He sat on a bench next to the quad for a long time. The sun set and the warm summer day vanished along with the kids playing Frisbee with their shirts tied around their waists.

Finally he stood and walked toward the Student Union. He needed food. He'd skipped lunch at some point; his stomach was growling at him. He didn't feel hungry, but his body was demanding food. He just felt tired.

There was a pizza franchise in the Student Union called Papa Bob's. He ordered a small pizza and a c.o.ke, ate it mechanically. It tasted like cardboard, chewy cardboard.

The Union was desolate as well, all the students driving home or heading to the dorms for studying and TV. John spotted a pay phone as he sat pondering what he would do next, whether he should confront Wilson again. John realized that he should have taken a picture of the man or demanded he write himself a note. But he would have told John that it was computer generated or forged.

John walked over to the phone and dialed his number. The phone demanded seventy-five cents. He inserted the coins and the phone began to ring.

"h.e.l.lo?" his mother answered.

"h.e.l.lo," he replied.

"Johnny?" she asked, surprised.

"No. Could I talk to John please?"

She laughed. "You sound just like him. Gave me a fright, hearing that, but he's standing right here. Here he is."

"h.e.l.lo?" It was his voice.

"Hi, this is Karl Smith from your English cla.s.s," John said, making up a name and a cla.s.s.

"Yeah?"

"I missed cla.s.s today, and I was wondering if we had an a.s.signment."

"Yeah, we did. We had an essay on the poem we read, Tennyson's 'Maud.' Identify the poetic components, like the last one."

"Oh, yeah," John said. The poem was in the same unit as the Hopkins one. He remembered seeing it. "Thanks." He hung up the phone.

This universe seemed just like his own. He could fit right in here. The thought startled him, and then he asked himself what was stopping him.

He walked to the bus station and bought a ticket back to Findlay.

CHAPTER 11

In the early hours of the morning, John slipped across Gurney, through the Walders' field, and found a place to watch the farm from the copse of maple trees. He knelt on the soft ground, wondering if this was where John Prime had waited for him.

John's arms tingled as he antic.i.p.ated his course of action. He was owed a life, he figured. His had been stolen and he was owed another. He'd wanted his own back, and he'd tried to get it. He'd researched and questioned and figured, but he couldn't see any way back.

So he was ready to settle for second best.

He'd trick the John Rayburn here, just like he'd been tricked. Tease him with the possibilities. Tickle his curiosity. And if he wasn't interested, John would force him. Knock him out and strap the device on his chest and send him on.

Let him figure it out like John had. Let him find another universe to be a part of. John deserved his life back. He'd played by the rules all his life. He'd been a good kid; he'd loved his parents. He'd gone to church every Sunday.

Prime had pushed him around, Professor Wilson, the cat-dogs. John had been running and running and with no purpose. And enough of that. It was time to take back what had been stolen from him.

Dawn cast a slow red upon the woods. His mother opened the back door and stepped out into the yard with a basket. He watched her open the henhouse and collect eggs. She was far away, but he recognized her as his mother instantly. Logically he knew she wasn't his mother, but to his eyes she was. That was all that mattered.

His father pecked her lightly on the cheek as he headed for the barn. He wore heavy boots, thick ones, coveralls, and a John Deere cap. He entered the barn, started the tractor, and drove toward the fields. He'd be back for breakfast in an hour, bacon, eggs, toast, and, of course, coffee.

They were John's parents. It was his farm. Everything was as he remembered it. It was what he wanted.

The light in John's room turned on. John Rayburn was awake. He'd be coming out soon to do his ch.o.r.es. John waited until this John went into the barn; then he dashed across the empty pumpkin field for the barn's rear door. The rear door was locked, but if you jiggled it, John knew, it came loose.

John grabbed the handle, listening for sounds from within the barn, then shook it once for a few seconds. The door held. He paused, then shook it again, and it came open suddenly, loudly. He slipped into the barn and hid between two rows of stacked bales.

"Hey, Stan-Man. How are you this morning?"

The voice came from near the stalls. This John-he started thinking of him as John Subprime-was feeding his horse.

"Here's an apple. How about some oats?"

John crept along the row of bales, then stopped when he could see the side of John Subprime's face from across the barn. John was safe in the shadows, but he needed to get closer to him.

Stan nickered and nuzzled John Subprime's head, drawing his tongue across his forehead.

"Stop that," he said, with a smile.

John Subprime turned his attention to the sheep, and when he did so John slipped around the bales and behind the corn picker.

How could he trick himself? John wondered. He couldn't. He couldn't do to another John what Prime had done to him. There was no duplicity in him. John wasn't a liar. He wasn't a smooth talker. He couldn't do what Prime had done to him, that is, talk him into using the device. John would have to do it some other way. And the only way he could think to do it was the hard way.

John lifted a shovel off a pole next to the corn picker. It was a short shovel with a flat blade. He figured one blow to the head and John Subprime would be out cold. Then John would strap the device to his chest, toggle the universe counter up one, and hit the lever with the end of the shovel. It'd take half the shovel with him, but that was okay. Then John would finish feeding the animals and go in for breakfast. No one would ever know.

John ignored the queasy feeling in his stomach. Gripping the shovel in two hands, he advanced on John Subprime.

John's faint shadow must have alerted him.

"Dad?" John Subprime said, then turned. "My G.o.d!" He shrank away from the raised shovel, his eyes pa.s.sing from it to John's face. His expression changed from shock to fear.

John's body strained, the shovel raised above his head.

John Subprime leaned against the sheep pen, one arm raised.

He had only one arm.

Nausea washed through John's body, and he dropped the shovel. It clattered on the wood floor of the barn, settled at John Subprime's feet.

"What am I doing?" John cried. His stomach heaved, but nothing came up but a yellow bile that he spat on the floor. He heaved again at the smell of it.

He was no better than Prime. He didn't deserve a life.

John staggered to the back door of the barn.

"Wait!"

He ran across the field. Something tangled his feet and he fell. He pulled his foot free and ran into the woods.

"Wait! Don't run!"

John turned to see John Subprime running after him, just one arm, the right, pumping. He slowed five meters in front of John, then stopped, his hand extended.

"You're me," he said. "Only you have both arms."

John nodded, his breath too ragged, his stomach too tense, to speak. Tears were welling in his eyes as he looked at the young man he had contemplated clubbing.

"How can that be?"

John found his voice. "I'm a version of you."

John Subprime nodded vigorously. "Only you never lost your arm!"

"No, I never lost it." John nodded his head. "How did it happen?"

John Subprime grimaced. "Pitchfork. I was helping Dad in the barn loft. I lost my balance, fell. The pitchfork caught my biceps, sliced it. ..."

"I remember." In John's universe, he'd been twelve and he had fallen from the loft while he and his father loaded it with hay. He had thought he could carry the bale, but he hadn't been strong enough and he'd fallen to the farmyard, knocking the wind out of himself, b.u.mping the pitchfork over as he fell. The pitchfork had landed next to him, nicking his shoulder. His father had looked on in horror and then anger. The scolding from John's mother had been worse than the nick. "I just got a cut on my shoulder. In my world."

John Subprime looked confused. Then he laughed. "In one world I lose my arm, and in another I get a scratch. Don't that beat all." Why was he laughing?

"Yeah."

"Why don't you come inside and have some breakfast?"

John looked at him, unsure of how he could ask that. He yelled, "I was going to steal your life!"

John Subprime nodded. "Is that why you had the shovel? Then you saw my arm. No way you could steal my life. You've got two arms." He laughed.

"It wasn't just that," John said. "I couldn't bring myself to hurt..."

"Yeah, I know."

"No, you don't" John yelled. "I've lost everything!" He reached into his shirt and toggled the universe counter. "I have to leave."

"No. Wait!" John Subprime yelled.

John backed away and pulled the lever.

The world blurred and John Subprime blinked away.

There was the barn and the farmhouse, and off in the distance John's father on the tractor. Another universe where he didn't belong. He toggled the device and pulled the lever. Again the farmhouse. He didn't belong here either. Again he moved forward through the universes. The farmhouse was gone. And again. Then it was there, but green instead of red. He toggled the counter again and again, wanting to get as far away from his contemplated crime as possible.

The clouds flew around in chaotic fast motion. The trees he stood in were sometimes there, sometimes not. The farmhouse bounced left and right a foot, a half foot. The barn more, sometimes behind the house, sometimes to the east of it. The land was the one constant, a gently sloping field. Once he found himself facing the aluminum siding of a house. And then it was gone as he transferred out.

A hundred times he must have transferred through universe after universe where he didn't belong until finally he stopped and collapsed to the ground, sobbing.

He'd lost his life. He'd lost it all, and he'd never get it back.

He rested his head against the trunk of a maple and closed his eyes. After the tears were gone, after his breathing had slowed, he slept, exhausted.

CHAPTER 12

"Hey there, fella. Time to get up."

Someone poked him. John looked up into his father's face.

"Dad?"

"Not unless my wife's been hiding something from me." He offered a hand, and John pulled himself up. John was in the copse of maples, his father from this universe standing beside him, holding a walking stick. He didn't recognize John.

"Sorry for sleeping here in your woods. Got tired."

"Yeah. It'll happen." He pointed toward Gurney with his stick. "Better be heading along. The town's that way." He pointed north. "About two miles."

"Yes, sir." John began walking. Then he stopped. His father hadn't recognized him. Which meant what? John wasn't sure. He turned back to him. "Sir, I could use some lunch. If you have extra. I could work it off."

Bill Rayburn-John forced himself to use the name in his head; this man was not his father-checked his watch, then nodded. "Lunch in a few minutes, my watch and my stomach tell me. Cold cuts. As to working it off, no need."

"That's fine."

"What's your name?"

"John... John Wilson." He took Professor Wilson's last name spontaneously.

John turned and followed Bill across the pumpkin field toward the house. The pumpkins were still on the vine, unpicked and just a week until Halloween. Some of them were already going bad. John pa.s.sed a large one with its top caved in, a swarm of gnats boiling out of it.

He remembered the joke his father had told him a week ago.

"How do you fix a broken jack-o'-lantern?" he asked.