Peter rolled over in his bed, roused from deep, yet dreamless sleep by loud noises coming from below. Slowly, his arm reached out to grab for the clock at his bedside table. The blaring red numbers on the screen informed him that it was 4:26 AM. Peter groaned and moved to the edge of the bed, allowing his feet to fall onto the floor. He stretched out, stood up, and searched for his shirt in the dark. As he walked into the hall, he could see the light was on at the bottom of the stairs.

The light of the hallway was offensive to his eyes, so he proceeded slowly downstairs, adjusting to his surroundings as he went. His ears compensated for his half-shut and sleepy eyes, so he was able to hear the mutterings of his father, Walter, in the kitchen.

"What could this be about?" Peter thought to himself. It was times like this that Peter almost regretted taking Walter out of the mental institution. "To be fair, I'm sure I'd be crazy too if I'd been locked up in a mental institution for seventeen years."

Peter walked to the kitchen door and stood there, quietly observing his father baking mushroom fritatas. It was Tuesday—which is usually the day Walter cooks naked—so Peter was surprised to see him fully clothed. Peter cleared his throat, loudly enough for Walter to notice his presence.

Walter looked up, bewilderment in his eyes. "Peter? Peter, my boy, is that really you? How did you get here?"

"Oh come on, Walter. What do you mean, 'how did I get here'? I live here, remember?" It was much too early for Walter's antics. Peter remained standing in the doorway, hoping to get back to bed as soon as possible.

"No, you live here now, you mean. I brought you here when you were eight." Responded Walter, matter-of-factly.

"Well, yeah, I live here now, but we only moved here about six months ago…not when I was eight." Peter crossed his arms, uncomfortable with where this conversation could be heading.

"Oh Peter, you're confused. I'm not talking about the house. I'm talking about 'here' as in this universe. You just don't remember."

"Walter, how much LSD are you on right now? And don't you think it's a little early in the day to start with all this nonsense?"

"The amount of LSD is inconsequential, and this most certainly isn't nonsense. I've been meaning to tell you this for a while, but I've been too afraid of your reaction. But there's something about these frittatas, I can't put my finger on it. Maybe it's the LSD. They're quite wonderful, and delicious to boot." Walter's flippant disposition bothered Peter. Due to the nature of Peter and Walter's work with the Fringe Division, Peter was slowly becoming aware of the fact that literally anything is possible. What exactly was Walter talking about, and could what he's trying to say actually hold any truth?

"Okay, I'll take the bait. Jog my memory, Walter. What is it that I don't remember?"

"Oh, Peter, there's lot of things you don't remember!" Walter chuckled, turning back to his frittata. "You forgot my birthday this year, but so did I, so that's okay. Oh! I believe the other day I asked you to pick me up some Ginger Ale from the store, but you must have forgot, so that dear girl, Astro is her name, she picked some up for me. The point is, Peter, you're sometimes quite forgetful!" Walter looked up at Peter and winked at him.

Peter rolled his eyes, not at all surprised by the outcome of that conversation. "No, Walter, I don't think that's the point you were going to make. But you know what? It's now 4:43 AM on my day off. So I'm going back to bed." Peter turned around, walked back up to his room, and plopped himself into bed. He was sure sleep would welcome him back, but for some reason, he laid there, wide awake. It was times like this, when he was a young child, that he would turn his favorite coin in his hand, over and over to ease his discomfort.

What ever happened to that coin?