"Mitch? Got word from the northern watch. More rain's headed in so we better start closin' up the satellites."

An old man sitting at a very rustic desk looked up from his newspaper and chewed a bit on his pipe. None of this was news to him but Mitch Yost was not known for taking life at a fast pace so he had delayed shuttering the satellite huts for as long as possible.

He sighed at the prospect of doing actual work. "Alright," he said, "Go get Josh. He's out back, drawing again. You two can hike over to the huts in the east to close them up, so they don't get flooded. Oh, and speakin' of Josh, the mounties finally sent us his things. Certainly took them long enough, not sure what they were doin' with 'em. Put them on the table next to his cot."

The young man who delivered the news to Mitch looked glassy eyed. Ignoring the instructions regarding Josh's belongings, he was fixated on the vague hut shuttering instructions. There were literally thousands of "huts to the east," as there were stations like this one set up all over the frontier lands, used by the logging company for scouting, to make sure that loggers in the area wouldn't be threatened by wild animals, gangs of robbers, or weather. It definitely was not exciting work, "manning the huts," as it was called, but it was a steady salary which was all most people who did it cared about.

Mitch returned to his paper for a moment, then after noticing that the young man wasn't moving, he said, "Well? Whatchou waitin' for, go get Josh and you two boys start closin' up the eastern huts." He said in a slightly louder voice.

The young man still looked a bit blank, but he had no authority to argue. He nodded, then ran out the front door of the hut. Mitch shook his head, made some remark under his breath about the younger generations not having any work ethic, then returned to his reading.

About twenty meters away from the hut sat another young man. He was tall and strongly built, which made him perfect for the work they did. And he did it without question, because a while back he had been hurt in...something. He didn't remember it. It left him with a fractured skull and a mind nearly devoid of memories. He had spent five months in bed, not knowing who or where he was. The only things he remembered were the pain of his recovery, and his dreams.

Right now, he was drawing. He loved to draw and did it at every opportunity. It was his only pastime. He never asked for anything except charcoal pencils and paper. And the others gave them to him, always rolling their eyes. Because his drawings were almost always exactly the same: occasionally a big fat basset hound lying on the ground, sometimes an older woman surrounded by two or three men about the same age, or on other occasions a different older woman riding a horse in the wilderness, and once or twice an empty field of land with nothing particularly remarkable to it. But the vast majority of his drawings were of a young woman. A young woman he saw in his dreams almost every night. He had no idea who she was or how he knew her, he just felt compelled to draw her. His mind was too slow to ask why. He never asked why about anything.

"Hey Joshie! Time to close up the huts, storms comin'."

He packed up his pencils and paper without question. He never argued with the people here. In fact, he rarely even spoke. He didn't have much to say. When you have no memories, you have no life experience from which to draw conversational topics. He just worked, ate, drew, slept, and dreamt of the woman and all the other subjects of his drawings. Day after day, always the same. And today was no different.

Josh removed his shirt after the day's work; it had been soaked in the chilly rainy weather. He tossed it onto a nearby chair for it to dry overnight. He only had two shirts, both flannel, one undershirt that was coming apart at the seams, and a sleeping shirt. He removed his tattered undershirt as well, paying absolutely no attention to the scars on his chest and arms that its removal revealed. He never paid them any mind. Received in the same rockslide that damaged his brain, they said. He never asked what rockslide they were referring to, as he didn't remember it, and wasn't even sure what a rockslide was.

The three other men he shared the tiny cabin with always regarded him as a little off. "Invalid," they called him. "Touched in the head." "Charity case." He rarely spoke and seemed to have no personality. A consequence of the injuries he had sustained years before - it seemed to have made him a complete blank slate. He never showed any interest in anything except drawing, and ate most foods with perfect indifference to the taste. The only things he seemed to enjoy even slightly were roast beef sandwiches.

He undid the tie that held his long hair back in a ponytail and shook his hair loose. He never cut it after his injuries so now it reached past his shoulders. He then reached down, splashed his face with water from a nearby wash basin, and put his sleepshirt on.

The others ignored him. They were used to his dead silence and blank personality. A couple of them did take notice though, of the bag placed on his table, and they slowly walked up to it, wondering if they could rummage through it. If the stuff belonged to him, he wouldn't want any of it ("unless it's charcoal" one of them joked), so there might be something they could sell. Pay was terrible and they were always looking for extra cash.

"Hey Adam, what's in this?" They inquired of the young man who had been the unfortunate recipient of the vague hut instructions earlier.

Adam looked up. "Oh, the things that were in Josh's pack the day of the rockslide. The RCMP finally sent them to him."

"After this long? That was two years ago wuddn't it?"

"They said they had trouble finding him. They knew he had been in Silverton, but there ain't exactly a lot of communication out here."

The others nodded, satisfied with that explanation. They began to take things out of the bag. Mostly it was pretty standard mountie pack stuff: a very tattered old map, some broken pencils, matches, firestarters, blank sheets of paper that were weathered and now pretty useless, and a tiny canteen. However, they did also find what looked like they had been letters, but the ink had rubbed off and now they were illegible. And there was one more item.

"Hey Adam, you see this?"

Adam wasn't super interested, as nothing Josh owned could be all that riveting. Still, he walked over to see them holding a small wooden box.

"What is it?" one of the others asked.

"Let me look at it." Adam reached for it, but not before glancing over his shoulder at Josh to see if he was reacting at all. Josh was under the blankets on his cot, facing away from them. He appeared to be asleep already. 'No surprise there, I guess,' Adam thought.

Adam felt the box for a bit. It was banged up and chipped in a few places but still mostly in tact, incredible considering it had been through a rockslide. A nasty rockslide too, he had heard, one that had completely crushed a man until he was unrecognizable and left Josh practically braindead.

Adam then opened the box. It was rusty from lack of movement and use, but even so, the men could hear it struggling to play its tune. "A music box!" one of them exclaimed. "Lemme see."

Another man grabbed it from Adam. He didn't fight him but he was slightly annoyed. Still, he didn't quite see why Josh had been carrying around a music box. Josh barely appeared to even hear, let alone appreciate music.

The three of them were so distracted by looking at the box they didn't even notice that Josh had gotten out of bed and was slowly walking towards them. So transfixed were they that it was only when he was right next to them, reaching for the box himself, that they realized he was there. And they all instantly became very alarmed. Josh didn't do things like this. And he was a lot bigger than they were and had a stormy look on his face. Josh was most definitely not a violent man, he even seemed to have a soft spot for dogs, but he looked like he could more than hold his own in a fight if he wanted to.

They all watched him as he too turned the box over in his hands. He studied it as if it were under a magnifying glass, which was a terrifying sight to the others, they had never seen him look serious, or express any emotion at all for that matter. Now he was mesmerized, practically in a trance, as he looked at it with an intensity that almost seemed otherworldly.

And then he opened it. His stare became even more intense as he listened to the music that it played. He didn't know when or where, but he had heard this before. So he kept listening to it, kept staring at all. His eyes narrowed. His jaw clenched. His eyebrows furrowed. Every muscle in his body appeared to tense up.

None of the others knew quite what to do and they looked nervously at each other, waiting for one of them to make a move that the others could follow. After practically running to the other side of the room and freezing there in shock and fear, they all looked at each other, then one by one, slowly crept over towards him. He didn't move a muscle as they took one step, then another, then another, the floorboards creaking under their feet.

They had just about reached him when suddenly, he slammed the box closed and gripped it in his hands. He turned to the others and looked them dead in the eyes.

"Where am I?" he said.

"Just, settle down Joshua."

Jack sighed an exasperated sigh. "Look, I already told you, my name is not Joshua Miller. It's Jack Thornton. Constable Jack Thornton, I'm with the Royal Canadian Mounted Police."

Now it was Old Man Mitch's turn to sigh. He leaned languidly back in his chair, reached for his pipe, crossed one leg over the other and just generally didn't appear to be taking this very seriously at all. Jack had a sudden burning desire to punch him, but he figured that probably wouldn't get him anywhere.

"I need a telegraph, now. I need to send a message."

Mitch glanced up at him, looking very bored. That was a sharp contrast to everyone else, who all huddled together but peered around a nearby corner. Josh had very suddenly and dramatically come to life. But he kept saying really strange things. Like that his name wasn't Josh.

"You need to send a telegram to whom, exactly?"

"My wife. Or a friend of mine. Anyone, just someone I know, just so they know I'm here and that I'm on my way home."

This was the most that any of them had ever heard Josh speak, but Mitch was the only one who didn't react. He just kept chewing on his pipe.

"You have a wife, son?" Mitch asked sarcastically.

"Yes," Jack replied. "I have a wife and she's probably very worried about me. Who knows how long I was here, I need to let her know I'm okay."

Mitch leaned back in his chair, still chewing on his pipe. Jack was very short on patience at the moment and that pipe was ripe for a swatting.

"Okay, so let me get this all straight now." Mitch took his pipe out of his mouth and used it to point at Jack. "You say your name ain't Josh, but instead it's Jack? And that you're a mountie?"

"Yes, and yes. I don't even know where I am exactly, or how I got here."

"Welp," Mitch said with a deep languid intake of air. "You son, are in the employment of the Litchfield-Northwest Logging Company and you're here as a laborer. You ain't a mountie, though you tried to be. You lasted all of I think four days of recruitment before that rockslide turned you into a dern invalid."

Rockslide. Jack had no memory of a rockslide. His mind, though mostly clear at this point, was still fuzzy in certain areas.

"I remember the recruitment trip, I took new recruits out for training. But I don't remember a rockslide."

"Welp, there certainly was one. You've got the scars to prove it. And ye had a fractured skull that put you in bed for months."

'Months?!' Jack thought. He had been in bed with a fractured skull for months? He reached up to his head, pausing for a second when he noticed that his hair was ridiculously long. 'Gotta get that taken care of,' he said to himself. But sure enough, he could feel a laceration scar that stretched from his left temple all the way to the center of the back of his neck. It was well healed though, and he had seen injuries like that before. They didn't heal completely in five months.

It finally occured to him to ask a particular question.

"What day is this?" He said, looking at Mitch with intensity. Mitch looked back at him with a decided lack of intensity.

"September 14. September 14, 1916."

It hadn't been five months. It had been two years.

Jack paced around the small lumber hut. He had insisted that they wire someone at the nearest town to ask for information regarding transport. They complied, but they insisted themselves that they contact the RCMP regarding information about the character Jack Thornton that he now seemed so convinced he suddenly was. He happily agreed, he thought he might have been marked as MIA, and wanted information about his last assignment, seeing as he didn't remember much about it. All he remembered was 18 year old recruits doing 18 year old things (ie., being annoying), some terrible food, and bad weather.

It felt like it was taking forever though. He knew he was just impatient, but...two years. Two years lost. Two years of complete memory loss, of not knowing who he was or where he was. His case would be fascinating to him if it weren't actually him involved.

He saw in his peripheral vision that three young men, probably a few years younger than he was, were loitering around the door to the hut. He smiled politely at them, which made them start, as if he had just raised his fist. He looked confused at that sight, though he did have vague recollections of working with them in the forest on...something. Logging perhaps? He wasn't sure. It was still pretty foggy. Even so though, he smiled again, and this time, they nervously smiled back.

It took hours, but Old Man Mitch (as Jack learned he was called, minus the "Old Man" moniker) finally did come back, carrying papers. "Welp, we got the information that you wanted, and the information that we wanted. Took their time gettin' it to us though." Jack certainly agreed with that. It had been practically an eternity.

"O-kay, so, first things first."

The old man reached for the papers in front of him, in no rush to start speaking. Jack crossed his arms impatiently.

"We did find some information on Jack Thornton, but he sure ain't you. Jack Thornton was killed just about two years ago in a rockslide while conducting new recruit training exercises. And no wonder, with them doing them in the hills to the south o' here in the springtime, not sure who came up with that bright idea."

He put the papers down and looked up at Jack, who suddenly appeared very, very pale and had his mouth agape. "Presumed dead?" He stammered out.

"Presumed nothing. They found Constable Thornton. Well, sort of. Parts of him."

Jack's eyes widened. The rockslide must have been horrific.

The old man chewed on his pipe and looked at Jack dubiously. "Constable Thornton died two years ago, yes. They say he pushed two new recruits - one of which was you, though you look a lil' old to be a freshie - out of the way of the rockslide, but was caught up in it himself. His remains, or what was left of them anyway, were delivered to his widow at his original post, a place called uh..." he flipped the papers around for a moment, "Hope Valley."

Jack felt like he was going to be sick. "His widow..."

"Yes, a Mrs. Elizabeth Thornton. The remains were delivered to her, and were buried with full RCMP honors, as befitting a hero." The old man said that final word "hero" in a way that made it clear he was completely indifferent to the whole story and was just reading it off of the paper. "She now receives a full widows pension."

Some good news at last. That meant that she hadn't remarried in the last two years. Widows lost their pension if and when they remarried. He looked down at the floor and smiled slightly.

"And, she also receives an additional dependent child stipend."

Jack looked up.

"Dependent child?"

The old man flipped the papers around again, looking for the information. "One son, born eight months after the death of his father."

This time, Jack really was sick. He froze for a second, then ran to the door, rushed outside, and wretched.

One he finished he could hear Old Man Mitch laughing at him. He sat down on the wet forest floor, trying to catch his breath and spitting out the last bits of vomit that remained in his mouth. He ignored the laughter and opened his eyes but didn't raise them. His gaze remained fixed on the ground as he panted.

He couldn't decide if he was overjoyed or horrified. 'A son,' he thought. 'I have a son.'

A door opened, the hinges creaking and boots landing on the wooden floor outside the hut. The old man, indifferent as ever, asked, "You alright there?"

Jack didn't respond. He just kept breathing hard. A million things were flowing through his brain: old memories that had come rushing back, along with new information. He was a father. He was still a husband. And he was dead, apparently.

"Now, for the info that you asked for." Mitch continued, ignoring the fact that Jack was still on all fours on the ground, leaning over a pile of vomit and staring off into space. "Transport. The short answer is, transport ain't gonna happen just yet. There've been a lotta rains lately - the same kinda weather that caused your rockslide, incidentally."

Jack was getting angry. This was a lot, too much for even his normally patient countenance to take. 'I know what causes rockslides, idiot.' He thought. He wasn't sure why he had taken recruits to a heavily flooded area though, if that is indeed what happened. He would know better than that.

He finally pulled himself up to standing and told them, clearly and loudly, "Jack Thornton did not die two years ago. I am Jack Thornton. You need to telegram my wife and let her know that I am here. And I need a horse or a wagon or whatever so that I can get home." He stopped speaking suddenly and started to look around. "Where is this, anyway?"

"This place? The definition of the middle of nowhere, son." The old man laughed, impressed with his own terrible joke. When he saw Jack's eyes shooting daggers at him, he then replied with a little more tact, "We're about three days outside of Silverton. That's the closest town."

Jack knew Silverton. It was a week's ride from there to Hope Valley. He didn't remember taking the recruits out this far and didn't understand how he wound up in a wooden hut in the middle of nowhere in the pine barrens of the Northwestern territories, but he could figure that out later.

"Alright then. I need a horse. And some basic survival rations for the trip to Silverton. Not much, just some matches and the like. From there I can leave the horse, along with payment for the rental, and I'll be on my way."

Mitch chewed his pipe and looked Jack up and down. Riding to Silverton in this weather was crazy.

"I ain't givin' you a horse in this weather. You'll have to wait until the rains die down."

"Then I'll go on foot. I'm not waiting any longer." That remark made everyone, even the frightened looking young men, laugh. Old Man Mitch laughed the heartiest of all, a loud, incredibly irritating guffaw. Jack really, really wanted to punch him.

"You won't make it half a day on foot." He said between his chuckles.

Jack smiled for the first time. "Watch me."