time Doc has scheduled an appointment for a Saturday. He wants to see the events that led to our first meeting. The thing is, he's been acting very strange regarding this particular trip. Anytime I've brought it up, he's avoided the topic, saying something along the lines of, "We'll face that day when we come to it." I get the feeling that there's something he's not telling me. Not just about tomorrow, for that matter, but regarding everything. I'm not really sure why, to be honest.

His voice ripped me from my thoughts. "You alright?"

"Yes," I said, shaking myself from my daze. "Just thinking about everything."

"Would you like to talk about it?"

"No, that's alright. Let's get going."

We climbed back into the capsule, and Doc closed the door. "So, how does it feel?"

I glanced at him sideways. "How does what feel?"

"How does it feel to know you've accomplished your goal?"

"What goal?"

He adjusted his glasses, looking through them with knowing eyes of satisfaction. "To find some good in people!"

"But I didn't. I went home angry and depressed and defeated."

"Maybe back then," he said, "but what about now?"

I finally realized what he was getting at. "Okay, okay, you win. Maybe there's more going on inside some people's heads than I give them credit for."

He grinned at me. "So Herbie got up this morning hoping to find some glimmer of good in people. And now he's found it!"
Day 11?

I'm sitting in a hospital bed as I write this entry. Doctors say I'm lucky to be alive. No, _miracle_ is the word I keep hearing. And not from just one doctor. Just about every single member of medical personnel who has walked into my room over the past few hours has marveled not only at my survival but also my condition. I shouldn't be alive. I'm still trying to wrap my mind around it. Not many people survive a bullet to the brain. Of those that do, long-term brain damage is almost guaranteed. Yet I live. I'm here. I'm awake.

I'm alive.

Confused? So was I when I opened my eyes about six hours ago.

Doc wanted me to come in early the morning after our last session because he wanted to have some extra time to go over everything we had witnessed during the previous two weeks. So I showed up at his office a little after six in the morning. Surprisingly, his aeromobile wasn't parked outside. There were no lights in the building, and now that I think about it, there was no activity on the street either. The town was desolate.

I waited for him to arrive, but when he hadn't shown up by quarter to seven, I decided to go knock on the office door. Maybe his wife had dropped him off. Come to think of it, did he even have a wife? I'm starting to realize that I knew _nothing_ about Doc. Not about his family, his friends, his hobbies, likes, dislikes, or anything else. And though I realize that doctors generally try to avoid personal friendships with their patients, one would think that I'd have learned _something_ about the man, given all the time we'd spent together working on my issues. But I knew nothing.

Not that it mattered, anyway. Everything I _thought_ I knew was about to be turned upside down.

As soon as my knuckles connected with the wooden door, the world turned white. I felt a gust of wind seemingly blowing from all directions, and blinding light swallowed everything. My heart raced; I had no idea what was happening to me. The ground felt as though it was shifting left and right, forward and backward, right beneath my feet. I turned in every direction, searching for something—anything—within the sea of light. Then I saw him, a figure standing amidst the glow, wrapped in wisps of white fog that swirled around his body like a tornado. Clearly, I was dreaming.

. . . Wasn't I?

I took a few cautious steps forward, eyeing the man sideways as I did. I couldn't quite make out his face at first, but from his height and clothing style, there was no way it was Doc. Closer, and I could see what looked like a blindfold covering his eyes. Closer still, and a momentary shift in the fog revealed clenched fists quivering at his sides. I called out to him, but he didn't respond. I took one more step and stopped short.

Twin trails of blood ran from beneath the blindfold on either side of his head.

"Are you alright?" I asked him. "Hello?"

No response. But when my attention finally shifted from the blood to the visible portion of his face, my heart nearly stopped. I recognized him. All too well, in fact. It was Herbie.

It was _me_.

Without thinking, I tore the blindfold from his head and threw it away. Herbie stared back at me with eyes wider than I would've thought possible. His chest heaved with every breath, and his whole body was shaking. Was he _dying_?

"Hey," I called, trying to keep my eyes away from the bleeding wounds on either side of his head. "Can you hear me? Herbie, I'm—"

While I was mid-sentence, the world blinked. I suddenly found myself in the backseat of my own aeromobile on a stormy night. Herbie was at the controls, apparently oblivious to my presence there. Tears streamed from his eyes as he drove through the pouring rain, screaming at God the whole way.

"What did you put me here for, huh?!" he shouted. "I'm tired of it! I'm tired of trying to do my best for you only to be kicked in the teeth again!! I'm tired of putting myself out there as a sacrifice for you just to get spit on by people who don't understand it!! What good are my efforts to love people when no one recognizes any of it?! They don't care! All they care about is what _they_ want! And I'm tired of scratching and clawing my way through a world that could get along just fine without me!"

It all came rushing back to me. I remembered this night; it was my first time to Doc's office. I had just been through my worst customer encounter ever, a woman who had done nothing but belittle and humiliate me in front of both my manager and other customers. The dispute was over a price mistake, and it was a big one. They had shifted the locations of two displays around, and in the process, the merchandising team had missed a couple of old price tags. As a result, a case of aspirin that normally sold for thirty bucks was marked at two and some change. Not a big deal, in the long run. We would just make the price adjustment and call it a day.

But that wasn't enough for this lady. She wanted twenty cases at that price. At first, she also demanded that my boss retrain me so that I'd learn how I'm supposed to "bow to the customer" as she put it. Then she changed her mind and demanded that I be fired. Over and over again, she screamed, "I want him gone! I'll never shop here again if he isn't escorted out of this building right this instant! He should be working as a circus janitor, trudging through elephant crap!"

I had tried to reason with her at first. But when I told her that I had to get my boss to approve the sale of _twenty_ cases at the marked down price, she went ballistic. And yes, he did wind up approving the markdown.

Her attacks had cut deep. _Very_ deep. I managed to keep my composure until I made it back to my aeromobile, but once I was on the road, I lost it.

"You said you want me to serve people!" Herbie was shouting. "I'm trying my hardest to do it, but it's not making a difference to anyone!! The only thing I'm accomplishing is bringing more pain and misery upon myself!"

I looked through the window. We were almost to Doc's office. At the time, I had no idea where I was going. I was just driving randomly and screaming at God over and over again. So when I saw the sign for a Christian Psychiatric Center, I decided to go inside and see if anyone could help me. I didn't want to go home in that condition.

But when Herbie rounded the corner this time, my jaw dropped.

There was no psychiatric center. No doctor's office. A pizza parlor stood in its place, complete with a giant illuminated pizza that rotated atop the restaurant. It was a well-weathered building, clearly having seen its share of seasons over a good number of years. Still, believing that everything I was seeing was a dream anyway, I shrugged it off after a minute or two.

"You said you wouldn't give me more than I could handle!" Herbie yelled, looking at the sky through the windshield. "But I've had more stress and heartache in my life than I've been able to handle since the day I was born!" The aeromobile surged forward as he pushed the accelerator to its limit. "I tried and tried to hang in there! I tried to look for the good in people! I tried to spread kindness to those who spit in my face! I put myself out there again and again only to be beaten into submission every time!!"

By this point, I was getting kind of nervous. The vehicle was moving well beyond speed limits for the lower streets. The skyways above the town were meant for faster travel, but at ground level, this kind of momentum would be far more difficult to control. Herbie weaved in and out of traffic like a lunatic, screaming out his frustrations the whole way. As he did, the strangest feeling began to creep over me—a feeling of familiarity. It was almost as though I remembered doing something similar to this in real life. A sort of strange déjà vu.

After blowing through three traffic lights and nearly running another aeromobile into the ground, we finally set down just outside my—I mean _Herbie's—_ apartment complex. "I'll show you," he growled, tearing the key from the vehicle's ignition. He continued as he threw open the door and set foot on the pavement. "I'll show you how fed up I am!! I won't take any more of this wretched world's abuse! I won't!!"

I reached for my door handle, but the world blinked again. In a single flash of light, I found myself standing in my bedroom. Herbie sat slumped in the corner by his nightstand, face red and eyes redder. The sun was just beginning to come up; lines of morning light shone through the blinds and illuminated the side of his face. He was mumbling something, but my attention was immediately drawn to the gun in his hand. It was Dad's.

The one I've kept in my closet ever since he died.

The one I had considered using on myself the evening I met Doc.

"You can't stop me," Herbie said softly. He was still talking to God. "You can't, and you won't. You don't care enough to stop me. You'll let me blow my own brains across the room because you don't care."

Remembering the pain and agony I'd felt that night as I drove around in the rain, I knew that this emotional breakdown was not simply because some lady at work had given me a hard time. This was a lifetime in the making, a collapse brought on by everything from Timmy Jentson's bullying to my father's death. And at the time, I knew nothing about my father's change in behavior and lifestyle after Mom died. All I knew was that my heart was twisted in agony, unable to take any more.

But this, the vision of myself in the corner with my father's gun was something I didn't remember. I didn't recall ever falling far enough to actually dig it out of my closet. Yet the whole thing seemed so familiar. I could almost feel my hands shaking as I gripped the handle, feel the nausea churning in my stomach as I stood up, feel the sweat dripping from my forehead as I pushed the barrel against the side of my head. I could feel it all as I watched Herbie do the very same.

"One shot, and I'll be free," he whispered. "One second, and it's over. No, less than a second. And I'll be freed from this torturous nightmare you call life."

The next several moments seemed to move in slow motion. Herbie lifted glistening eyes to the heavens and whispered, "I've failed." My mouth went dry. My heart stopped. I tried to scream. At the same time, I saw a streak of light shoot through the window, a glowing aura of the purest white that wrapped itself around Herbie. I heard the gunshot, and in that split second, the light revealed the shape of an angel with beautiful wings that wrapped themselves around him like a cocoon. The bullet shot clean through both wings and Herbie's head, shattering the window on its way out. Then, just as soon as it had appeared, the angel vanished, and Herbie's body slumped to the floor.

The world blinked.

"Everything happens for a reason."

I found myself back in the sea of mist, though Herbie was nowhere to be seen. I turned around to find Doc standing several paces away. He was smiling at me as usual, though there was a hint of what I could only describe as satisfaction in his eyes. "I know it's cliché, but it's true."

"What was all that?" I asked him, still trying to comprehend the vision. "What did I just see?"

"Herbert, God has blessed mankind with free will. Humanity has the right to do, say, and live as they please. It is a God-given right. He wants people to follow Him out of love, out of trust, and out of respect. He's not interested in mindless drones."

"I don't understand."

"You've always struggled to understand why God would allow bad things to happen in this world. Why He'd allow you to suffer through the things you have. Why He'd allow children to die of starvation across the globe every day. If He is so loving, why doesn't He intervene? After all, He's God; He can do anything, right?"

I nodded slowly, still unsure of what he was getting at.

"He doesn't intervene because people have free will. Sure, He will perform miracles at times, but for the most part, He lets people live their lives. The evil, the pain, the suffering, the struggles, the death—all of it comes from humanity's decision not to follow His commandments. No one is without sin."

Hearing that, I began to frown. "So you're saying that I've brought my problems on myself because I'm not perfect?"

"To an extent, but it's far more than that. God doesn't expect you to be perfect. He knows you cannot be. If any man could attain perfection without the help of the Lord, there would've been no purpose in Jesus Christ's sacrifice. But just as a father disciplines his child for stealing from the cookie jar, so too will God discipline man for his sins. Not because He doesn't love you or doesn't forgive you, but because He wants you to learn from your mistakes and grow into the man He created you to be."

It made sense to a point, but there were plenty of instances in my life where I was seemingly punished for no reason. My fight with Timmy, for example. "I don't see how my getting beaten up by bullies taught me to grow or learn from my mistakes. The only thing that taught me was to try to avoid people in any way that I could."

Doc's smile faded. His eyebrows drooped as he let out a long breath and shook his head. "Herbert, I really don't want to offend you, but it needs to be said: The world doesn't revolve around you."

That certainly caught me off guard. "What? I never thought that it did!"

"Are you sure about that?" he asked, raising a finger. "Think carefully."

If there was one thing I knew about Doc, it was that his assessments of any given situation were spot-on accurate. And I'll admit that sometimes I was so hurt by what people did to me that I hadn't considered what drove their actions in the first place. But I've never considered myself to so self-absorbed that I disregarded the rest of the world entirely.

Before I could say anything, Doc put his arm around my shoulder. "Then let's take a look," he said, pointing to the left with his other hand. To my astonishment, the swirling mist began to gather together, spinning and coalescing into two figures. Colored waves began to ripple through both as their features solidified right in front of me. Each hue rolled across like paint on a canvas, filling the forms with the tones and shadows of their real-world counterparts. It all happened too quickly for my brain to really keep up, but before I knew it, I was looking at the ghostly reflections of little Herbie and Timmy Jentson. They stood frozen in time like a still from a movie. Timmy had a handful of Herbie's shirt in one fist while his other reared back to strike.

My jaw dropped. "How in the world did you do that?"

"I want you to tell me what kind of thoughts and emotions well up inside when you look at this image," he said.

The longer this dragged on, the more I was beginning to feel that it might not be a dream. But if it wasn't, what _was_ it? What was happening to me? "I don't understand how any of this can be possible," I told him, motioning from the image to the rest of the misty sea.

"Everything will soon become clear," Doc assured me. "But for now, the scene, Herbert. How does it make you feel?"

It didn't appear that I was going to get any answers until I cooperated. I focused my eyes on little Herbie. Even frozen in place, I could see the fear in his eyes. The helplessness. The confusion. "It makes me angry. Frustrated. I wish I had knocked the kid on his rear and socked him in the teeth."

"I see," Doc nodded, resting his chin between his thumb and forefinger. "So your feelings regarding this event center completely on the personal pain caused?"

Of course they did. I was the one getting pounded! "In this case, yes. I was the only victim."

Doc's eyebrows raised further. "Really?"

The mist shifted and glowed and twisted, forming a series of images depicting Timmy in various violent situations, each dissolving one after the other almost as quickly as they had formed. In each of them, Timmy was either attacking another child or committing violent acts of vandalism and destruction. We practically watched Timmy grow up as the scenes wore on, until finally the fog settled into an image of young Timmy surrounded by eight other boys. They looked a good deal older than he, and one held a knife.

"You told me that you heard Timmy had gotten hurt in a tussle with fifth graders," Doc said softly. "While the rumors you heard had some truth to them, the details of the incident were far different. An older relative of a young man Timmy had previously assaulted gathered a group of friends to teach him a lesson. They were high school students and gang members, and they beat Timmy to within an inch of his life. He was stabbed in the stomach that day." The fog whirled and blew, shaping into a vision of Timmy on a stretcher as paramedics loaded him into an ambulance. "He nearly died."

I stared for a moment as questions and thoughts and emotions swirled in my brain like a whirlpool. Finally, I managed to find my voice. "I feel sorry for him, but if he hadn't picked so many fights—"

I was mid-sentence when the scene again changed. This time, it showed something I hadn't expected. The image was quite similar to the one of Timmy and myself, except this time it was Timmy who was being attacked. He looked to be maybe four or five years old. And his assailant, a middle-aged man nearly twice his size, had his hand around Timmy's throat.

"Here's a situation you might be able to empathize with," Doc said softly. "That man is Timmy's father."

My breath caught. "His father beat him?"

Doc nodded. "Daily. Multiple times a day. And not because he hadn't wanted a child or because he was drunk. He simply thought that was how a child should be raised. It was how he'd been disciplined, how his father had been disciplined, and his father's father as well. That example taught Timmy that violence was the solution to anything and everything. When we originally witnessed the fight between the two of you, you came to the conclusion that Timmy simply didn't know any better. And you were right."

"But why?" I asked, shaking my head in frustration. "Why does God allow things like this to happen to innocent kids?"

"As I said, everything happens for a reason. We are all products of our upbringing. Much of who we are is determined by the events, memories, scars, miracles, and tragedies that we experience over the course of our lives. Do you want to know what Timmy is doing these days?"

Before I could answer, the mist coalesced into an image of an auditorium full of children. On the stage stood a young man with a microphone. He'd lost a good deal of weight with age, but there was no mistaking that sly grin. It was Timmy. "What is he, some kind of musician or performer?"

"No, he's a motivational speaker," Doc explained. "He travels across the country every year, visiting schools and churches to speak to kids about the dangers of bullying."

That was the last thing I'd expected to hear. The kid who used to strike fear into the hearts of most of our class was now teaching _against_ such behavior?

"You see, Herbert, after being stabbed, Timmy began to realize that a change was needed. He knew he was lucky to be alive, but at the same time, fighting was all he'd ever known. He continued abusing fellow students as he got older, despite knowing in his heart that it was the wrong thing to do. Eventually, he found himself in juvenile hall. They had a program there commonly referred to as the 'Scared Straight' program. They took Timmy and a number of other youths to an adult prison to show them a taste of where their lives were headed. And Timmy wanted none of it. When he finally got out of juvenile, he vowed never to lay an aggressive hand on another person as long as he lived. And he never did. He currently lives in Indiana and is studying to become a pastor."

The pieces of the puzzle were finally beginning to fall into place. My fight with Timmy, though it seemed like just a mean kid beating on someone smaller than him, wasn't just about me. It was a part of _his_ journey, too. It was a piece of the lifelong process that turned him from child to adult, from bully to peacemaker. And while our altercation didn't have an instant effect on him, it was one of the building blocks that helped him become the man he is today.

But how did Doc know all of this? Was Timmy a patient of his?

He spoke before I could ask the question. "As for you, this incident was the first of many that taught you compassion for those who suffer abuse at the hands of others. As I've said, God works all things together for the good of His children. You see now how it affected Timmy. But it also helped you develop your strong sense of justice. Today, you would be quick to stand up for the weak or the abused, would you not? It is a part of your personality that was formed from the years of injustice you suffered."

I nodded slowly. "I defend Sasha a lot at work. There's a guy who works on the floor named Eddie who constantly harasses her. I honestly don't know what his problem is; he's just always got her targeted. When I see him bothering her, I'll come to her defense. I don't know if she appreciates it or not—I know some people get offended when you don't let them fight their own battles—but all I can think about is how often I wished someone would have come to _my_ defense when I was younger."

"She appreciates it," Doc assured me. "More than you realize."

"How do you know that?" I asked, spreading my hands in frustration. "How could you possibly know _any_ of the things you've told me? The only explanation I can come up with is that this is all one crazy dream, but it's so much more real than any dream I've ever had."

Doc chuckled at that. "I've done my homework, Herbert. Trust me. I could never be effective in my work if I didn't ensure that I was well-informed about my patients."

When could he have done such extensive research? Besides, that didn't explain the magic fog. Or Herbie's suicide. "What was that vision I had before I wound up back here? Before you showed up? I saw Herbie—"

Doc held up a hand and nodded. "Don't worry, we will get to that. But first, let's take a look at the next memory you and I visited."

The wind blew, the mist billowed, and suddenly we were looking into my parents' living room. Mom was passed out on the couch with the wine bottle beside her, and Dad was rummaging through the bills. "This is the day he put her head through the window," I muttered. "What good could've possibly come from this?"

"Much the same way that each of Timmy's fights were but pieces of a much larger puzzle, so too were the altercations between your parents. As you now know, much of the fighting between them came as a result of drug abuse. That, combined with the constant consumption of alcohol, kept them from finding any measure of peace or contentment in their lives. The negative effects of their irresponsible actions are obvious. However, within it all, God was using their poor judgment as a means to mold you into the person you would eventually become."

I raised an eyebrow. "You mean cynical and bitter?"

"Honest and moral. Herbert, most children tend to follow the example set by the adults in their lives. More often than not, that means their parents. They don't know how else they should conduct themselves. After all, if Mommy and Daddy do it, it must be okay. But you used your parents behavior as motivation to be something better. You decided early on that their example was one _not_ to be followed. And to this day, you've never touched drugs or alcohol. You despised what your parents were and strived to be something more. That is the good that came from these kinds of incidents."

"But couldn't God have given me loving and hard-working parents to teach me the same lesson?" I asked. "Why did it have to be this way?"

"Free-will, remember?" Doc reminded me. "God didn't decide what kind of people your parents would be. Their choices determined who they were, just as yours have guided you. God helped by granting you the wisdom to see the consequences of their actions, but the decisions were yours and yours alone."

It was becoming more and more clear where this was going. Doc's contention has always been that each and every one of the horrible events in my life—no, in the world!—brought about some measure of good somewhere along the way. To an extent, I agreed, but I guess I never really grasped the vast scope of it. When he said everything, he meant _everything._ Everything from bumping into someone on the sidewalk to wars that ravage entire countries. Now he was taking me over the events I showed him and illustrating to me how positive things came from each. But to think that such a rule could be applied to everything in the world was absurd! Did he honestly believe that humanity benefited in some way from the children across the globe that were beaten every day? Women who were raped? Surely, that couldn't be possible!

"Oh? And why not?"

My heart stopped cold, and my eyes grew as large as dinner plates. I hadn't spoken my thoughts aloud. I hadn't! My mouth hadn't moved! I wasn't even looking at Doc; I'd been staring into the mist. Yet he had somehow heard me. He knew what I was thinking and responded directly to my skepticism. But how? How could he hear my _thoughts_?

Again, Doc's eyes seemed to hold information that he wasn't sharing. "When a woman is raped, it isn't because God made it happen. When I tell you that God brings good out of all things, you are hearing, 'It's good that she was raped.' But it's not good. It's not good when anyone is raped. It's not good that you were abused. It's not good that your parents abused each other. But God allows _us_ to decide how we live or lives, so _we_ are the ones in control of such events. However, since He is the God of love, the God of mercy, the God of healing, and the God of forgiveness, He brings good out of all things. Those who trust in the God of Abraham don't view it as, 'It's good that she was raped,' but rather as 'It's terrible that she was raped, but I trust that God will somehow bring good from it.'"

It all went back to my perception of God as my guardian in this world. My assumption as a child was that He would protect me from pain and suffering. But God won't stop people from making their own decisions. So if someone decides to attack me, He won't stand in their way. Instead of expecting God to stop it, I should be trusting that something positive will come from it.

Doc spoke softly, almost as though speaking to himself. "And he anointed the eyes of the blind man with the clay, and said unto him, 'Go, wash in the pool of Siloam.' He went his way therefore, and washed, and came back seeing."

I raised an eyebrow and looked at him. "I'm not crazy, right? You _can_ hear what I'm thinking, can't you? How? None of this makes any sense! How are you doing this?"

"As I believe I said at the start of this journey," Doc said through his grin, "all things are possible."

Possible for God, yes. But for a doctor . . .

It was beginning to come together. Herbie's suicide, the magic mist, Doc's knowledge of everything and anything, _the dream itself_ . . . All of it was far more than another visit to Doc's office. None of it could have occurred in the real world.

"You thought the same about time-travel, didn't you?"

But we had been traveling through time for two weeks. The fact that he mentioned it now suggested . . .

Doc put his hand on my shoulder. "You're getting there. But let's continue for now."

The next image came from my memory of the carnival. Little Herbie stood with his hand extended, offering the bundle of cash to its rightful owner. The joy on the man's face was unmistakable. Having witnessed that much when Doc and I had revisited the night, I already knew what Doc was going to say. Or, I _thought_ I did.

"This man's wife and child had been involved in an aeromobile accident earlier that day. They were supposed to meet at the carnival, but when his family never arrived, he started to worry. Calls to his home and his wife's phone were unanswered. Finally, he managed to get in touch with her sister. Without the number for his personal phone, she'd been unable to contact him to tell him the news. Now knowing what had transpired, he hurried to call for a cab to take him to the hospital. That's when he discovered that he'd lost his money. You can just imagine the despair he felt of having no way to get to his family."

"And I gave him back his cash," I murmured softly, my eyes fixed on the little wad of money in Herbie's extended hand.

"Yes. You helped him get to his loved ones, but that isn't all. This man was a Christian whose faith in God had slowly been dwindling over the years. Your kindness, your generosity, and your humility helped to rekindle that faith. Where a good number of children would've pocketed free money, you placed yourself second to others in need."

A feeling began to well up inside that I hadn't felt for years. It rose in a powerful surge that rolled through me until my nose began to burn and my eyes were wet with tears. I had spent the majority of my life believing that I was worthless, unloved, and unwanted. To learn that something I had done had brought about such a positive impact on the life of another filled me joy. And it was an incredible feeling!

Doc knew. Whether he was reading my thoughts or simply saw the tears in my eyes, I'm not sure. But he nodded with a knowing pat on the shoulder. "We're not done. Remember Miranda Meyner?" Her image appeared before us, the wide-eyed teacher holding the letter I'd written. "This incident weighed heavily on her mind for three years. She feared that somehow, some way, she was going to find herself accused of child molestation or worse. Eventually, the anxiety combined with the stress of her day-to-day work as a teacher and she decided she had to quit."

"How is that a good thing?"

"After a bit of consideration, she took what savings she had and put it into opening a business. She now owns a small flower shop on the north side of town and is far happier with her life than she'd ever been while teaching."

The fog shifted over and over, showing scene after scene while Doc explained the significance of each event. "I'm sure you remember little Samantha. After you accepted Christ into your life, you attempted to reconcile with the people you'd hurt with your actions. As you saw, your bravery and dedication to doing the right thing inspired Samantha to reconcile with her aunt. See, her Aunt Peggy had been tasked with caring for her the previous weekend, but Samantha had been wildly disobedient. When Peggy attempted to punish her by sending her to her room, Samantha said some pretty hurtful things and swore she'd never speak to her again. She knew she was wrong, but she couldn't bring herself to admit it. That is, not until you set the example for her to follow."

I nodded as he went on, trying to suppress the lump in my throat. "Then there was the young man who attempted to light your shirt on fire. Much like Timmy, this incident was just one of many. His exploits led him down a very dark path, and he is currently a member of a violent gang in New York City. His actions, however, have driven his sister's dedication to her education. She wants to show him that he _can_ make something of himself despite their poor background.

"Next was Anna, the young lady who groped you in the hall. That event distracted her long enough so that she wasn't involved in a fistfight on the floor below. You see, one of her friends named Carla was being assaulted by another girl, Tammie. And Tammie had a collapsible knife in her pocket. Had Anna arrived in time to involve herself in the fight before school security could break it up, Tammie would've used the knife as an equalizer."

My mind was reeling at the endless string of revelations. "Honestly, how do you know all of this?"

"Your time in the church youth group was important for you. Not only was it a good learning experience and a chance for you to try to come out of your shell, it helped you realize that there is far more to being a Christian than simply calling yourself one."

From an outdoor view of the church to an image of Annie standing between Brian and myself, the mist continued to shape the building blocks of my life right in front of my eyes. "Your time spent with Annie taught you much about what a healthy relationship should and should not be. And through our talks about the ordeal she put you through, you've come to learn that true happiness cannot be found in things of this world. Only when we set our sights on God's will, only when our desires match His, only then will we learn what it means to be truly happy. That is one of the most vital aspects of finding peace in following Christ during trying times."

And then we looked upon my father, sobbing as he cradled my mother's lifeless body in his arms. "When we revisited your mother's death, you were surprised by the revelation that your parents _did_ love both each other and you. On top of that, you learned to see your father in a different light. And when we stopped by your workplace," the scene changed to a view of me being yelled at by a customer, "you finally started to see customers as people not unlike yourself. People with fears, insecurities, and flaws that sometimes have a negative affect on their actions."

Tears were running down my cheeks. Doc took hold of both of my shoulders and turned me to face him. "Bad things happen, Herbert. Humanity chose sin over God. But you have to understand that each and every tragedy, loss, and struggle is used by God for the greater good of His plan. And everything that has happened to you has contributed to the person you are today. Your strong sense of morality, your dedication to justice, and the compassion you feel for those in need comes from the hardships that you have faced over the course of your life."

I shrugged my shoulders and gazed into the fog. "And what good does that compassion do anyone? Nothing I've learned means anything if I can't use it to benefit others."

Sadness enveloped Doc's face as he pointed back to the mist. "That brings us to this."

A cold wind blew through the glowing white fog as it curled and twisted into an image that made me sick to my stomach. Chills ran down my spine as I looked upon that terrible image of myself sitting in the corner of my bedroom gripping Dad's gun. "I don't recognize this," I told him. "I mean, I saw it a short while ago, but I don't remember it actually happening."

Doc's next words confirmed my fears. "But it did happen, Herbert. You gave up on the world. On life. On yourself. You gave up on God."

"Then how are we here together right now? What's going on? What has all of this been about?"

"God is blessing you with a second chance at life. You have the power within to accomplish great things. The trials of your life and the lessons they taught should not be kept inside. With your eyes now open to the reality of the world around you, you can affect the lives of others in a very real and positive way. How you do it is up to you, but always remember that everything works together for the good of God's plan.

"And what is God's plan for me?"

The old man's eyes twinkled as he smiled at me one last time. "Redemption."

A gust of wind blew, a breath of soothing warmth that washed over me like a peaceful summer's rain. The glowing light of the fog increased ten times over, obscuring Doc's image in a blinding sea of white. For a moment, I could see and hear nothing. I tried to call out to Doc—to _anyone_ , for that matter—but there was no answer. The light began to fade, and the warmth along with it, until I was all alone in an ocean of black. Voices, distant at first, wafted through the air for a time, their words unintelligible. A minute or two passed, maybe more. I didn't know what to do. I didn't know where I was. Then someone's hands touched either side of my head.

"Open your eyes, Herbert."

And that's when I found myself in this hospital bed. I was disoriented and confused at first; I suppose shooting oneself in the head might have that effect on a person. There were all sorts of tubes and wires connected to my body, probably monitoring my vital signs. I was sore, tired, and frightened. But every image, every word, and every memory of my time spent with Doc was crystal clear in my mind. How much of it had been real? Had _any_ of it been real?

Did it matter?

"You're awake!" a voice came from my left. I rolled my head to the side to see Sasha sitting in one of the chairs against the wall. She jumped up and rushed to me. "I can't believe it! You're awake! Are you okay? Can you move at all?"

"I'm okay," I said. My voice was hoarse from not having spoken in . . . well, however long it had been. "What are you doing here?" I asked her.

Her face turned bright red. "Oh, well . . . See, I felt bad that you don't have any family to come visit you, so I've been coming by every now and then. I hope that's okay."

I tried to nod, but my body wasn't responding so well. As of writing this, I'm far better. The doctors say I was just a bit stiff from being out for so long. "It's okay," I told her. "Thank you."

She stared at me for a moment, seemingly embarrassed that I'd caught her watching over me. Then she glanced at her watch. "Oh no! I've got to get going. I'm going to be late for my shift at the store. I can't wait to tell everyone you're awake!"

Her excitement at my condition was surprising. I had no idea anyone cared so much about someone like me. "Thanks, Sasha. Be safe. Tell everyone I'll be back soon."

It almost seemed as though she wanted to laugh at that. "I doubt they'll believe me! How many people survive being shot in the head?"

I couldn't help but grin as I looked up at her. "With God, all things are possible."

It turns out that Doc does not exist. I never walked into a psychiatry office that night. I went home and shot myself in the head with Dad's gun. As I wrote at the beginning of this entry, it seems like every doctor and nurse is shocked by my recovery. It was pretty much assumed that I was going to be in a vegetative state for the rest of my life. But here I am, alive and kicking— _literally_ kicking; these blankets they keep putting over me are itchy—and on the road to recovery. And I will _not_ forget what God has taught me throughout the course of this experience.

I'm joyful to be alive and thankful for another opportunity to make a difference in this world. I will no longer live life as a spectator; I'm going to get out there and make a difference for God. I'm going to encourage and uplift. I'm going to use the experiences of my life to help others cope with hardship and despair.

I'm going to be the man that God created me to be.

As for this journal, I found it on the nightstand beside my bed with a leather strap around it. I can't explain it; I know it shouldn't exist, but every sentence on every page is just how I remembered writing them after each memory that Doc and I visited.

I don't know if it was all a dream, a hallucination, or some kind of out-of-body experience. All I know is that God saw fit to show me the truth behind the struggles of our lives, and I'd be an ungrateful wretch not to share that news with the rest of the world.

Lord, I thank you for giving an undeserving and selfish person like me a second chance to make an impact on the world by sharing the good news of Jesus Christ. I promise I won't let you down.
Time Sure Flies...

Have you ever had a "That's it!" moment? I'm sure you have; it happens to most people at various points in their lives. It's that feeling you get when you finally manage to solve the problem in front of you. Maybe you were studying for a test or writing a book or trying to follow furniture assembly instructions. Most such events aren't necessarily life-altering breakthroughs of wisdom, but occasionally, one arrives at a "That's it!" moment that opens the floodgates of logic, reason, and above all else, comprehension. Have you ever experienced such a moment? For me, I'd have to say that the story documented in this book was the "That's it!" moment of my life.

It's been five years.

I was cleaning out my closet the other day when I came across this journal. After reading over some of the entries again, I find myself amazed by how different my life is today. So I felt compelled to write a brief update on the state of my life and my walk with God.

I can honestly say that I haven't felt any signs of depression in years, and every single day brings with it the joy of the unknown adventure that He has in store for me. I'm no longer weighed down by fear and anxiety. Through God's guidance, I've learned to take life as it comes with the understanding that all things, both good and bad, work together to achieve something positive in one way or another. And in knowing that, I have found peace in life—something I had sought for a long time.

Believe it or not, I contacted Timmy Jentson. He stopped by a middle school a few miles from me one spring to do a presentation for the students about bullying. I felt like I wanted to talk to him. I wanted to forgive him in person for the altercations we had in school. I didn't know if he'd care. Frankly, I didn't even know if he'd remember me. But I felt like it was something I needed to do. So I drove out that afternoon to see his presentation. And what I saw blew me away.

Timmy was an entirely different person. He was smiling, friendly, excited, and above all else, filled with the love of Jesus Christ. He couldn't mention Jesus due to school regulations, of course, but the spirit and morals of his lessons practically shouted Jesus' name. And he did something I honestly hadn't thought possible. He created an entertaining presentation for both students and teachers alike that kept their attention, had them laughing, and even evoked some voluntary participation from several members of the audience. In an age when schoolyard shootings are commonplace and suicides among youths are on the rise, it was refreshing to see the subjects of abuse, prejudice, and alienation addressed in such an honest fashion. And the majority of the kids seemed to appreciate that. Timmy didn't talk down to them. He didn't scold, didn't shout, didn't shake a finger. He simply gave his testimony.

Watching him that day inspired me. Everyone has a gift to give to this world. I truly believe that. Some create music; others create medicine. Some are great teachers, and others are talented athletes. There are entertainers, police officers, soldiers, and painters. Then there are those whose talent comes not necessarily from a skill, but from an emotional gift. These are the generous people who work hard to raise money for the poor, the self-sacrificing who volunteer to work at hospitals and animal shelters, and the compassionate who travel the country trying to inspire acts of love and good works amongst the students of our nation's schools.

And as Timmy stood on stage revisiting his days as the schoolyard thug, I began to wonder if I could share my story the same way. God doesn't grant everyone the chance to see the ripple effect that their actions have, but He showed me. How could I _not_ share that with the world? How could I keep the lessons He taught me all to myself when there are so many people of all ages struggling through the very same depression that had swallowed me? Maybe I could help them. Perhaps my experience might strike a chord with someone out there and lead them to their own "That's it!" moment.

So I talked to Timmy after the show. It was kind of surreal, actually, because when he saw me waiting beside the stage as the students filed out, he walked over and gave me a hug without a hint of hesitation. We got a cup of coffee and caught up with each other. He talked about his visit to prison and the effect it had on his opinion of life and of himself. Seeing hardened criminals that had been all but forgotten by society, he said, stirred feelings inside that he never knew were there. He became aware of his sense of entitlement and how he'd taken his freedom for granted. One of the inmates, a convicted murderer named Alberto, left an image burned into Timmy's mind that he hopes will never fade.

"He had an attitude, just like me," Timmy explained. "Got himself mixed up with the wrong kind of people. When he was twenty-two, he got into a gang war over a couple of girls. Saw his brother shot in the head that night. Then, in an act of rage, he stabbed the killer in the chest seven times."

Timmy went on to tell me about how the man's story seemed like a window into his own future. He was on the very same path, heading in the same direction, always acting on impulsive anger rather than rational thought. And for a moment, just one brief second, he saw himself in Alberto's place, wearing Alberto's prison jumpsuit, covered in Alberto's scars.

And it scared him straight.

He made a vow, much like Ebenezer Scrooge, to change his ways and make the most of the days before him. However, quite unlike Scrooge, it was not an overnight change. He went through a long period of struggling with his anger and resentment issues as he fought to overcome the demons in his life. Eventually, he found Christ, and the weight of the world was lifted from his shoulders. The turning point, he told me, was when he learned to live for others rather than live for himself.

"I'll never forget Alberto for setting me on the right path," Timmy said. "He may not know it, but he changed my life that day."

I shared my story with Timmy, too. I told him everything about my attempted suicide and how God had taken me through the events of my life so that I could learn how and why everything had happened the way that it did. I told him that I honestly believed that God had saved my life so that I could be a walking testimony of His love, power, and grace. Even when I'd given up on myself, God hadn't given up on me. And I told Timmy that I wanted to share my experiences with others because I knew that there were many out there suffering through the same hardships that had brought my life crashing down.

So we got together that summer and spent a few weeks planning out exactly what we wanted to do. Using his experience as the bully and my experience as the victim, we put together two separate presentations. One would be used in schools where, sad to say, we weren't allowed to speak of our spiritual convictions. Instead, we used the same morals, lessons, and principals of what God had taught us to help students see the long-lasting effects of bullying. Timmy is great at interacting with the kids. He does a great job of keeping their attention and making them a part of everything.

We use the second version for our visits to churches around the country. That's when I give my full-blown testimony of what happened and what God did for me. At Timmy's encouragement, I also speak a little about my experience with the youth group I attended in high school. Hypocrisy in the church is something I've grown very passionate about; it is the single most detrimental element to a congregation's spiritual growth, if you ask me. And it seems to be spreading like wildfire these days. If I can sandbag the flames at least a little in each town we visit, then I'll feel like I've accomplished something for the Lord.

We hope to one day visit prisons, and maybe even other countries, to share what God has taught us. We've talked a lot about expanding this ministry of ours to include more types of service. Actually, this winter we intend to volunteer down at the homeless shelter to help bring blankets and food to those less fortunate. I know it probably sounds like I'm trying to pat myself on the back for all of these things, but the truth is that I give glory to God for all of it. I'm just a servant; I don't need any thanks. If anyone feels the need to show gratitude for the things that I do, they can show that gratitude to God. He makes it all possible. I'm just a vessel through which He moves.

Anyway, through all of this, Timmy has become a close friend. That's something I can't say I had ever really had before the events of this journal took place. When we're not on the road, he and his wife come to visit so often that they might as well be roommates. Sometimes I feel like I'm on one of those holovision sitcoms where the main character's best friends are always there. But I'm fine with it. Actually, I love it. So does my fiancé.

Did I mention I'm getting married?

Remember Sasha? The girl I worked with at Grocery King and the one who was sitting beside me when I woke from the coma? Well, once I learned to look beyond my own misery, I came to the startling realization that Sasha was interested in me. I hadn't seen it before because I was so wrapped up in my own little world of self-pity. After my relationship with Annie, I had built up these towering stone walls around myself to keep the rest of the world out. I didn't want anyone to get close enough to hurt me, so I kept myself and my heart distant and protected from the world.

But Sasha saw right through the walls. She saw the pain, she saw the fear, she saw the loneliness, and she smashed right through the concrete to tell me that I didn't need to feel lonely anymore. I didn't need to be afraid anymore. I didn't need to hurt anymore. It took a lot of time, but I eventually mustered up the courage to take her hand. And now, four years after our first date, we're planning our wedding. God has woven every thread of my life together even better than I could've imagined, and I'll never ever question His judgment again.

Don't get me wrong. I know I'm painting a picture of a perfect life, a typical happy ending with fireworks exploding above as I ride off into the sunset. But life hasn't been easy by any stretch of the imagination. In fact, if anything, it has been a lot tougher. Timmy and I were unceremoniously kicked out of a few schools because they thought our messages were too "Christian." After leaving Grocery King to travel with Timmy, I actually lived in my aeromobile for a short time because I was evicted from my apartment for failure to pay my rent. And I still struggle with my old self from time to time. My frustration with people rears its ugly head every now and then, but I'm learning to work through it because I know in my heart that everyone has their own battles to fight and burdens to bear.

Through all these things, I know that God is bringing about some good. Even if it's not happening _to me_ , even if I can't see it with my own eyes, I know that someone somewhere out there is benefiting from the troubles I've faced. And that, to me, makes it all worth it.

The bottom line is that life isn't supposed to be easy. The harder you work for things, the more rewarding and fulfilling they become. Doc gave me the opportunity to change my past. He must've known I wouldn't take it. And I'm glad I didn't. True growth is borne out of struggle. The lessons learned from the hardships you endure are the reason God put you here in the first place. They help you become the man or woman that He created you to be. You learn more, appreciate more, grow more, and accomplish more. And when you finally realize and accept this, you'll wind up feeling more peaceful, more content, and happier with life even when you find yourself facedown in the mud.

I don't know how this journal found its way into your possession. But if there is anything I want you to take away from the testimony contained within these pages, it is the fact that everything indeed happens for a reason. You may not be able to see it quite yet, but in time, you will. Just be patient. Although life may seem like a hopeless battle, I'm here to tell you that God brings hope where there is none. The trials you face are part of a larger puzzle. Learn from them!

They are, after all, the building blocks of life.

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Special thanks to my family for all of their support, and to my beautiful Laura Crump for never giving up on me. Most of all, thank you God for giving me the opportunities to get my ideas onto paper.

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