"There's a reason they call it work," I thought to myself. I had no one but myself to blame, but I had to admit that working for a big label had its downside.

Extricating myself from my old business had been simple enough. I had the sense to bring in a lawyer to draw up conditions on the bands I had been representing. They were Harold's now, though I knew he wasn't a big fan. Maybe he could fit them into the label he was starting. God knows, most of them were champing at the bit to release an album.

My new employers weren't interested in any of my bands, just as I'd thought. They were hiring on skills, and still had the old company man model. On paper, it was a good deal. My salary was higher and more predictable than before. I had benefits and a nicer office. Moreover, I was working for a known quantity with big names people would recognize anywhere, not just Southern California.

On balance, it was a good move. Harold had taken off in a direction I couldn't follow. This was my best way out. It was also something new, not just compared to the past year but to anything I had done in my half-remembered life up to this point. I missed freelancing, but I'd give this a try. I meant to get good at it.

My life as an oddball musicologist and time-travel theorist had transformed into something more common in my industry. I was socializing a lot more, drinking harder and keeping crazy hours. I was stressed out and starting to wonder how long it could go on. I remembered something in my former life had kept in all in balance. Crazy as it sounds, it was some sort of meditation, but I had forgotten it.

I still had my sleep mask and began to use it on a regular basis to make it through late mornings and afternoons catching up on missed sleep. It did not lead to any disturbing dreams so far. In fact, I began to forget some of the things I used to learn from these dreams. With mixed feelings, I wondered if I would eventually forget them all.

Something odd was happening on the Hendrix front. Had my letter worked? He had started his final tour right here in Los Angeles in April. The tour was supposed to hit venues in the US for months to come, but here it was late May and I had a short letter from Janet with a photo of herself and Hendrix, along with an older man I did not recognize.

Dear Reuben,

We're having a lovely time here, as you can see. Dad made his pitch to Mr Hendrix after all. Don't ask me how. I'm afraid it won't go anywhere, but good on him for trying. It's been an exciting couple of days. I'll write more when I get a chance.

Cheers,

Janet

While I didn't know the exact tour dates, it seemed nearly impossible for Hendrix to be in Europe right now and still make his gigs. I was right. By mid-June, it looked like the tour had been put on hold. That was not part of the history I knew.

Eventually, some of it came out in the music press. Jimi Hendrix had taken a break from his tour to conduct some business in London. When asked about it, he was dismissive. They wanted him for "some kind of Liberace deal, and I told them I wasn't interested," he had explained. Rumor had it he'd used more colorful language. No matter, that and problems around his recent concerts had caused him to reevaluate his act. He wasn't officially canceling the tour but was going to make some major changes before moving ahead.

With trepidation, I realized I had done it. I might not have fixed anything, but I had definitely changed things. I would keep a close eye on this and consider next what to do about Janis Joplin.

Something new was happening with my memories. As I considered the effect of changing history, I wondered if this would alter what I knew. For now, my memories contradicted what I saw of the present, but was not that simple. There was a kind of oscillation. From minute to minute, I remembered very different things. I was overwhelmed. It was long past time to see a shrink. By now I was certain I had real connection to the future, whether I understood it or not.

I wasn't happy with the man I'd become after taking the new job. There was no doubt I was good at it, but it seemed to miss the mark on all grounds. It lacked Harold's idealistic vision as well as Janet's artistic integrity. Even my idea of matching artist and audience was lost. We had a product to sell and would make an audience whether it was there or not. I grew sleep deprived and irascible. A few of my colleagues were settled with kids, and I hated them for it. I developed a sarcastic streak I had never known before.

The one silver lining was my newfound power over history. I made a list of all the artists I could think of that would be lost in the next years. I realized I needed to act fast as each change could alter everything I knew. In the hours I explained away (truthfully) as nursing a hangover, I would draw up plans.

My dreams now returned. These were more disturbing than ever, because they reflected a shifting reality. I often woke up in the early morning and had trouble returning to sleep. While none of this harmed my work, it took a toll on my well-being. How long, I wondered, could it go on?

My answer came soon in the return of my dream archives. I had not had a dream fitting this formula in months as I'd settled into a routine that depended more on ordinary judgment than extraordinary hunches. But here it was again, the archivist at the radio station, his corny attempt at humor. He handed me a tape of an unusually staid news announcement. As I listened, the meaning hit me without warning.

At the words "...died today in a London hospital, apparently from an overdose of drugs..." I awoke with a jolt. How was this possible? It was mid-August by now. Hendrix had not resumed his tour. Rumors varied as to his whereabouts (Big Sur was the most popular guess) but this news report had followed the old history. Whatever was happening, the dream did not fit.