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Rusty Hammer was in and out of consciousness in the back of the ambulance, slipping back and forth between coherent thought and a gray fog that seemed to exist somewhere between a dream and a memory. Every few seconds he would drift up toward awareness and hear fragments of conversation before sinking back down again. A paramedic was talking to him while simultaneously starting an IV line in his arm. Another was rattling off numbers to the driver in the cab. Plastic wrappers crackled. Velcro ripped open. Metal clicked against metal. It all sounded purposeful, but also very far away. 

Then, through the fog, he heard a sentence that struck him as peculiar more than frightening. “I don’t think he’s gonna make it.” Rusty considered that for a moment. It was an odd thing to hear because, as far as he knew, he’d been doing reasonably well all day. He’d only gotten home a few hours earlier from a journey across America to find himself. He’d survived campground coffee, Minnesota lefse, Wyoming weather, and two months of worrying about Trey Hammer. On top of that, he’d proven to Debra Lynn not six hours earlier that he was still in what could generously be described as competitive physical condition for a man his age. Perhaps not elite athlete condition, but certainly not ambulance condition. 

Before he could fully consider the matter, the gray fog swallowed him again.

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The next thing he knew, there was a flashlight in his eyes. A bright one. A voice said, “Let’s get him on the monitor immediately. Thready pulse. Heart rate is one twenty.” Another voice answered, “Get a twelve-lead ECG right now. Don’t wait for the gown to come off.” Somebody else announced, “Starting bilateral large-bore IVs. Draw a rainbow of labs, include troponin and stats.” The room was alive with movement. Rusty could sense urgency all around him, but he couldn’t participate in it. He tried to say something. He wanted to tell everyone they were overreacting. He wanted to explain that he was fine and that Debra Lynn could verify it. He wanted to tell them he’d only just returned from finding himself and that finding yourself ought to buy you at least another decade. Instead, his mouth refused to cooperate. 

Then another voice said, “O2 sat is eighty-eight on room air. Get him on a non-rebreather at fifteen liters.” Someone replied immediately. “ECG is up. Look at the ST elevation in V1 through V4. This is a massive anterior STEMI.”

Rusty wasn’t entirely sure what a STEMI was, but it sounded expensive.

Then things escalated. “He’s losing consciousness. No pulse. Start CPR.” There were feet moving around him and people changing positions. “Switch every two minutes.” “Rhythm check. That’s V-Fib. Charging to two hundred Joules.” “Everyone clear?” There was a pause. “Shock delivered. Resume CPR.” Then came, “One milligram Epinephrine. Flush twenty CCs saline.” “Amiodarone next rhythm check.” “End-tidal CO2 is only twelve. Increase compression depth.” 

Somebody finally shouted, “We have Return of Spontaneous Circulation.” 

Rusty didn’t know what any of it meant. He didn’t feel any pain. He didn’t feel any fear either. He simply felt like he was watching a movie in which he had accidentally become the lead actor. Then the room went silent. A bright light filled his vision. Brighter than anything he had ever seen before. And when he opened his eyes, he was standing in the parking garage of Fort Stockton Memorial Hospital.

In front of him sat the most beautiful automobile he had ever seen.

It was a 1959 Cadillac DeVille Four-Window Sedan, finished in Seminole Red with a Dover White roof. It was enormous. Not merely large. Enormous. Five thousand pounds of confidence and optimism. It looked as if General Motors had been given unlimited resources and instructed to build something capable of transporting civilization itself. The chrome gleamed like liquid mercury. The tail fins reached toward heaven. The whitewalls looked hand painted. It was somehow elegant, absurd, and completely perfect all at once. Standing beside it was a tall man with chestnut brown hair and a perfectly trimmed beard. He looked vaguely Middle Eastern and vaguely Texan at the same time. He wore faded Levi 501 jeans and a Grateful Dead concert t-shirt. His expression suggested he had never once been in a hurry in his entire existence. Rusty noticed the black license plate immediately.

JC ONE.

The stranger looked at him as if they had known each other for years.

“Get in.”

---

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Rusty complied without question. It seemed like the most reasonable thing in the world. The door closed with a satisfying heaviness that modern cars had forgotten how to achieve. The stranger walked around to the driver’s side and climbed in. The giant 390 cubic inch V8 came to life beneath the hood. Three hundred twenty-five horsepower and four hundred thirty pound-feet of torque hummed quietly through the car. The four-speed Hydra-Matic transmission engaged and the sedan rolled away with the confidence of something that knew exactly where it was going.

There wasn’t much conversation as they drove through Fort Stockton. Neither man seemed interested in making small talk. Rusty had questions, certainly, but he also had the overwhelming feeling that he was in very good hands and that answers would arrive exactly when they were supposed to. The Cadillac floated down Dickinson Boulevard. The push-button AM radio was turned off. The only sound was the distant hum of the engine and the faint rustling of the stranger’s Grateful Dead t-shirt against the seat.

Eventually they turned into the alley behind the Piggly Wiggly. The Cadillac came to a stop and the stranger got out. He walked around and opened Rusty’s door without saying anything. Together they entered through the back door of the store. Inside, Mrs. Drury was arguing with a stock boy about how the store brand diced tomatoes should be stacked. Chad was on the telephone speaking to the corporate office about the Monthly Shrinkage Report being late. Nobody appeared to notice Rusty standing there in a paper hospital gown. Nobody noticed the bearded stranger either.

The two men walked directly toward the walk-in freezer. The stranger opened the steel door and stepped inside. Rusty followed, expecting frozen pizzas and deli meats. Instead, he found Fort Stockton.

Or perhaps a version of Fort Stockton.

It was recognizable, but also different. Grounds for Divorce stood exactly where it always had. Lucinda was inside, pouring Folgers from a Bunn-O-Matic machine that glowed faintly as though made from gold itself. But instead of the regulars from that morning, the booths were filled with people Rusty hadn’t seen in years. People he’d loved. People he’d buried. People he’d forgotten he missed. They were laughing. They were telling stories. Nobody was looking at their phones. Nobody was pretending to be important. Everybody was simply happy.

---

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They kept walking.

Rex Hall Drug was still standing, but it wasn’t a drug store anymore. Instead of shelves filled with antacids, allergy pills, cold remedies, and digestive aids, there were books. Thousands upon thousands of books. Historical novels. Biographies. Comedies. Tragedies. Every story Rusty had ever heard of and countless others he had not. He looked at the stranger.

“What happened to all the medicine?”

The stranger smiled. “None of that is necessary anymore.”

They kept walking. K-Bob’s was still there too, but now it was a Smith & Wollensky. Prime beef was dry aging behind glass walls. The old Salad Wagon had become a wine cellar stocked with some of the finest vintages imaginable. The stranger pointed casually toward a row of bottles. “Made some of those myself.”

“You make wine?”

“They were water yesterday.”

Rusty looked at him for a moment and decided he didn’t need clarification.

The greatest surprise came when they reached the old police station. In its place stood the Fort Stockton Resource and Outreach Hub. Underneath the sign it read: Physical facilities that connect residents to housing security, employment opportunities, and youth programs.

“What happened?” Rusty asked.

“It prevents the conditions that create crime.”

Rusty stood there quietly. There was something almost offensive about how sensible that sounded.

Then they reached Travis Boulevard. Rusty stopped cold. Second Baptist was gone. Almost United Methodist was gone. Our Lady of Immeasurable Concern was gone. In their place was a giant meadow filled with bluebonnets and wildflowers. People wandered through the grass. Some walked alone in quiet reflection while others walked in groups, smiling and laughing.

“What happened to the churches?”

The stranger bent down and picked a bluebonnet.

“All of Fort Stockton is a church now. No need for different versions of one Truth anymore. No need to keep it locked up.”

Rusty stared across the meadow for a long time. It was difficult to argue with a field full of happy people.

---

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Then the stranger said, “We need to go.”

Suddenly they were back in the Piggly Wiggly freezer. Chad glanced over twice, almost as if he could see them, but then returned to his paperwork. They got back into the Cadillac and drove away.

Their next stop was behind the Scuttlebutt Gentleman’s Club.

The stranger remained in the driver’s seat. “I’m going to wait here. Go through the back door. Take the first door on your left. Not the second one. For sure not the second one.”

Rusty nodded.

Inside, Mayor Goodman greeted him immediately.

“You’re late, damn it.”

---

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The room beyond was horrifying. Genghis Khan, Jeffrey Dahmer, Jim Jones, and Vlad the Impaler were sitting around a poker table. Every one of them was cheating. Timothy McVeigh sat alone playing Grand Theft Auto. Jack the Ripper was buying drinks for Fidel Castro, Idi Amin, Marquis de Sade, and Josef Stalin while John Wayne Gacy tended bar. Adolf Eichmann sat in a dark corner receiving a lap dance from Elizabeth Báthory, though there would never be a happy ending.

Nickelback played continuously at full volume.

The air smelled like cigarette smoke, bad decisions, and expired coupons.

People wandered around talking on speakerphone. A self-checkout machine repeatedly announced, “Please remove the last item from the bagging area,” despite the fact that nothing had been scanned yet. Three different people tried to sell Rusty an extended warranty for his 1962 Ford F-100. Somebody else told him his Amazon account would be suspended unless he updated his credit card information. Then two Jehovah’s Witnesses approached him.

“Do you know Jesus?”

Rusty pointed toward the parking lot.

“Know him? He’s waiting for me outside in a red ’59 Sedan DeVille.”

The pair nodded as though that sounded entirely reasonable.

Mayor Goodman wandered around slapping backs and comparing sins. Competition was fierce.

Then the loudspeaker crackled. “Whoever parked the Dodge Charger between the Pontiac Aztec and Tesla Cybertruck left the engine running and the doors locked.”

The room erupted with laughter.

Benito Mussolini sheepishly stood up and headed for the exit.

Rusty followed immediately.

The Cadillac was already running.

The giant V8 roared to life and gravel scattered behind them as they departed. As they drove back through town, Rusty noticed there were no dumpsters anymore. Bridges Funeral Home had become a classic car museum. Bluebonnet Loan & Trust was now a bakery. A free bakery.

---

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“What was the point of all this?” Rusty asked.

The stranger smiled.

“I think you already know.”

“Why the Cadillac?”

“Why not?”

“I expected glowing robes and fisherman sandals.”

“You have to change with the times.”

“And the Grateful Dead shirt?”

The stranger laughed.

Then they passed Fort Stockton Municipal Golf Course and Gun Range. A giant stone wall completely surrounded it.

“What’s that?”

“Those are the fundamentalists. They think they’re the only ones here. I didn’t want to disappoint them. It does limit their enjoyment, though.”

They arrived back at the hospital parking garage. The Cadillac rolled to a stop. The stranger looked at Rusty, really looked at him.

“If you make it, folks will tell you it was Lucinda doing the chest compressions waiting for the ambulance. Don’t believe them. It was Pastor Peterson doing the praying.”

Rusty swallowed hard.

“Can I ask one thing?”

“Anything.”

“Creation. Seven days?”

The stranger laughed.

“Those answers are still evolving.”

Then he smiled.

And the greatest five thousand pounds of postwar engineering ever assembled vanished into thin air.

Rusty opened his eyes.

He was back on the operating table.

His chest was open.

Doctors surrounded him.

Machines beeped frantically.

Everyone in the room was working with extraordinary determination to keep him from winding up in the cooler at the Piggly Wiggly or the basement beneath the Scuttlebutt on their watch.

And somewhere, Rusty knew beyond all doubt, a red 1959 Cadillac DeVille was quietly cruising Dickinson Boulevard with the radio turned low, waiting patiently.

Because time, he suddenly understood, wasn’t measured in hours at all.

It was measured in stories.

And Fort Stockton, for all its absurdity and imperfections, was still full of stories worth sticking around to finish.

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