Thomas studied himself in the mirror, his lips parted. The outline of his silhouette seemed to flicker on and off.
“What have I done?” he muttered. The memory clung to a rock in the sluggish stream of his mind. “Think hard, Thomas.”
He remembered a metal box covered with thousands of tiny light bulbs. One column flashed blue, the next red, green, violet. A phantom hand wrenched his stomach as he…went back in time?
It was a brisk autumn morning in downtown Chicago. Thomas stood dazed under a maple tree in a small park. A young boy rushed over to him, his eyes almost large enough to touch the brim of his brown flat cap. The face looked right. He drew his blaster.
Cold, feverish chills racked Thomas’ body. He had thought the lad looked familiar. It had struck him with the last note of his weapon’s introductory vibrato. “Sorry, Grandpa Jim.”
Thomas’ brown hair faded to blond, then vanished. His body shone for an indeterminable duration before dispersing into a timeless void.