January 3, 6:30 A.M.

"Mi hija!"

Monica made a face and wondered what her mother was doing in her dream. And then she opened her eyes and wondered what the hell she was doing back in her old room.

"Monica! I have been calling you all morning! There is no more time to sleep! Get up, get up! We must leave in a few hours and you are not even packed!" Her mother was standing there, staring down at her, giving her 'that look,' the one she used to give her willful and headstrong daughter all the time when she was growing up.

"Mama?" Monica scrunched up her brow and looked at her mother as though she hardly recognized her. It was definitely her mother, but her mother looked so much younger. Her hair was darker and her face held fewer lines. "What's going on? Why am I home?"

"Why are you still in bed is a much better question. Your flight is in three hours. Come now. Adela has made you breakfast. It is getting cold."

"Adela?" asked Monica, sitting up in bed. "But Adela is dead."

Her mother stopped with her fussing and looked at her daughter with great concern. "Why would you say a thing like that? You worry me sometimes. Was it a dream? Did you dream something? Did you dream that Adela was going to die?" Her mother put her hand to her heart, a sign that she was beginning to panic. She had learned over the years to put that kind of faith in her daughter.

"No...I wasn't dreaming...no, I was dreaming. About John...not Adela...no..." She put a hand up to her head and squeezed her eyes close, trying to remember her dream, trying to understand what was going on, all the while hoping that this was part of a dream too.

"John? Who is John? You have not told me about anyone named John. Is this a boy from school? You know we don't approve of you dating. You are to be concentrating on your studies. You worked so hard to get into Brown. Boys will only distract you and lead you astray." She sat on her daughter's bed and took her hand away from her face. "Mi hija...tell me, did you dream that Adela would die? What happened, tell me! If you can save her, you must."

Monica was reeling from the insinuation that she was a student at Brown again. Things were beginning to come together in a most frightening way. "No, Mama. I'm sorry, I was just confused. Adela is fine. She'll be fine for a long time now. Trust me. I know. Go now, tell her I will be down soon." Her mother's eyes were skeptical but yearning to believe her daughter. "I promise." She squeezed her mother's hand and leaned over to kiss her on the cheek.

After her mother had departed, Monica carefully rose from the bed. She made her way over to her vanity without breathing and after a second to prepare, she took a look at the image in the mirror. Her heart just about stopped. There she was in all of her 18-year-old glory - short hair, made a fright by the sad reminder of a perm, and a face still full from adolescence, not yet worn thin by adulthood. Her body was larger than she remembered, though far from fat, it was not as lean and sculpted as she last remembered it to be. Her closet was full of clothes she'd long since learned to think unfashionable, and she pulled out the blandest, simplest outfit she could find amongst the flowery patterns, bright colors, and oversized items available.

Her mother yelled for her again, but she was paralyzed. She sat in the nearest chair and began to tremble. What was going on? She knew she hadn't dreamed the last 15 years. What had set her back to 1987? And more importantly, how would she ever return to 2002?

John... John would know. She had to find him. 1987... that meant John was just starting with the NYPD.

Her mother called again, with much frustration hanging on her voice. Monica jumped as she had when she was a teenager and ran downstairs.