​     Abby Dawson came to in a panic. 

     The Arctic. She'd had a child, Francis Forwarder, in her arms. Then, intense bright whiteness.

     She cried out, "Skip!" Her only son. In the Arctic. Blue. Not moving.

​     "Skip!"

     "He's not here, Mom," Alison said. 

     And where was here?

     Abby sat up and looked around. 

     Damn.

​     She was at home...

     in her own bed.

     And not only was it her bed in her home, it was her home in a house she hadn't lived in for three years, since it got attacked and destroyed.

     She looked out her bedroom window.

     Outside, it was a gray, overcast day. 

     What the...

     Her daughters, Cathy and Alison, stood at the foot of the bed.

     Abby wasn't in her bed but on top of it. She wore jeans and a top that had been her favorite a few years before.

     "Does anybody have any idea what's going on?" Abby asked.

​     Alison and Cathy shrugged.

     "I'm hungry," Abby said. "Is there anything to eat in the kitchen?"

     "We haven't got that far, yet," Cathy replied.

     "What time is it? We eating breakfast or what?"

     "I need coffee," Alison said. "Who cares what time it is?"

​     "Toast and eggs it is."

CONTINUE