You know what it’s like when you wake up and you can’t remember where or even who you are? Like your hardware is on but the software is still booting? That’s what my fourth shift was like.

I woke thinking I’d just come from some elaborate, lucid dream, like a drunken night half remembered. But the bed felt wrong – it was comfortable, it smelt like detergent, and there was another person in it.

She lay on her stomach, head away from me so I could only see her short, black hair. Did I have a one night stand? Maybe, in this universe. But the evidence (see: clean sheets) did not support that theory.

My world was rocked by two things. First, the sound of a baby crying over a crackling monitor and second, her voice.

“Mm, it’s your turn,” she mumbled almost incoherently. I was too stunned to reply. I knew that voice. Two days ago it had ripped me to shreds, in public, for reasons that I was beginning to understand.

I fell out of bed and shuffled in a zombie haze to the door of the bedroom. In the hall, I smashed my bare toe on a table and heard the sound of wooden chess pieces toppling and falling to the carpet.

This is not my beautiful house, I thought. I didn’t even have a house.

The crying drew me onward. I felt my way through the hall till I found the room and a light switch. The kid stopped crying when I approached the crib. It was ugly. People always aww and coo over these things, but I didn’t find it cute. It’s head looked like a misshapen cantaloupe with big googly eyes glued on. But then it looked at me and smiled. I had to leave.

The light from the room illuminated the hall. There were dozens of pictures on the wall in mismatched frames, most of them showing me and her. In almost every picture I had this shit-eating grin, the kind that makes you want to smack around the guy wearing it. I was clean shaven, my hair was cropped much shorter than I ever wore it, and gone was the ugly white scar on my chin that I had earned from riding a bicycle drunk. In every picture she was gorgeous.

Like a hammer to the skull I remembered the time limit. How long had I been asleep? I stumbled into the living room, desperate for a clue. Three separate versions of me have been involved with this woman, so I wasn’t leaving this one without a name.

Adrenaline flowed freely as I poked around in the dark for bills, magazines, anything with a name. Panic bit at my thoughts, though I wasn’t sure I deserved to know. I couldn’t find a computer, or a purse, or anything else someone should logically have laying about. I ended up in the kitchen, hands pulling my hair and chest heaving with anxiety. That’s where I saw it, on the fridge. There was a picture of four women, one of them my mystery girl, in matching uniforms in a coffee shop with silly looks on their faces. Scrawled in the corner was a note – ‘We’ll miss you, Ciara!’ I pulled the photo away from its magnet and read it again. Ciara. A moment later, I shifted back.

I went to knock on the door but found it already ajar. The professor was in a corner holding a small mirror, gazing into it while combing his hair into a neatly erratic mess. On the wall next to him was a picture of Albert Einstein. I cleared my throat.

“Get the hell out of my office,” he said, flaunting a Bombay accent and throwing the mirror on his desk.

“We spoke earlier on the phone, I’m Kevin Hughes?” There was no recognition in his face, but no confusion either.

“So?”

 

“Uh, so, you told me to come here to apply in person.” He sat down at his disastrous desk and waved dismissively at a chair. I sat on its edge, careful not to knock over the books that occupied the rest of it.

 

“Name?”

“Kevin Hughes, like I said.”

“Occupation?” He was staring into a log book he’d opened, waiting impatiently for my reply.

“I’m kind of in between things at the moment – “

“How did you find out about this trial?”

“A friend of a friend, at a party. I think he’s a student of yours, or was, or something. It’s a little fuzzy.”

He frowned a little deeper but continued. “And why did you think you were sufficiently… qualified for this experiment?”

“It’s an experiment, right? It’s not like I’m taking an algebra test or applying to NASA. Besides, I liked how the guy put it – ‘exploring alternative possibilities.’” He shrugged and continued on, asking a series of questions revolving around my relatives, personal relationships, pertinent facts and dates of my life. Only when I felt completely demoralized about the pathetic life I was leading did he let up. He reviewed his notes for a while in silence.

“You are the most ordinary, mundane subject I have come across. Come back Tuesday.”

“So is this going to be, like, hypnotherapy or something?” He looked amused.

“No.”

I got up to leave. “Then exactly what is this experiment I’m volunteering for?”

“It is an endeavor to unlock the limitless possibilities of the infinite multiverse!”

“Okay…” I said. He sunk in his seat, deflated and annoyed.

“I’ll pay fifty bucks a day.”

“Tuesday it is!”

 

“ – so he said ‘That better be your pistol, soldier!’”

Raucous laughter crackled in my ears. My legs were moving of their own accord, until I thought about them. I stopped dead, aware suddenly of the enormous weight I was carrying all over my body.

“Hughes, keep moving!” said a radio-hollowed voice in my ear. I held a rifle in my hands like it was a pen. I had never even touched a gun before, yet this one felt dreadfully familiar.

“Private, you hear me?” said the same voice. A man stopped beside me, a scowl lining a face already straight and severe.

“Um, yeah…” I said, the words hanging lifelessly in the scorching, still air.

“Move,” he breathed without the aid of the radio. I could take a hint.

It had to be over 100, easy, but with the fatigues, forty pound sack, gun, ammo, etc. it felt like the seventh circle of Hell. This me was fit, but my mind wasn’t fit to take it. Just goes to show how much of any accomplishment is mental.

 

We came upon a road cutting lazily through the desert landscape, and ahead of us was the remains of a small town, some buildings still smoking. I heard a noise that I took to be a car, but it grew louder and louder, till it was unmistakably a jet engine, flying low and fast. Two military jets flitted across the midday sun.

“This is second platoon,” said the scary man into his radio. “Spotted enemy F-35s three clicks east of Seligman, heading due west.” The response was heard only by him. Immediately he began to issue commands via hand signals, which meant I had no idea what was going on. The other soldiers crouched with their guns up and moved quick, just like in the movies.

We came up swiftly on an abandoned gas station. A crooked sign near it said Route 66.

“Holy shit, this is America? I thought I was in Iraq,” I said, a little too loud. That’s when the shooting started.

I dove for cover behind a rusted Chevy truck and ended up beside the platoon leader. “What the hell is the matter with you, Hughes!”

I was assuming a fetal position. “I can’t die here, Rangan said I’d really die for real!” The platoon leader didn’t respond because of the hole in the side of his face.

As my brain began to shut down from sheer terror, my helmet tumbled to the ground and I saw something I did not expect. It was a sweat-stained picture of a black haired girl, with soft brown eyes and a Mona Lisa smile. A message on the back said ‘Come back in one piece, hero.’

“Just through here,” he said for the fourth time. The corridors we walked through looked untouched by the general population since the Apollo program. It was some deep basement devoid of natural light and practically devoid of unnatural light as well.

“But what about if I shift into a world where I’m dead?” At any moment I expected to be gobbled by a minotaur. The lab we entered was like Mecca for computer science nerds. There were tables piled with the gutted remains of computers from multiple decades. I spotted an Apple II under a few millimeters of dust in the corner.

“Not possible,” was his highly reassuring reply. “Only your consciousness makes it through, and only to compatible neural tissue.”

Against the wall was a plain, black box. At least that’s what it looked like to me. It looked like a port-a-potty made out of lead, though it was barely tall enough for a person to sit in.

“Which means what now?”

“Other versions of you.” Professor Rangan showed an urgency I thought previously impossible for a man with his casual indifference. He typed rapidly on three different keyboards, in between checking cables and fiddling with cylinders on either side of the box. After becoming satisfied with the state of things he opened the door and motioned me forward wordlessly.

There was a bench inside that I found myself sitting on a moment later. Within the bleak confines I was having wracking doubts. The bench was cold through my worn jeans. I was certain it was made of lead.

“I’m not sure this is a good idea. What would happen if I got hurt?” I said dumbly.

“No significant physical matter is being shifted. Only your mind,” he said. I wondered if I should be offended. “Its like we’re tuning a radio, only that radio is your consciousness. Take off your shirt.” After applying a number of electrodes, he produced a half-spherical skeletal thing and approached my sweaty face.

“Did you steal that from Emmett Brown?” I asked as he strapped it to my head.

“I don’t know anyone by that name. Don’t move.” Before I could politely excuse myself from the experiment, he closed the door. I heard the distinct sound of a lock. A few nervous moments (or hours) later, I heard - or felt rather - the hum of electricity. My anxiety turned rapidly to panic that in retrospect might have been heightened by the eerie sensations of the mounting electrical field permeating my body. I yowled like a caged animal, and then I felt the shift.

It was like a twitch, though not physical - psychic, maybe. I felt alien in my own skin, hyperaware of every tingle and twinge. Nothing had changed as far as I could tell: I was shirtless, in a cold lead box, with a funny hat and tingling electrodes. The door swung open and there was the professor.

“What happened?” he asked, his eyes wide and eager like he might see the fabric of the cosmos inside the box.

“What happened? You freaked the hell out of me, that’s what! I thought you said I’d be somewhere else, or something.” I ripped off the ridiculous hat and stood, banging my head. Hard.

“Not necessarily…” mumbled the professor, pushing me out of the way to examine the box with a flashlight. I saw it was a Burtonesque nightmare, multifaceted and spiky. The strange mosaic of odd angles were actually a dense network of groves cut in various geometric shapes. The spikes were wires.

“I’m fine, by the way. My ears aren’t bleeding, yet.” He spun around suddenly. “The power was low,” he said, though not to me.

“How’s that?”

“It’s possible that… what’s your name?” I started to protest, but decided I’d be the bigger man and just play the lunatic’s game.

“Kevin Hughes.”

“And what’s mine?”

“Huh?”

“What’s my name?” he shouted at me.

“Rangan. You didn’t tell me your first name.”

“What’s the date?” Before I could answer, I felt it again. It was more disorienting this time – at least in the box I couldn’t see or hear anything. It was like blinking and you’re suddenly someplace else, only without the blinking. I was staring at the little Indian man and then I saw black. The door swung open and there he was again.

“Whoa, déjà vu.”

“What happened?”

“You asked me that already,” I said, clambering carefully out and pulling off the head gear and electrodes. “I’m not sure fifty bucks is enough for this.”

“I’m out,” I said, pulling my shirt on. Now that I knew what I had been pining to know, I wished I’d never found out. Rangan was there, typing rapidly on his computer.

“Don’t be stupid. I’ve got a lot more tests lined up. Besides, you’ll make more money if you keep at it.”

“I don’t care.” That made him stop typing. I bit my lip and leaned against a pile of computer casings.

“I know her name.”

“The woman you keep seeing? Interesting.” He picked up his log, pen at the ready.“What is it?”

I couldn’t help seeing the pictures on the wall, or her sleeping frame lying next to me, or hearing her voice hurling obscenities at me. Even that wasn’t so bad. And then there was the living reminder of all that was wrong in my reality.

“This time we were married with a kid. I can’t imagine myself being that guy.”

“What guy?” asked Rangan, now writing furiously.

“You know, that guy. The responsible dad, the good husband – I can barely keep myself alive. I’m just a… an apathetic, worthless loser. And I’ve been reminded of it enough the past few days. So I’m out.”Rangan took off his glasses and looked at me for what felt like the first time.

“You know, I’m envious of your opportunity Hughes. To get the chance to see what was or what could have been. Loved ones you’ve lost or not even met yet – many would find it irresistible.” His voice quivered with repressed emotion, and I pondered the reason Rangan wanted to build his machine in the first place.

“Why don’t you rig it up and go in yourself?”

 

“I’m too old,” he said, shaking his head. “Too old to change, not old enough to shrug off what I might see. Come back tomorrow, Hughes, for one more.” I nodded.

 

I shifted just in time to get hit by a cat food bowl. Thankfully it was only half full of smelly wet gunk.

“And you better feed that cat, Kevin. If I hear you killed it, I’ll fucking kill you,” said a woman from somewhere. She was a blur among empty cans, half-empty coffee mugs and full ashtrays. I followed the voice; she was the only difference I could see from this place and my own reality.

“Are you even listening?” she snapped as I stumbled upon her in the bedroom. She was throwing clothes haphazardly into a suitcase. I heard sirens outside and wondered distantly if they were connected to this scene.

“Remind me again what’s going on right now?” I said.

“I cannot fucking believe you. Are you high?” She turned to look at me with the same face I had seen in the picture, while getting shot at. “Oh my god, you are, aren’t you?”

She shoved past me. “Wait, my pupils, its not ‘cause of drugs…”

“Save it, jackass. I’m done caring!” The front door was open and closed in a fraction of a second.

“Wait!” I called, running after her. The elevator doors closed poetically as I reached them.

The stairs were nearby. At the bottom of three flights I vowed to start exercising more when I got back to my own body.

“Taxi!” she was yelling. I ran up and grabbed her arm.

“Wait, I just want to talk – “

“I’m leaving, Kevin. For good.” She shook her arm free. A cab rolled up beside us.

“But why?”

She narrowed her eyes and I braced for impact. “Because you’re the neighbor that plays shitty metal at two a.m. Because you think smoking pot and playing Call of Duty is a great social activity. And because in the two years we’ve been together, you haven’t shown one ounce of ambition. You’re an apathetic, worthless loser. Goodbye.” She stepped in the taxi.

“At least tell me your name!” I shouted, but she wasn’t coming back.

I was aware at first of only my heart beat, dull and laborious. Then I heard the gasping wheeze of my lungs. My eyes fluttered open painfully slow to take in a cold, uninviting light. There was movement and a blurry form resolved to that of a woman, her face a mask of weary heartache.

“Where am I?” I said in a rasping whisper. I noticed for the first time the oxygen tubes around my ears, hissing in my nostrils.

“The hospital,” she said. It was her.

“Ciara?” She grabbed my hand.

“I’m here.” Above the din of medical machines I could hear the wind driving heavy snow into a window. It was night and the place felt deserted except for us.

“What is this?” I tried to reach for the IV in my arm but found no strength to do so.

“You’re sick. Don’t you remember?” Warning bells started to ring. What if this body failed before Rangan brought me back? She could see the panic in me; the heart rate monitor told no lies.

“Oh God, you don’t remember,” she said, her eyes welling up with tears and her voice faltering. “Babe, you have a tumor, brain cancer.”

I studied her closer. Dark circles beneath her eyes and her abnormally thin face gave her a haunted look, like an angel in mourning. I wanted to ask so many things, but I felt ashamed in the presence of a woman so clearly shattered.

“I’m sorry,” was all I could manage. She sniffled loud and tried to smile. One of her hands stroked the side of my face.

“Don’t you be sorry, babe. I’m the one who’s sorry.”

“For what?” I croaked. I had never felt so feeble in my life, and it wasn’t just the crippled body.

She cracked a wry smile. “Because you never beat me in chess. You always said it was your life’s goal.”

I smiled back. Those eyes were so full of love, shining in the funerary light and through tears that refused to be repressed. As my consciousness began to fade, I knew I wanted to earn that look.

A bell sang as I entered the coffee shop, ushered in by an autumn wind. A pop acoustic ballad was emoting over speakers; couches and chairs held a cast of hipsters sipping lattes, discussing politics or reading Voltaire or some shit like that. I was seconds from running out screaming when I saw her laboring over a French press behind the counter.

I had the whole thing planned in my head before I got there. I’d step up and order something like I knew what I was talking about, say something clever while I waited (okay, maybe not the whole thing), we’d banter, I’d ask her when she got off. You know, the cliché boy-meets-barista thing. But by the time I got to the counter, I froze.

“Hello?” she said, waving her hand.

“Huh?” I realized I’d been standing there for a minute, staring. Great start.

“You want something in particular, or are you here for the décor?”

“Um, coffee, I guess?” There was fear and doubt and a few dozen reasons why I might fail miserably in the next two seconds. But there was something else there too.

“You sure that’s what you want?” she asked with a sly grin.

“Undoubtedly.”

“I haven’t seen you here before. I’m Ciara.”

“Nice to meet you, Ciara. I’m Kevin.”