Hi, you guys. =) Thank you for the reviews, which any minute now, I'll get brave enough to open and read. Next weekend, Lord willing and the creek don't rise, I'll be on my way to Japan to visit my daughter. Might be some interruption in normal output. Edited more.

35

Home, sort of-

Scott Tracy sprang awake with a startled gasp and a full-body shudder. He was… alive. Able to move, see and hear. Terribly weak, though, and completely disoriented. Straightening warily, the pilot saw that he'd been hunched over with his head on his folded arms, which rested (in turn) on a flat, opened book. School text, looked like, though the letters were odd, and he could make no sense at all of those very strange words.

The book rested upon a familiar, battered old desk… the pigeon-holed escritoire that mom had inherited from her prosperous ranching clan. The chair he sat in was a big, dark leather monstrosity on heavy brass casters. Scott remembered it well.

Confused, he looked around at a stack of textbooks and a laptop computer. Past that, to half a glass of milk and a plate of snickerdoodle cookies, with crumpled paper napkin and scattered cinnamon crumbs all around.

Almost hurled himself at the food, gulping fresh milk… gone warm, now, but too thirsty to care… and bolting cookies as fast as he could stuff them into his mouth; hardly pausing to chew and swallow. A little burnt on the bottom, but so good that he almost wanted to cry.

Shaking, Scott swiveled the chair and looked around some more. Saw… no kidding… his old room; not from the ranch, but the farm house in Kansas. Muttered,

"What the h*ll…?" as he took in faded, blue-striped wallpaper, a hardwood floor, bright rag-rugs and a wide-open window, with rumpled plaid curtains swaying in and out with the breeze. His narrow wooden bed was there in the corner, covered by one of Grandma's hand-crocheted blankets. His model airplane and rocket collection was up on the shelves of his bookcase, with dad's "Explorer-1" spaceship right there in front.

John's bed was across the room, its blanket striped black and orange. Team colours, Scott recalled vaguely. That set of shelves held baseball trophies, math books and star-charts in orderly rows. Overhead, a ceiling fan swished and hummed, as outside the window came all the noises you heard on a farm; distant tractor, lowing cows, barking dog, occasional voices, and somebody singing.

Scott took a very deep breath. Ran a hand through his hair. How…? Cautiously, the pilot stood up. Found himself weak, but able to stay on his booted feet. Needed food, though, and more to drink. Much more, and very much stronger. There was a grey tabby puddled on the window seat, he noticed… stupid thing would never leave him alone, Scott remembered suddenly. For some reason, that thought brought him close to tears.

Wasn't sure what the h*ll was going on… where he was really… but seeing an old frenemy made everything easier to take. Maybe that's why he went to the window, reached down and scratched at the cat's small, wedge-shaped head.

"Hey, Fish-breath," he greeted the old tom, who yawned hugely, displaying sharp white teeth, curling tongue and a pink ribbed palate. "How's it going?"

The old cat blinked sleepy green eyes and gave his hand a half-hearted swat, grumpy at being awakened. Made typical cat-noises, then rolled on over and stretched.

"Mrowr, yourself, Flea-bag," Scott responded, this time really hearing his own voice, which sounded…

Turning, he stalked to his chest of drawers, which supported an oval, wood-framed and swiveling mirror. Took a long, hard look.

"Holy sh*t," he breathed, blinking, then rubbing his eyes. Those textbooks should've given it away, Scott supposed. Still came as quite a shock, because there in the mirror stood a tall young man, seventeen at the most. This ghost had dense, dark brown hair, vivid blue eyes and deep dimples scoring his sleeve-creased face. More rangy than muscular, at the moment; dressed in boots, jeans and a faded old work shirt that still dreamt fondly of green.

Bringing a hand up, Scott touched his own face; watched the man… boy… in the mirror do likewise. Almost passed out from shock and thirst, but held it together. Didn't scream, didn't fall down, did need a very stiff drink.

Knew where the bathroom was, though: third door on the right, down a long, wood-floored hallway. Scott stumbled out of his room, got to the head, turned on the sink tap, and drank water from both cupped hands till he nearly burst. Tasted like he remembered; cold, fresh, and sharp with minerals. Well water.

He drank like a man dying of thirst, plunging his mouth into his cupped hands again and again over that gleaming white porcelain sink. Then, Scott washed his face, which felt oddly smooth, as though he hadn't yet had to start shaving. Then looked up again, thinking that… Nope. Still Scott-17, rather than Scott-28, going on corpse. Why was he here? What had happened? And, was there any more food in the place?

Well, the kitchen seemed like the ideal place to scrounge up a meal and think about answers. He tidied the bathroom, first, because that was the family rule: you mess it up, you fix it up. Always. Wiped and dried the sink and countertop. Fixed the curtains (breeze had worked one loose of its fabric loop, again) and straightened Grandma's framed cross-stitch picture. Polished both glass doorknobs, even.

Home… Only, they'd had to leave Kansas (driven off by violence, blight and disease) long before Scott had turned seventeen. He just, y'know, didn't get it.

Felt through his pockets. Found a brown leather wallet containing ID and driver's license, covered in more of those gibberish letters. Right guy in the picture, though, even if he was about a decade too young, and not a holographic projection; just a flat, 2-D image. Hunh.

Well, if he didn't eat some more, soon, he'd be far beyond gawking at mysteries, Scott decided. Nodding to himself, he left the clean bathroom. Passed Virgil, Gordon and Alan's room, then Grandma's. No sounds from either of them, thank God, so maybe the house was empty, and he'd have a chance to think. Reached the stairs at the end of the hall, and loped on down, swinging around the newel-post where the stairs cornered, halfway along. Same pictures on the walls, plus some new ones.

Stairs led to what Grandma called the "parlor", which had got to be kept spotless, in case of visitors. From there, you could turn into the living room or the family dining room (big fat hairy lie- they nearly always ate at the kitchen table). Behind that, lay the "den" and the kitchen.

Scott picked up his pace, making a beeline for the room with the goods. Down here, the furniture was in better shape, and the rugs store-bought, rather than hooked from torn-up clothes and old blankets. Scott had been nervous that he'd encounter someone in the kitchen… the heart and soul of their house… but the big airy space was quite empty.

Went to the troop-sized white refrigerator, opened its doors and started loading up: lunch meat, leftovers, mayonnaise, mustard, both kinds of cheese, lettuce, tomato, bacon, bread from the counter, and a couple of beers.

Spread it all out on the butcher-block island and then started building a two-hands-required, he-man-gut-buster sandwich. Even had marshmallow fluff and peanut butter, plus half a peach pie, for when he got 'round to dessert.

Was set to wolf it all down, when the back door creaked open, and the screen door slammed, as somebody entered the kitchen from out on the porch. Scott turned around, and got a face full of exuberant dog.

"Rusty!" he blurted, hugging the big Irish setter, whose plumed tail thudded the fridge, and whose grubby paws were pressed to Scott's chest. Dog breath and eager kisses had got to be fended off… except that all he wanted to do was hug the dumb mutt extra-tight. "Rusty, get down!" he said, not really meaning it. Then,

"Boy, that beer better be f'r me, else we'll be havin' us a talk about th' wisdom a' sneakin' alcohol in this house."

The voice was a deep, bass rumble. Reminded Scott briefly of the Mechanic, with more warmth and less sly, vicious humour. He looked around to see a very tall, muscular man. Silver-haired, but somehow not "old".

"Granddad?" Scott whispered, almost dropping his masterpiece sandwich.

"All day long," quipped Grant Tracy. "Least, have been since I shaved his face, this mornin'. Now, fix me a sandwich, hand over them beers, and we won't say nuthin' t' y'r grandma."

"Yessir," said Scott, just about managing to safely put down his food and dodge Rusty. Then, he threw himself at the big older man. "Granddad!"

Closed his eyes, held tight and just breathed; smelling horse, truck, cigar smoke, outdoors and that cheap Pine-Woods cologne the elder Tracy had always favoured. Grant patted his back with a big, rough hand, and said,

"Alright, young 'un… what y' been up to besides sneakin' beer? This feels like a stage-12 "I'm sorry" hug, t' me. Wrecked y'r dad's car, or sumthin'?"

"Huh?" Scott pulled away enough to look up at his grandfather's suddenly narrowed blue eyes. "I… no, Sir. I haven't done anything wrong. Promise. I just… I'm really glad to see you, is all. What, um… what d' you want on your sandwich, Sir?"

"All of it," his grandfather grinned, reaching over to muss Scott's hair with a big, careless hand. "Anythin' you c'n pile between two slices a' bread."

Scott laughed. Managed to turn loose and step back, only to find that Rusty had made off with half of their lunch meat. Stupid (God, I'm glad to see you) dog.

Granddad was washing up at the sink by then, humming an off-key tune. He knew three by heart, and wrecked every d*mn one of them. A few minutes later, as Scott was ready to serve, somebody else showed up.

Crunching gravel, squeaking springs and a cheery 'beep-beep' signaled a drop-off. Scott heard a coughing, growling engine head away down the lane, as the back door slammed open and shut, again; this time, admitting John.

His long-haired brother was slimmer than Scott remembered. About fifteen years old, and wearing his baseball uniform, gear bag slung over one shoulder. In socks and slides, because no dirty cleats in the house.

"Hey, Granddad. Hey, Scott," he said, stopping to fuss with the dog.

"Afternoon, Son. Upstairs, and wash them clothes, afore y'r grandma has a fit."

"Yessir," the red-head answered, stealing a piece of ham from Scott's pile. Shared it with Rusty, who factually did not need any more food. "Right away."

Scott started to hinder his red-clay-and-grass-stained brother from leaving, only… Why? What could he ask, that wouldn't sound completely deranged? Then, y'know… Then mom strolled into the room, humming something she'd made up, herself.