His eyes opened slowly and even before they could focus, John Biebe knew that he was not in his bed in Vermont. He was not with Riley and he was not in his real life; the life he loved, the one he was meant to be living. As he looked up at the ceiling, at a crack he knew like the back of his hand, he heard a distant scream, like the cry of a terrified animal and he recognized it as Riley. How could it have happened? How could he be the one to cause her so much pain? A tear welled in his eyes and he silently sighed.

The warm hand on his chest stirred and he sensed Donna. Donna. God sakes, he recalled and felt everything that had led to them being together in the bed like that. His cock was sticky from their lovemaking … but how was it possible? He remembered the argument, the wordless apology, the newspaper covered with Sharpie lines. He remembered the kiss in the snow … but the sex that made him sticky? No.

His heart hurt so bad he almost shook from the pain. He wanted to slide away, climb off the damn bed and run. Maybe go to Vermont and find his real life … but …

He didn’t move, actually he couldn’t move. It was as though he actually was exhausted from a night of wild, passionate sex with Donna. He was melded to the mattress and unable to flex a muscle, much less speak. Fuck, all he wanted to do was tell Donna everything, maybe she could help him get back?

Well, that was stupid. Of course she wouldn’t. Jesus, would Riley have helped him get back to Donna? Nope. This was all fucked up, completely out of his realm of understanding or skills and he knew it was the Portal’s big bang. The one they were all so afraid of.

And scared he was. He gulped hard, felt the cool air drifting from the glass window at the head of the bed, recalled the view outside like he’d just looked at it yesterday.

What the fuck was he gonna do now? He wanted to turn and look down at Donna, but he was too terrified. His mind and body felt like he was literally in two places and he wandered what was happening in his apartment at the Inn. Was his body there too? Was he in some kinda coma? Or worse yet, was he fucking dead? And what about his brothers? The ones who had visions … Terry and Maximus, Ben and Jack, Lachlan and Jeff … were they all gone too? Or just some of them? Was he the first to get torn back? Torn back … to what? And the tear still couldn’t be released to slide from his eye. Why?

And … why couldn’t he get out of that bed and move around? Why?

Like a blast of icy air, the next thing John knew he was sitting with the guys, geared up and ready for the first period, waiting in the thick, weighty and terrifying excitement to go out and play the New York Rangers. He reached up and pressed the tape on the blade of his stick. It popped and he slid his hand lower, groaned and closed his eyes. Fuck, the pads felt strange and heavy, the skates, not tight enough. When was the last time he suited up for a hockey game? Was he in for the beating of his life? His eyes slid right and left, taking in the rest; Tree, Stevie Weeks, Holt, the Winetka brothers. The Judge. He wanted to shout, say something … something like Hey, nice to see you all again, but trust me, you don’t want me on the ice tonight! I got no jump, I got no balls, and I got no heart for this. I just wanna go home! Nothing came from his mouth. Nothing.

And as the fateful pond hockey game unfolded in spurts and blasts of speed and pain, he found himself caught up in it all … but there was nothing he could do to change a thing. He’d thought about that game for years. A thousand times he’d gone over the final plays, analyze why it all fell apart, how they managed to lose, but nothing he felt or remembered or knew could make him change a damn thing.

And as John stood and watched the helicopter take Stevie Weeks and Connor Banks away from Mystery, John had to take a deep swallow. It was the past, and everyone knows you can’t change the fucking past.

Was he actually living it? Reliving it? Or just vividly remembering it? No matter, his heart was shattered and John Biebe had to face the fact that he might never be going back. Never. But his mind and soul clung tight to the reality of Vermont and Riley, of his baby son and the Inn. Of his brothers … wherever they were. As he slapped a tender farewell on the arm of the cross marking Bailey Pruitt’s grave, he walked sadly toward Donna.

And he wondered … if this was to be the rest of his existence … who was to say which reality was true and which wasn’t? Wasn’t he the same man in both places? He could and would move ahead honorably, stand by Donna and his boys and perhaps hold tight to the imaginings of a sweet woman on the other side of the universe who was probably still crying for him.

***

He expected to get a chance to talk with Donna that night. She was a pragmatic kinda gal, probably wouldn’t believe a word he told her, but now that everything ahead would be new, he felt it was important that she know the truth. Truth? Which truth?

God sakes, he needed a break; just a few minutes, a day, an evening. He’d hoped to just be for a bit. To exist without the constant terror and confusion … maybe take the boys to skate on the big pond before the boards all came down, give them something powerful to remember of that game. He hoped to maybe take Donna to Ardolino’s for dinner that night; some pasta and red wine might soften the blow, ay? Either way, there was no guarantee John wouldn’t end up in a psychological hospital in Anchorage, tight in a straightjacket like poor Nash. No guarantee at all … but he had to try … or he definitely would go fucking nuts.

Oh yeah, John had a mess of hopes now that all the solid memories had passed unchanged, leaving his body oddly achy from the experience and his heart as heavy as it was the first time they’d lost. Plenty of hopes … plenty of hopes … plenty of hopes …

But in the blink of a fucking eye he was sitting behind the wheel in his own driveway, turning the key again and again and getting the grumble of the engine that wouldn’t turn over. What the fuck happened to yesterday? To going out with his wife or playing hockey with his kids? What happened to the time he needed to talk with Donna? What the fuck happened? And … why the hell hadn’t Tigger fixed the damn car?

“Fucky!” squealed his middle son and John crawled out of the car.

“What’d you say?” he said but his brain was burning like a sudden explosion. Middle son? Middle son? Why didn’t he know the fucking name of his middle son?

“Fucky!”

He scooped the boy up into his arms and turned a glare at Mike. “You teach him that?”

“He heard it, dad.”

“Where?”

“In the clubhouse … you know how it is in there.”

And even though everything inside John’s guts was twisted with terror, he couldn’t stop it, couldn’t change it, and couldn’t alter it. It was starting all over again … and he felt like he was trapped in a morbid loop! Or …

Nash floated into his mind again. Was he as nuts as that guy? Had he made it all up? Was he making this up? And why, for the love of God, couldn’t he change anything he did or said? Why couldn’t he just go home to Vermont? Why?

The Portal, that’s why. And as he rode the snowmobile from Bailey Pruitt’s snow covered walkway, John Biebe tried to remember everything Gemma Kane had said about the Portal … but it was all slowly … slowly … oh so slowly … fading.

“Riley!” his mind screamed. “I’m coming home, baby. If it kills me, I’m coming home!”

And this became the mantra that repeated like the loop of his life … over and over and over again.