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Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

I step onto the concrete platform and look around.  Like most stations, it's long, with benches, and signs leading to Tickets and Information, Telephone and Restrooms.  The train is in the way of seeing the yard.  I'll have to come back later for that.  Maybe after dark.  For now, I walk through the building to the street side.  I find a taxi and hand the young driver the address.

"Huh," she says.  "I think this is the old name for the highway."

I shrug and smile.  "Let's find out."

She nods.  "All right, then."

As she drives, I crane my head, looking for--what?  I realize I'm looking for a brick building with a water wheel, and wonder if that's still possible.  More likely it'd be metal now, maybe beige or gray.  In the direction of the river, I see a tall stack poking above the low downtown buildings, a confusing array of pipes winding near its base.  I ask the driver, who says, "Yup, that's it.  Been here a long time."

I turn back and watch the town center slide past (a post office, two banks, an insurance company), then a strip center (dry cleaner, ice cream shop, video store), then subdivisions.  The ones closer to town have nice trees, sturdy houses.  Farther along, the trees shrink and the houses grow, all looking as though the first stiff wind might carry them off.

I'm surprised when we slow and turn, and the young woman says, "I think this is it.  Seem right?"

There've been no fields, no green buffer to speak of.  We sit at the end of a long drive.  It leads to what might be a two-story house.  It's hard to see through the massive trees surrounding it.  I think I can see a barn off the rear right corner.  I look back at the mailbox.  It has no name, just a number.  And a plaque.  I begin to feel my heartbeat against my collar and take a deep breath.  "Yes, I think this is it."

She stops at the crest of the drive.  I pay her and she agrees to wait, just in case.  I close the door behind me, smooth my slacks, and walk toward the front door.

The house has two stories (well, many stories, I think to myself), and a porch running the width of the front.  The paint's been well-maintained, and the house appears very solid for its age.  I climb the front steps, glad to see that no one is sitting out here.  I'll have a moment to collect my thoughts.

I wonder if she'll look anything like the photo I saw so long ago.  Hell, there's no guarantee she still lives here, or lives at all.  And if she is here, will I frighten her?  And it's almost dinner time. 

There are a million reasons why this is a bad idea.  A few are propelling me backward when the door swings open, and there he is.  We stop short at the sight of each other.

He's unchanged.  How is it possible, when I stand before him, hair white and knees arthritic, that his skin is still smooth, his own hair still brown?  "Jim?"

He snaps back to himself, his eyebrows rising.  "Yes?"

I step forward and whisper again.  "Jim?"

A woman's voice echoes mine from within the house.  "Jim?"

He keeps his eyes on me.  "Yes?" he calls back.

"Jim, what's wrong?"  Her voice is very close now.  "Is someone here?"

He looks over his shoulder, then back to me.  "Uh, yeah.  Mr...."

"It's me, Jim.  Hector...from the carnival."

He steps aside in the doorway and looks into the house.  "Um, Hector?"

She appears and looks out, curious.  When she sees me, she too stops and squeezes the towel she holds.  "Oh!"  Then, recognition?  "Hector," she says softly.

"Mrs. Anderson?"  She's the right age: about fifteen years older than me, I guess.

She smiles and reaches for my free hand.  "Yes.  But call me Pam."

I nod.  "Pam."

She straightens, then turns to him.  "Jim, this man was one of your grandfather's oldest friends."  She turns back to me.  "This is my grandson, Jim."

Jim offers his hand.  "Sir."

"Jim."

We stand for a moment, until she leans toward Jim and whispers loudly, "Why don't you take his case for him?"

"Right!"  He lunges forward.  "Can I get that for you?"

I hand it over, and watch him disappear into the house.  I shake my head.  "He looks just like him."

"Uncanny, isn't it?"  She smiles.  "Come on in."

I wave to the taxi driver and follow Pam into the house.  We settle in the front room.

Pam smiles.  "I'm sorry that Jim isn't here to see you again.  He would've gotten such a kick out of it."

I nod.  "Me, too."

"But you didn't know he would be here."

"No.  I actually came to meet you."

"Really?  Why?"

I hesitate, then, "I've written a book."

"Oh?"

"Yes.  It's about you and Jim."

"Oh!"  She considers a moment, then leans over and says, "May I read it?"

I chuckle.  "I was hoping you would say that."


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