Notes: Someone pointed out to me that Escher/Marc was the one who freed Jason from the Freelancers' prison, and that Jason lived with Marc along with Ann and baby Alec. He probably bought Jason's building as well, and I am going with this interpretation from Chapter 6 onward.

"Jason Sadler. Twenty-eight years old, born in Vancouver. No Social Insurance Number, no driving license, no passport. No record whatsoever. Either he's lying about his name or his birthplace."

"I hate to simplify these things, Director, but he seems to be...confused about everything."

You were a good liar back home, when it came to your feelings, but you had little practice faking anything remotely like this. Your therapist talks about doctor-patient privilege. That anything you tell her will be kept confidential, but some of the paperwork they made you sign proves it's a lie. The hospital Director knows. Everybody knows. It's clear whenever you make little mistakes and misunderstandings with the other patients. This isn't your time. Records of this decade don't even exist in the future. You were told it was much worse than this, but the people outside these walls are living what looks to be a regular, happy life. Blissfully ignorant of the brutal realities of 20th century living. You envy them, now, locked up like this. Your brown suit has been taken and been replaced by white hospital attire. Turn it orange and it'd be more clear this is a prison.

"This is just between you and me, Jason. You can tell me anything, whatever you're going through."

You chuckle mirthlessly. "You won't believe a word of it."

The therapist softly smiles. "Try me."

You take a deep breath and begin. "There was an accident, and I was transported back in time."

As if flipping the switch that sent all of you back weren't intentional, in the middle of a fight with a cultist, desperate to prove yourself worthy of your father's love.

"Actually...It wasn't-it wasn't an accident. I was just sent back to the wrong year, is all."

You laugh nervously and run your fingers through your hair. This is insane. You can't even look her in the eye.

"I was-I wasn't supposed to-We were sending back this group of people, um, to the year 2012."

The therapist nods, writing this down. Please don't write this all down.

"But, but I was-I was too close to the machine, and-You're writing all this down?"

She looks up from her clipboard and says, "Just for my own notes."

It's easy to remember. 2077. Accident. Time machine. Crazy.

"Please continue."

You clear your throat, folding your hands in your lap, picking at your fingernails. You never did that. Your hands were always still.

"My father is a scientist. One of the most powerful tech moguls in North America, if not the world. And I gotta say, it really is crazy that the machine he created worked. Even in our time, even in 2077, it was only science fiction."

Your therapist's expression brightens, as if you're making a breakthrough, admitting this.

"But it did work. I want more than anything for someone to believe me. That's why I need to find my grandparents."

The therapist perks up. If you can be handed into someone's care, perhaps you can get out of this hospital.

"But..."

"But what?"

"I have no idea how to find them."

"We'll work on that," says the therapist, and she could be lying through her teeth, or maybe she can really help. You'll find out later she'll promise and promise and won't even try.

"Anything else?" she asks.

You shake your head. Either this made things better or made it a hundred times worse.

When they hand you the little white cup of Thorazine, you find out it gets worse.