Paradigm Rift: Book One of the Back to Normal Series Read Free Page A

clearly in the dirt, but there were no tracks in the grass on either side.
     
    And then it hit me. As a time traveler, as a man walking somewhere he doesn’t really belong, I need to be careful not to leave any tracks, or at least, as few tracks as possible. My interactions in and around Normal, my travels here in 1946, need to be like the vanishing footprints we create in the grass. We push it down temporarily, but moments later, the many blades of green snap back, sweeping our tracks for us, all but forgetting our brief encounter.
     
    If and when I am able to return home, I need to leave Normal, Illinois, and the rest of this world, as if I were never here, no footprints, no changes. My interactions with people, need to be like walking in the grass. A quick, fleeting impression, then moments later—nothing.
     
    Maybe I need to write this mantra on my bathroom mirror, and repeat it to myself several times a day:
     
    Walk without Footprints.
     
    This is my new axiom, my pledge. Walk without footprints.
     
    Just over 20 years from now, another man, out of place, will walk on foreign soil. But unlike me, that man will intend to leave his mark, to make tracks for all to see: footprints that will be as clear and fresh at Judgment Day as they were (or will be) on that early Monday morning in late July of 1969.
     
    Neil Armstrong misspoke on that important day, and no one ever forgot his famous line broadcast from the Moon’s surface. But here in my journeys, also far from home, it would be better if no one ever remembered anything I said. Like an extra piece on a chessboard, I am not supposed to be here. Every move I make, every word I speak, anything I do could alter the game.
     
    One small step I leave behind as a man, could create one giant disastrous leap for mankind.

CHAPTER 4
    A motel room? What’s going on here?
    Denver was not just in any motel room, but a motel room that had been in desperate need of remodeling since at least the Vietnam War, maybe even the Korean. He was fascinated by the large, black phone by the bed and walked over to it. A rotary phone? He picked up the handset and listened to the tone. Just for fun, he spun the rotary dial, and it clicked back into place. He glanced around again.
    No television? I gotta be dreaming.
    He stepped toward the thick curtains and cautiously peeled the left side back a tad. He could make out a nearly-empty parking lot through the dirty glass, a few lights, but no activity. He grabbed the handle and the ugly green door opened under extreme protest. Denver moved out onto the uneven concrete sidewalk. There were about a dozen units along the wall, and a handful of cars were parked on his far right.
    He strained to see the vehicles in the darkness. Nice, looks like a '47 Ford on the end. Somebody dropped some bucks in that restoration job.
    There appeared to be some city lights straight ahead in the distance, though he couldn't tell how far due to the intermittent fog that hugged the ground. He grabbed his cellphone to check the time, and hopefully his location. The display was a disappointment except for the time, 9:34 p.m.
    He pulled it closer. Do I have a signal? How many bars?
    No and none.
    That’s great .
    He put the phone away and felt his back pocket, relieved to discover he still had his wallet. He peered inside. Good , at least fifty bucks. He figured he would need at least that much just to get a cab ride home.
    Denver took one final look around and made short work of getting across the parking lot, which dumped out onto a narrow, two-lane blacktop. He paused and looked up and down the road, lit about as well as could be expected in the mist and moonlight, and he began a brisk walk towards civilization.
    The air was sharp and cool, not cold, but something bothered him as he trudged along. It was the weather. No clouds, no rain, no storm, no lightning, just a thin layer of fog. He was convinced it was a close lightning strike that slapped him from slumber