Marcos woke up to the sun setting around him, people milling around, seemingly not paying him any attention. He looked up to a passing couple, “Excuse me?” No answer. Not even a glance in his direction. The bustling city around him full of people. Stores, marquees, and restaurants lined the sandy streets.

   He rubbed his face, only to be met with sand and grit scraping into his skin and eyes, making him feel even worse than before. He looked down, seeing himself in only a pair of shorts and a dusty wife beater. He didn’t even have shoes. He got up, stumbling a bit. He couldn’t remember anything from before, like he was a blanked mind, new and naive, he was lucky he knew his own name.



    He looked around confused once the surroundings came into focus. A desert town. He tried hard to think. Getting a headache, fighting the fog in his brain. He wanted to scream in pain, but he didn’t want to seem insane, not like anyone was paying him any mind. The hustle and bustle of cars and people was even more confusing. 



 Suddenly it hit him, he lived in Arizona. Yet, he knew where he lived wasn’t heavily populated. In fact, it was barely a town, just a place people passed through. It used to be a rich town, heavy with tourism as people passed through towards California, Nevada, New Mexico, and Mexico, but that all stopped when the fires broke out. It destroyed several communities and raged for days in the wild brush. 



  The communities were devastated, united in trying to rebuild, but without the tourism, the money ran out, the government didn’t see fit to help restore the city. Eventually, they gave up. Moved out, forced out, passed on. It was emotionally hard on who was left in the community. 



     It became a ghost town, Marcos was so young, he only remembered the barren landscapes, the half burnt reminders of industrialism, of wealth, of an illusion of eternity. 



   People were persuaded by the idea that the place could still be attractive enough to bring in a niche market, but it never happened. He spent his childhood biking around what was once a stunning town, but was now just a wasteland. A sad reminder of the dreams people had to leave behind. 



 He began to walk, the sand under his feet felt odd, hard? He looked down, it wasn’t just sand, but concrete, as well. They didn’t have concrete in this condition in his area? But the terrain was the same. 



   He felt odd as well, as if he was going to be sick, but not due to heat or hunger, as if he had chugged a bottle of alcohol, but without the intoxicating effects, just the dizziness and distorted mindset. What happened to Marcos? 



  A man on a bike was passing through, “excuse me! Sir! Excuse me?” Marcos begged out. 



  The young man stopped, got off his bike, while unstrapping his helmet. “Can I help you sir? Do you need me to get you someone?” He looked at Marcos with concern. “Is everything alright?” He handed him an extra water bottle from the side pack on his bike. Marcos drank it greedily, hoping it would help something in his brain. 



  He stumbled on his words. “What town is this?” He was scared. For some reason he couldn’t understand, his fear felt primal, like he wasn’t where he was supposed to be. 



  “Well, you’re in Mineshaft Creek. Do you remember how you got here?” The man asked him. “I’m Andrew, by the way, it’s nice to meet you, what’s your name?” Andrew felt something towards this man, not an attraction, but a feeling he knew him. 



  “Uhm… I’m Marcos. Wait, Mineshaft Creek? That can’t be possible, it burned down in ‘88?” Marcos replied incredulously. 



  Andrew, Mineshaft Creek, the Bridge Town. His brain began to hurt again, like it was fast forwarding and rewinding at once. Memories flooded his mind, so much to a point it nearly brought him to his knees. He knew that name, but how? He gritted his teeth and looked past the pain, confusion being at the forefront of his mind, he needed answers. 



  “Like 1888? It’s only 1979, sir. Are you sure you’re feeling alright? Can you tell me what year you think it is?”  Andrew began to feel uneasy. Like something was happening that wasn’t meant to be. 



 “No, that can’t be possible. it’s 2011, this place is a ghost town. Wait. Andrew? May I ask your last name? If it’s not a bother to you. Of course.” Marcos racked his brain. Who was Andrew to him, why did he….



 “Baxter, I’m Andrew Baxter. I was actually on my way to pick up dinner for my girlfriend, Diana, how bout I stop and grab you a pair of flip flops and we can walk to the shop together, please let me get you something to eat, maybe I can phone Diana at the restaurant and see if she can bring the car round.” He said quickly, trying to make sure the man didn’t leave yet. He had questions himself. 



  Marcos almost let his mask slip. Diana. Andrew Baxter. It couldn’t be real. This had to be a dream. 



“Uhm, yeah that sounds very generous, I really appreciate it, sir- Andrew, I mean. I’m lucky to have met you on these streets.”



“No worries, I would do it for anyone.” As Andrew spoke, Marcos’ heartstrings tugged, a part of him knowing there was so much truth behind his words. So much. 



  They began to walk together, shoes on Marcos’ feet. He knew for some reason the time would be short together, Andrew delicately trying to probe into Marcos’ life, but finding answers in a man who could barely recall his own name was rather difficult. At the restaurant, Andrew phoned his girlfriend, Diana, who was a complete sweetheart to the world around her, who happily agreed to pick them up. She was excited at the prospect of dinner with a guest, as she spent most of her time studying alone. 



  She pulled into the parking lot a few minutes later, Andrew still not getting much out of the now much more nervous Marcos. They all piled into the car, the smell of diner food filling the car, the silence, as Marcos sat in the backseat, thinking. 



 It couldn’t be possible, Andrew and Diana Baxter, Marcos Baxter’s parents, were dead, they died in the fires. Based on photos though, his belief was now contradicted, unless this wasn’t a sick joke, and he had somehow come back to 1979. How? How was this possible? 



 Then it hit him like a lightening bolt. The explosion, the experiment, Amber. He suddenly recalled everything. He sat in complete silence, but his mind was screaming. Wailing as time caught up with itself, with the consequences of his actions, with every memory from his childhood to 2011, he remembered. Now he was sitting in the backseat of a car, with parents he only knew for three years. 



 Why had he sent himself here? Realizing he woke up with nothing in his pockets, dread filled him to the core.



 He was stuck here. In 1979, nine years before the fire that would take his parents life. He realized his Uncle, who he was named after, was himself, the person who took care of him, _was himself. _