She couldn't remember the last time she'd felt so exhilarated. Her heart rocketed from a slow lull to a rabbit-paced drum in less than a minute. A rush of air flooding into her lungs. She was awake. More importantly, she was alive.

Her body lurched into a forward motion. Arms propelling, splashing in a space where there was once hard ice. Creating a smooth surface around her form. She'd not moved in too long. She was out of practice.

Body shaking, clamoring, the chamber beneath her tipped to its side, splashing its contents to the concrete floor holding it up. Her palms burned against the rough surface as she splattered to the ground on her stomach.

There was a voice, she heard it. But it was a hazy fog, as if it were being voiced through a tin can. So her eyes moved up in one swift motion, landing directly on the man standing over her. His features were contorted into a horrified expression.

He took a step back, appalled at his discovery. But he ran a hand back over his trodden down silver hair and took a deep breath. "Hold on- don't move," he said, speaking quickly as he took steps back. "I'll be right back."

And in a second he was gone. Out the large rolling door to the warehouse. Nothing was making sense. It was all a thick cloud at the front of her mind. She pushed down on the concrete beneath her and forced the strength back into her trembling muscles.

Ever so slowly moving her knees beneath her, one by one, until she could sit up. She hadn't heard the scuffling of the man running back in. Dashing across the empty space with a towel-like blanket. He had great intentions in draping it across her shoulders.

He was only trying to help her. But her instincts overruled her mind, gaining her footing enough to stand and grabbing him by his neck. Holding tightly enough to cut off a substantial amount of oxygen. "Hey, hey- I'm trying to...help you," he sputtered.

"Where am I?" she questioned.

He grasped at her hand, only causing her to tighten her grip, so he remained as still as possible. Trying desperately not to panic and make her do something rash. "Wood...Woodstock...Woodstock, Connecticut," he replied, as best he could.

"Who are you? Why did you wake me up?" Her words cut like knives. They were coated in defensive undertones that could pierce bone. "What do you want with me?"

"I didn't know...I swear...I didn't know...please!"

With her hand on his neck, giving enough pressure, she could feel his pulse. Tell if he was speaking the truth. And in fact, he was. So she let her hand fall to her side. He gasped in oxygen as he took quick steps back from her.

Holding his sore neck gingerly with his hands and sputtering. The adrenaline was seeping through her, right through her toes, leaving her with a twitching numbness that crippled her bones. Her feet were unsteady.

The ground had to have been moving. But when her knees slammed into the ice cold concrete, the ground was perfectly still. It had never been truly moving. Though her head still spun. Her lips were the only things she could move as her eyes remained closed.

Her body rocking in a slight movement forward and back. Its instinctual reaction to the flooding anxiety breaking loose within her chest cavity. "My name is Sergeant Sara Riley, US Army, serial number one-one-seven-zero-six-zero-three-zero-one."

It was a mantra. Trembling across her lips over and over and over. The man she'd nearly choked to death was inherently terrified due to her display. But even he had ears. He heard her words. More specifically, the mentioning of the military.

Trembling slightly himself, he took a step forward. "Miss? Miss, I can help you," he tried, speaking in a calm voice. The calmest he could muster. "I can help you get home, wherever that is. But you have to let me."

"Stay away from me," she all but hissed. Moving her hands up to cover her ears. Continuing her mantra. All she wanted was to go back. Get back in the chamber and go under again. But she couldn't make herself move. It was like her bones were stuck.

Frozen in their own tundra right there on the floor. Her body was shaking, trembling from the cold of the breeze blowing through the open door just a few yards away. "Please, Miss...I'm not leaving you here to die," the man continued, surely.

"Take me back!" she said, her voice just below a shout. She whirled in her position to see the man just feet from her. Anger, fear, sadness, all tangled together in her eyes. The man was confused. Stopping his forward movement in anticipation of another assault.

His eyebrows creased. "I'm sorry?"

"Take me back! Put me under!"

"I'm- I'm sorry, I...I can't," he shook his head. The heat in her chest burned up her throat and to her eyes, forcing out streams of boiling liquid against her ice cold skin. Racking her body with a single sob as she hunched over her knees yet again.

Holding her eyes closed. Rocking herself to stay calm. But it wasn't working. The pain in her chest felt like a steel knife dug deep into the tissue. As if that knife were being twisted in a slow and painful circle. And she screamed.

Through her tears, she screamed, so hard she tasted blood. She gripped her sopped hair in an attempt to anchor herself to something. It was like he was dead all over again. Like she was watching him fall from the train. Down to that endless valley of snow.

And, just like the first time, she was totally and completely helpless to stop it. Forced to watch. Over and over as it was looped inside her tightly closed eyelids. The man feet from her was feeling quite helpless as well.

He didn't know what to do. But an idea sparked his mind and he was gone. Leaving her alone to cry silent tears as she rocked herself. Failing to will the pain away. To will herself back to the nineteen forties. Back to the war.

When she had friends. When her parents were alive and well and happy. When her best friend's best friend was quickly becoming her own. Life made sense then. It was relatively painless. And it was full of happiness.

Not long later and the man returned. Walking fast but slowing his pace as he approached. He knelt a foot from her. "I have something...I think it's yours," he said, before holding out his hand. In his palm were two lightly rusted dog tags.

There was enough strength in her curiosity to pull her head up. To make her bloodshot eyes see what he had to offer her. They flickered to his face upon seeing the tags in his hand. "Where did you get those?" she asked, semi quietly.

"They were in the back room. I didn't know who they belonged to, but you said your name was Sara Riley. That's what these say," he explained. "I reckon you have quite the story to tell. What do you say you tell me how you got here over a nice hot meal in some dry clothes?"

Her trembling fingers snatched the tags from his hand. Dancing her thumb across the withered metal. "Where?" she croaked, her voice hoarse.

"I live just up the street. My wife should be just finishing up making dinner. I'm sure she wouldn't mind a guest, as long as you promised to keep your hands to yourself, that is," he answered her.

Sara pulled the silver chain over her head. The tags clanking together at the tempo of her trembling hands. Metal against her chest was a familiar feeling. And it felt so much better to have that sensation again.

Though it could never repair the deep gouge left in her chest. Her response to him was a nod. He knew any moment could be his last. But he offered a hand to her as he stood. Being the gentleman he was, he wasn't about to let his fear make him rude.

She took the offering and he helped her to her feet, plucking the blanket from the ground and wrapping it around her shoulders. Her fingers held it closed near her abdomen. Keeping in what little warmth she might have left. "Let's get you warm, yeah?" he said.

"Thank you," she nodded again, following his lead toward the open exit. Her eyes were blinded by the stark contrast in lighting between the insides of the warehouse to the outside sunset. She squinted hard. But she managed to see the man's vehicle fine.

It was a light blue. But the color wasn't what caused her pause just feet from the machine. It was its design. The change in structure sent a spark of something into her brain. Something unreadable. And she whirled to see the warehouse at her back.

It looked old and withered. The front windows broken in and covered in dust. The door looked to be just barely hanging on it's hinges. "What year is it?" she suddenly asked, speaking loud enough to be heard on the opposite side of the vehicle.

The man paused, standing at his door. "Two thousand eleven."