Peripheral Visions: The Resistance of Vision

"You see them from the corner of your eye: Thoughts half formed, worlds only vaguely understood, presentiments of what's to come... and what's coming for you. Peripheral Visions: Those things you don't quite catch sight of... until it's too late."

The Resistance of Vision

"Jordan?"

Frank Whittle leaned forward, his elbows on the table, steam from his cup of coffee tickling him under the chin. He hardly noticed. Jordan's face had frozen into a mask as perfectly still as that of a wax statue. For a moment Frank thought Jordan might be having a heart attack or a stroke, but Jordan's face remained frozen and his entire body as still as a mannequin.

Then Jordan's eyes began to glow with an impossible silver light.

Frank sat back in his chair, astonished. He'd seen such things in movies and in comic books, but they didn't happen in real life. In fact, it was impossible for such things to happen in real life. Eyes receive light, he thought. They simply don't emit light – certainly not light so intense, so bright, so pure. Jordan's eyes were like a pair of headlamps, or like portals to some other dimension – a celestial realm of pure white flame...

Then Jordan moved and Frank, his own body taut with apprehension, nearly jumped in his seat. But Jordan was merely pushing back from the table, getting to his feet... Jordan seemed to glance at Frank; could he actually see anything through those glowing eyes? It seemed that he could; without difficulty, he moved across the room to where a mirror hung over a vintage buffet.

Jordan paused in front of the mirror and studied himself with seeming curiosity.

"Jordan?" Frank asked cautiously.

Without looking back at Frank, Jordan asked, "How old am I?"

"How old are you?" Frank wasn't entirely sure, but he hazarded a guess. "Fifty-four, fifty-five. Something like that."

"Hmmm..." Jordan leaned closer to the mirror. "Losing my hair. And my eyes are puffy."

Frank very nearly laughed at that, very nearly exclaimed, "Your eyes are puffy?" He didn't say anything, though.

"Well, guess I am holding up pretty well, for fifty-five. Though I'm not exactly cutting a dashing figure these days." Jordan placed a hand on his stomach, which was slightly round and protruding: A middle-aged man's paunch, but not a full-on potbelly. Jordan sighed.

Frank watched all this with a sense of something that fell between vertigo and detachment. The two men had planned an early start on the day, eager to get into the mountains, get in a good hike to the lake, and do some fishing. To call this sudden twist off-script would be a colossal understatement. It was so inexplicable that Frank wasn't even sure he should be scared. He didn't believe in possession, or aliens, or magic... but all at once he felt he could have accepted any explanation Jordan might care to offer him.

Another thought occurred to Frank: Sometimes Jordan could have spells of melancholy. Was this somehow connected to his infrequent episodes of sadness?

"Jordan?" Frank asked again. "Are you all right, buddy?"

Now Jordan turned and looked directly at Frank, his silver eyes intense, raking him up and down. Those eyes. They had no detail – no irises, no variation, just depthless, radiant silver light. Frank felt the hair on his neck rise. His detachment was giving way to an eerie feeling that something enormous was happening, or about to happen. Something dangerous, perhaps. Or maybe something glorious – something angelic.

"Jordan, do you know me? Frank?"

"Frank?" Jordan said vaguely.

"Your best friend... your fishing buddy... in fact – " Frank waved in the direction of the front hall. "We were just getting ready to go spend the day at the lake. At Lucky Peak. The fishing gear is ready to go, and... and we just wanted a little more coffee..." Frank's voice trailed off. Jordan continued to stare at him. "Aw, come on, Jordan, you know me," Frank tried again. "We've been friends for twenty years..."

But the look on Jordan's face remained impassive.

"Are you feeling okay?" Frank tried again.

"I, well, I... I think I might still be a little drunk," Jordan said.

"Drunk? On what? All we've had this morning is coffee..." Frank looked at Jordan's cup, sitting half full on the table. The white ceramic rim gleamed under the ceiling light. Outside it was getting light; it was just past 6:30. With every passing moment Frank became more certain the day was not going to proceed remotely as planned.

Frank half rose from his chair, leaned across the table, and picked up Jordan's cup, sniffing at it. He tasted Jordan's coffee. Nothing; no booze; just Folger's.

"Were you drinking last night, buddy? You didn't seem drunk when I got here half an hour ago."

"Oh, Jesus Christ. I've really done it now." Jordan came to the table, reclaimed his chair, and sat down. "Can we just sit here for a while?"

"Are you dizzy? You don't look so... well, what I mean is... your eyes..."

"Yeah, I saw," Jordan told him. "They do that. It's okay. It doesn't hurt or anything."

" 'They do that?' " Frank quoted Jordan back himself. "Since when?"

Jordan waved a hand. "Since, well, it's hard to explain. But don't worry. I'm just fine."

"But you're drunk?"

"No. I mean, I was... last night. Tonight. Well, it's hard to explain. I'm not really drunk, but I sure feel buzzed. Like I brought it with me."

"Brought... being buzzed?"

"Right, you get it," Jordan told him.

"No, uh... not really." Frank fell silent, waiting for Jordan to say something more. When he didn't, Frank said, "You brought it with you? Brought it from where?"

Jordan shrugged.

"Is this some sort of astral projection or something?"

Jordan smiled at that. "You know... I never thought of it that way. Maybe." He seemed to look at Frank, and then at the table. "Look... what's your name again? Frank?"

"Frank, yeah, that's me. You really don't remember?"

"Frank, you know how you can help me out, buddy, is just sit here for a while. Let's make some more coffee."

"Okay..." Frank stood to go into the kitchen. He paused. "Look, is it anything you want to talk about? Because something really weird's going on here right now."

"I know, I know." Jordan looked up at him again and Frank felt another chill looking directly into his bright, blank eyes. Jordan didn't seem to be in pain, or even drunk; if anything, he seemed perplexed. But about what?

"I know," Jordan said again. His gaze shifted back to the table. The tablecloth, Frank noticed for the first time, had a motif of blue flowers – flowers in a riot, a profusion of blossoms dotted with yellow. "But it's nothing that talking about is gonna help," Jordan said. "I mean, it's not really a problem. I can explain it... well, not really explain it, but... look, we're gonna need some coffee. And some time, which I'm guessing we'll have plenty of. But," Jordan added, "it's not as weird as you think." He smiled. It looked incongruous on him for some reason, at this moment. Jordan put on a tendentious, mocking voice: "It's only weird if you make it weird."

"Right," Frank said uneasily, edging toward the kitchen.

"Frank?" Jordan looked up in alarm. "You're not going anywhere, are you? You're not leaving me?"

"No, no way – don't you worry about that," Frank hastened to reassure him.

Jordan stood up as Frank went into the kitchen. He stood in the doorway as Frank puttered around looking for the Folger's coffee. "Goddammit, why can't you get a Keurig like everyone else?" Frank grumbled, eyeing the coffee maker. "Where the hell do you keep your coffee?"

Jordan shrugged. He seemed apologetic.

"Aw, come on, man. You forgot how you organized your own kitchen?" Frank took a step toward Jordan, searching his face with renewed concern. "You're sure you're not having some kind of... fit or spell, something like that?"

Frank's voice faded under Jordan's smile, his intelligent and exasperated expression. He knew instinctively that Jordan wasn't ill, at least not in the usual sense. And he was suddenly sure of something else, as well.

Frank, his voice apprehensive, ventured the question: "You... you're not Jordan, are you?"

"Well, I don't live here, if that's what you mean," Jordan said. "But I'm Jordan," he added, before Frank could ask what he was trying to say. "Just not the Jordan you know."

"What does that mean? What is this? Are you some kinda split personality or something?"

Jordan actually chuckled at that. "Nice one. You know, maybe I should run with that."

Frank took a step back.

"No," Jordan said, holding up a hand, "that's not it at all. Don't freak out, don't panic."

"Who are you and what the fuck is going on?" Frank asked, suddenly sounding angry and threatening. His fear was boiling up again.

"Look, look, man, just – keep cool. In a little while everything will be fine again."

"How long's a little while?" Frank growled. "What did you do to Jordan?"

"Can we please, please just make some more coffee?" Jordan... or whoever he was... asked, a note of pleading in his voice.

Frank stared at him, wondering if he should bolt for one of drawers and look for a knife. Or maybe make a dash for the phone on the wall – good old Jordan, such a technophobe, no Keurig and no cell phone. But Jordan's voice sounded so desperate and there was such an air of lostness and even apprehension about him that Frank realized Jordan wasn't posing a threat so much as suffering from his own share of anxiety around the situation.

"Okay," Frank said, feeling himself calm down again. "Okay. And then you can explain to me what in the hell is going on."

"I'll try," Jordan said.

"Twenty years we've been friends and I don't know where you keep this shit," Frank said, thinking of both the coffee and the knives. Jordan always took his hunting knife on their fishing trips; it was probably in the pocket of his blue jeans, which meant that he was armed, whereas Frank never bothered with a knife. He always left it to Jordan to clean the fish. Jordan fancied himself a cook; he was fussy about such things.

Frank looked in the refrigerator and spotted the Folger's. Grabbing the tin, he held it up and looked over at Jordan. "Really?" he asked, accusingly.

Jordan shrugged. "I guess it preserves the flavor when you keep it cool?" he said.

The two of them stayed quiet as Frank set about making a fresh pot. Only the sound of the hissing coffee maker filled the kitchen. When the pot was full, Frank carried it into the dining room and freshened their cups. Jordan followed after him, resuming his place at the table. Frank looked around for a place to put the pot. Spotting a coaster on the buffet, he said, "Would you get me that, please?"

Jordan looked around, saw the coaster, and got up to fetch it. He glanced at himself in the mirror again while he was at it. Frank watched him closely. He moved like Jordan; he sounded like Jordan, with the same vocal inflections; he even had Jordan's sense of humor. So what could he mean when he said that, appearances to the contrary, he wasn't Jordan... or rather, wasn't the Jordan that Frank knew? What other Jordan was there?

An idea occurred to Frank. "I've heard something about aliens from other dimensions kidnapping people. That is, folks being taken by versions of themselves from other realities... is that what's happening here?"

Jordan threw Frank a smile. "That's nuts," he said, half a chuckle in his voice. He resumed his seat.

"Yeah, well, all of this is nuts," Frank said.

Sipping gingerly at his hot coffee, Jordan sighed. Then he set his cup down. "You're right. It is nuts... Okay. You want to know what's with the eyes, right? And why I'm acting... not quite myself? Fine. I'll do my best to tell you."

Frank settled back to listen.

Jordan looked into his coffee cup, rolling it between his hands as if to warm them, then set it aside. Then he yawned and stretched, scrubbing his hands along his thighs. Feeling something in the pocket of his blue jeans, he shoved a hand into the pocket and pulled out his hunting knife. Frank tensed, but Jordan smiled at the knife. "I still have this? Cool." He looked at Frank. "My dad gave me this knife for my fourteenth birthday."

"Yeah, I know that," Frank said. "Is telling me supposed to be some kind a test? Or are you trying to convince me you really are Jordan?"

"No, and no." Jordan unfolded the knife and started to scrape the tip under his fingernails. It was a nervous habit, and Frank had seen him do it many times before. Again, this was the Jordan he knew. "It's just... I'm happy I still have this knife. It means a lot to me."

"You wanna explain all this?" Frank asked.

"I'm sorry," Jordan said. "It's just I don't really know how to start."

"Just start talking," Frank told him. "Whatever it is, you can tell me. I mean, it's not like you're going to tell me you're gay or anything, right?"

Jordan chuckled. "Yeah, I guess you'd know about that."

Frank's joke hearkened back to another time, years earlier, when Jordan had been fidgety and ill at ease – the day he'd come out to Frank. Not that Frank cared. As long as gay guys didn't try to hit on him, Frank's philosophy had always been that they meant less competition for the attention of the town's limited supply of available females. That was still more or less how he thought of it, despite having long been married. But Jordan's comment about the knife had given Frank an idea, and his reference to the day Jordan came out was a test of his own – a test to see what this so-called Jordan actually knew. He claimed to be Jordan, but he didn't seem to remember that occasion.

Frank stared at Jordan, waiting. If there was an explanation, it had better be a good one.

"Well, it's like this," Jordan said, and cleared his throat. He swallowed and gave a half shrug... more familiar mannerisms. Frank had seen these gestures when Jordan was feeling sheepish or embarrassed. "I'm kind of a... a time traveler." His voice dropped to a whisper as those last words came out of him in a rush.

Whatever Frank thought Jordan might say, this wasn't it. "A time traveler?" he echoed.

"Yeah. I guess."

"Are you fucking serious?" Frank snapped angrily. "That's bullshit. That's science fiction."

"Dude," Jordan said, and made a "What do you call this?" gesture at his own eyes.

"Okay," Frank said. "You have a point. Go on."

"Listen," Jordan said, as if explaining some complicated task. "A little while ago I was in a men's room at a bar. I was – well, I guess I still am – twenty-four years old. But now I'm here, and it's, like, twenty years later, right?"

"More like thirty," Frank said.

"Right." Jordan looked back at his fingertips, at the point of the knife scraping away. "I mean, I'm Jordan. I'm just a younger Jordan than who you know."

"Okay. But listen. There's another explanation," Frank broke in, an idea occurring to him. "Sometimes people have strokes that wipe out memories – years of memories. From their point of view, it's like time just skipped forward. You think maybe this could be what's happened?"

Jordan looked up at him. "What, are you a doctor?"

"Kinda, yes. Well, not exactly," Frank said.

"What's that mean? You play one on TV?" Jordan asked dryly.

"I'm a veterinarian," Frank told him. "You forget that, too?"

"Well, Frank, you gotta understand, I only just met you," Jordan told him. He held up a hand as Frank began to object. "I know, this has got to be confusing... there's no way to say it that makes sense, so just bear with me. I have this... talent, I guess... that lets me sort of project myself through time."

"Project yourself through time?" Frank repeated, still skeptical.

"When I do it I end up in my own body, but years later."

"That's some talent," Frank said, not believing a word of it. Then he reconsidered. Jordan's eyes shone at him with an unnatural light – the light of days gone by, maybe. Light channeled somehow from years ago to the present moment.

And the thing of it was, this was Jordan; of that, Frank was certain. But just as the man across from him claimed, this wasn't the Jordan he knew. This was a different Jordan. A younger Jordan... Yes, that was it. This actually made sense, Frank realized, if the explanation that this Jordan was younger than the one he knew. A lot younger. More na�ve, maybe? A mixture of brash and tentative?

"When I was about six I discovered I had this talent," Jordan was saying. He was back to frowning down at his fingertips, and at the knife. "I don't recall exactly how I first did it, but I do remember I was wondering what my life would be like... what I would be like... years in the future. Like, at age nine." Jordan looked up, a smile on his face. "I mean, I was a kid, right?"

"Sure," Frank said, still not sure where the story was going.

"So, anyway... I made it happen. Somehow, I projected myself into... into my future self, I guess you might say. My nine-year-old self, three years in the future. My bedroom was the same. The same room, I mean, but there was some new stuff. The bedspread was different, there were posters on the walls for some movie I never heard of. You know. 'Star Wars.' " Jordan's smile grew wider, and there was something apologetic about it, as if he were apologizing for the science fiction nature of his story.

"So you... you had a vision of the future?" Frank asked.

"More than a vision," Jordan told him. "I was actually in my own body, only my body was older." He shrugged again and smiled down at his busy hands. "This was a really neat trick, you know what I mean? It only lasted maybe two minutes... but it really happened. When I came back to myself... my six-year-old self, I mean... I laughed about it, and then I kind of forgot about it."

"How do you forget something like that?" Frank asked.

"I was six," Jordan said. "For all I knew, it was perfectly normal. I just thought it was a game. I told a couple friends about it, and all they said was – I don't know – something along the lines of, 'So what, I found a crawdad yesterday. A big one.' That sort of thing. We just went on to the next thing. But then..." Jordan swallowed. "Then, a few weeks later, or a few months, I don't know... anyway, I tried it again. I decided to see what I'd be like when I was twelve."

"Did it work again?" Frank asked.

"Sure," Jordan said. "And it was the same kind of thing, except this time I was in the woods. On a Boy Scouts camping trip or something. I was in the forest, wearing a backpack, and I could hear other guys on the trail up ahead, but I was looking into the trees at... I don't know, a deer or something. Then some kid was yelling at me to hurry up and not lag behind. I looked over at him and he kind of stopped in his tracks and gave me a look... totally surprised, I guess."

"I don't blame him," Franks said.

"I didn't know about the eyes. Things don't look different to me... I mean, they do, because I'm in the future, but they still look normal. It's not like everything is suddenly in neon or anything."

"Uh huh," Frank said. "But he saw your eyes and knew something was..."

"Yeah, I guess," Jordan said. "I knew he had seen something was wrong, or different. He looked at me the way you were looking at me a while ago. I got scared, and wanted to get back to myself... I mean, my six-year-old self... but I couldn't make it happen. The other guy came up and stared at me. I thought maybe he was going to hit me or something... I had the sense I was in trouble. We just kept looking at each other... it took a lot longer to go back than the first time I did it, but then it was like a rubber band snapping – suddenly, I was back to my normal age again."

"So you mean... the second time you went into your future self, you stayed longer?"

"Yes. Or anyway that's how it felt."

Jordan went quiet, looking back down at his fingertips and the hunting knife. He scraped at his fingernails a little more and then set the hunting knife on the table. He leaned back in his chair with a sigh and stared into the distance, lost in thought. Frank wondered if he should prompt him to continue with his story, then decided to wait and let Jordan tell the tale in his own time.

After half a minute, Jordan resumed.

"The way that guy reacted, the way I felt in my gut when I saw he could tell something strange was going on... I decided maybe it was the kind of game that people would have a problem with," he said. "You know, like playing with yourself. Even if everyone did it – somehow it was wrong to get caught at it. And it just wasn't something I felt safe talking about, or even doing again. So I stopped it for a long time and didn't try to see the future for – oh – a long time. Years."

"But you did try it again," Frank said. "Eventually. Right? You must have. Here you are."

"Yes. Well, I'm getting to that... The next time I did it, I was twelve. It was that same hiking trip with my Scout troop. We were walking along the trail, up in the mountains, and I thought I saw something moving in the trees. I was, like, is it a deer? Is it Bigfoot? Because Ernie Pressman said that he heard there was a Bigfoot sighting the week before, and I didn't really believe it, but I could have sworn I saw something moving, something kind of big. I stopped to look and didn't see anything. And then it was like there was a jump in time, because the next thing I knew Ernie Pressman was standing there, looking at me like I was Bigfoot. I didn't know what was going on or what was wrong with him, but suddenly he said to me... he called me a 'fucking weirdo,' and turned away. I followed him up the trail and he wouldn't talk to me for the rest of that camping trip. Something seemed familiar about all this. Then, that night as I was starting to fall asleep, I remembered being six and seeing that same thing: Ernie Pressman, looking at me like I had two heads. Only, now I remembered that I'd seen it a long time before I knew Ernie Pressman."

"So you realized what it was you were doing? Looking through your own eyes in the future?"

"Yes.... Kind of. Well, I wasn't sure. It just seemed too..." Jordan waved a hand. "Too 'Twilight Zone.' Like I say, I had started to wonder if maybe I imagined it all. I thought it could be two similar daydreams. Or some kind of d�j� vu. Or maybe I was remembering it wrong, projecting back on that earlier memory, changing it to fit what happened that day. The more I thought about it, the more confusing it all got. The less sure I was about what I saw when I was six, or what I saw that same day."

"Okay, I get that," Frank said. "So then what?"

"So then, that night while the other guys were asleep, I decided to try projecting myself forward again. I mean, what harm could it do? If it was just a figment of my imagination, then nothing would happen. But if it was real... I mean, wouldn't you want to know?"

Frank nodded. "Yeah, sure. I suppose so."

"It took me awhile to remember how to do it, but suddenly... well, one minute I was in my sleeping bag squinting up at the stars, and then the next minute I was squinting into the sun and trying to drive a car. I mean, I didn't know how to drive a fucking car! I totally froze up, took my foot off the gas – which was lucky because the car came to a stop just before I would have run into a pickup parked on the side of the street. I sat there scared stiff, trying to figure out what the hell to do next. I think I was there for about twenty minutes. That's when I noticed my eyes for the first time... I looked into the rear-view mirror... I was freaky. I mean, I just about lost it. I sat there in a cold sweat, squeezing my eyes shut, wondering if I was about to go blind or something. Nothing happened, so after a while I calmed down. Lucky for me, it was a quiet street and no traffic came along. And it was also, like, really early in the morning... just daybreak. Which is why the sun was in my eyes like that."

The more Jordan talked, Frank thought to himself the more obvious it was that this really was a younger version of him. The way he phrased things, the cadence of his voice – he sounded like a kid – like a kid in his twenties, like Frank's own son, Lucas. It was both disconcerting and utterly convincing to hear Jordan speaking like this, because he was obviously exactly what he claimed to be: Less experienced, more like a wide-eyed youth than the man Frank knew.

Jordan had paused and was staring down at the table cloth, as if waiting for permission to continue. "Go on," Frank said, when the silence grew long.

"I think I was there for about twenty minutes," Jordan resumed. "I sat there in a kind of panic... not quite, but almost a panic, wondering what to do. But like I say, nothing happened, so I kind of cooled down and started to try and think it through.

"I got out of the car, looked around. It wasn't a neighborhood I recognized... well, of course not, because when I was thirteen my dad got a new job and we moved to a different part of town. But I didn't know that yet. For all I knew, I was in my twenties or thirties. Maybe I lived in some other state... I looked in the mirror again and tried to guess how old I was. Based on the pimples, I decided I still had to be a teenager. Not that anything else made any more sense. By this time I'd been in the future longer than I ever had before, and I was starting to wonder if I was ever going to get back to myself... like, maybe I would be stuck in my own older self and not know what to do. If I was in high school, or even college, how was I going to get through my classes? If I was working, how would I know how to do my job? Where did I live?

"And then I started to wonder about the me that existed in between being twelve and being however old I was now. If I was here and never got back to being twelve, then what about the person in between times? Was he somehow just a shell, going through the motions of his life? Was he a zombie, mechanically doing all the things that had to take place in his life? Saying the words, doing everything you do in life, but nobody home, and nobody around him noticed it?"

"So, you were having an existential crisis," Frank said.

"I guess. I don't really know what that means," Jordan said. "But then I decided that I had to be going back to myself some time, right? Because if not, it was just too... it just didn't make sense."

Jordan picked up his coffee cup again and drank it all. Frank reached over with the pot and poured him a refill.

"And there was something else, though," Jordan continued. "The whole time, I had a sense I had to be getting somewhere. I had a feeling I was late... to school? To church? Getting home? Finally, I decided that maybe I should try driving the car, maybe my body would know how to do it, maybe I'd remember as I went along what to do and where to go... The last thing I remember was starting the car again and it jolting forward a little bit, and then it was like that rubber band effect again: I was suddenly snapped back to myself at age twelve."

"Were you relieved to get back?" Frank asked.

"Relieved? Hell, no! I was terrified."

Frank frowned. "Why? Being older, being in the future freaked you out. You weren't glad to get back to being twelve and on that camping trip with your Scout troop?"

"Right, you'd think so, but I was trying to drive the car again when I snapped back," Jordan pointed out. "I was scared sick that I might have caused my future self to crash. I thought maybe I ended up getting killed or maimed... like my cousin Jeremy, he fell asleep driving late one night and ended up in a wheelchair... That's all I could think about. My cousin Jeremy. Wondering it maybe my talent ran in the family, maybe his accident had more to it than he told anyone."

Frank laughed. "But here you are, so maybe not."

"No," Jordan agreed, not laughing. "Obviously not, but I didn't know that at the time."

"So there you were, safe in the past... age twelve...back with the scout troop. Then what happened?" asked Frank, leaning forward in his chair.

"I tried to go to sleep, I wanted to forget all about it, but I got so worried... you know, about being in the car... that I decided to try again, right away. Only this time, I'd look really far into the future and see if I was still alive and in one piece, not mangled from a car wreck. So I decided to look at myself when I was double my age. Twenty-four. That seemed far enough in the future that it was probably after the time I was driving the car."

"So. Let me ask a quick question," Frank said. "You went forward again that same night... each time you projected yourself into your future, you stayed there longer and longer. Was that still the case? Did you end up staying in the future even longer than when you were in the car?"

"Yeah," Jordan said, "a lot longer – like, probably more than an hour. But that wasn't the thing that freaked me out. Again, one moment I'm there in my sleeping bag, out under the stars on a summer night. It's all very innocent, a camping trip with my Boy Scout buddies... and then suddenly I'm a lot older, and I'm right in the middle of fooling around with some guy."

"What, you never fooled around in Boy Scouts?"

"Nope, but even if I did this was different."

"I mean, I'm straight, but I fooled around in Boy Scouts," Frank said.

"Yeah, well, I mean, I was having sex," Jordan said. "Fucking him."

"Oh. Uh, I get it," Frank said, putting up a hand in a "You can stop now" gesture.

"Well, I was shocked," Jordan said. "I mean, I would have been shocked to suddenly find myself having sex with anyone, but... some guys know they're gay from the time they're little kids... not me. I had no idea. Not about being gay, not even really about sex. I mean, I was raised Catholic."

Frank laughed again. Jordan gave him a somber, aggravated look.

"I'm sorry," Frank said. "Of course it was a surprise."

"It was a fucking trauma," Jordan said. "And I think I was there for at least an hour, but I don't think the guy even noticed... anyway, I think he was high or something. And we were really going at it."

"So you kept right on having sex?"

"I was scared not to. And I was twenty-four. Well, I was twelve, and curious – that was my mind, anyway, but my body was twenty-four and worked up, and not gonna stop for nothin'."

Frank offered a tentative smile, uncertain if this would cause offense. This time Jordan smiled back.

"So, yeah," Jordan said, "I spent an hour doing something that was totally hot and totally strange and unexpected."

"To someone so out of his mind he never noticed your eyes were like flashlights?"

"I don't think he opened his eyes even once. And I tried to keep my eyes closed as much as I could – which, given the circumstances, wasn't so hard to do."

Now they were both laughing.

"I mean," Jordan said, "from my perspective it was my first time!"

Their laughter intensified. "Oh man!" Frank gasped. "That beats the hell out of my losing-my-virginity story!"

"So, yeah," Jordan managed to say. "So like I say, I was there for about an hour I guess, probably even longer, and we were still going at it when..."

"Rubber band of time?"

"Yep! Snapped me back! There I was, twelve years old and in my sleeping bag and thinking, 'What the holy fuck was that?!' " They both roared with hilarity. Then Jordan sighed and his smile faded. His eyes remained bright. Frank thought he was actually starting to get used to them.

"But, I mean, I was twisted up inside for days," Jordan resumed. "I was gonna be gay. And I had this psychic power. I had these two terrifying secrets, and I didn't know which one was worse. So I ignored it, all of it, and tried to put it out of my mind."

"But eventually?"

"But eventually, of course, I started having sexual feelings, and they always had to do with other boys. And then I started having sex, and I got over my fear of being gay. And then, when I was seventeen, I was driving to work one Saturday morning... Christ, I worked at a Burger King... and the sun was blinding me. I was feeling around for my sunglasses and then suddenly it was like the car jerked over to the side of the road and I damn near plowed into a parked pickup truck. I braked just in time. I shook me up. But then I remembered seeing that very same moment years ago. This was the car crash I had worried about... I mean, no, I didn't crash, I just hit the brakes. So, there was that mystery solved.

"But then I thought about the other thing... fucking that guy... and so I realized that meant the feelings I was having for other guys, the sex I was exploring, that wasn't just a phase I was going through. I was going to keep on having sex with guys. I mean, by that time I was okay with it. I even looked forward to meeting the guy I was going to be having sex with next time I had one of those momentary blackouts. You know, when my past self came calling on the present."

"Did you know the moment when it... er, came?" Frank asked, a smile still lingering on his lips.

"Yeah, when it happened I knew what it was, but the guy was nothing special, just a hookup," Jordan told him. "In fact, the next night I went out again and got drunk and stopped and looked into a mirror in the men's room and thought, 'I'm never doing that again.' But then, I decided I'd do it one more time. I decided to try looking thirty years into the future – when I'd be 54. I was shit scared. I didn't want to be old and gross. Right?" Jordan asked, as Frank started laughing.

"Old and gross, yep," Frank said.

"And, so, anyway – that was tonight."

Frank stopped laughing. A sober expression came over his face.

"And here I am," Jordan said. "And here we are, with me telling you all this."

"Jesus, man..."

The coffee had long gone cold. Frank stood up, suddenly anxious and perplexed. He started for the kitchen with the half-formed idea of making more coffee, then remembered the coffee pot was still sitting on the table.

He turned back and stopped in place. The terrifying light had faded from Jordan's eyes in that fleeting moment Frank's back had been turned. Jordan was sitting at the table looking disoriented.

Jordan looked at Frank and the two stared at each other. "Did I – ?" Jordan began. He didn't complete the sentence. Instead, he reached for his half-full cup of coffee and downed it in a gulp.

Frank watched, unsure whether he should Jordan at the table. A long moment passed. Frank looked at his watch and was that it was now almost ten in the morning.

"Listen, are you feeling okay?" he asked at length. "Do you need a doctor? We could get in the truck and go to the emergency room."

"No," Jordan told him.

"You just want to sit here a while and see how you do?" Frank asked.

"You mean, see if I'm fixin' to keel over?" Jordan shook his head, smiling without humor.

"Well... yeah, I guess," Frank said. "I mean, do you know what just happened?"

"I dunno, Frank," Jordan sighed, slumping forward and resting his head in his hands. He looked exhausted. "How about you tell me. What did happen?"

"I sure the hell don't know," Frank snapped. Then, more gently, he added, "You want some more coffee?"

Jordan made as if to take another slug of coffee, then stopped when he realized he'd drained his cup. Frank moved toward the kitchen to bring him a refill, but Jordan said, "That's okay – I think I've had enough coffee. My head is buzzing like I've had too much caffeine. And I have gotta piss like a race horse."

With that, Jordan stood up and made his way out of the room. Frank heard him moving up the hall to the bathroom, then heard the sound of him urinating into the toilet bowl. Frank suddenly realized he, too, had a full bladder. But he stayed where he was until Jordan made his way back to the kitchen.

"That's a good idea," Frank said, and took his turn in the bathroom. When he was done he walked back up the hall and briefly considered taking a hard right turn out the front door, jumping into his pickup truck, and hauling ass.

But he didn't. Instead, he went back into the kitchen. Frank paused, looking at Jordan, a thousand questions crowding his mind. The morning had evaporated under very strange circumstances. Had that really happened? Had Jordan really talked for hours about exploring his own future? His eyes glowing the whole time? Frank returned to the table. Taking his chair, he regarded his old friend with a worried expression.

"Quit looking at me like that," Jordan said.

"I just need to know if you're okay," Frank said.

"Yes. This is normal. I mean..." Jordan waved, then sighed in exasperation. "I mean, for me it is. Or it used to be."

"Normal? That's not normal," Frank said. "Normal? Listening to you tell me you're some sort of psychic time traveler?"

Jordan, his face still cradled in his hands, peeked from between his fingers. His eyes were blue, clear, ordinary. "That's what I told you?"

"Boiled down, yes," Frank said.

"Boiled down," Jordan said. "What's the long version?"

"Thirty years ago – from your point of view, anyway – you saw yourself in that mirror over there. And we sat here for three and a half goddamn hours with me about to shit myself wondering what the fuck was going on..."

"Right." Jordan's eyes disappeared behind his hands again as his fingers closed like shutters.

"And you saw me," Frank said. "I mean, you remember... all the time we've known each other, you knew that this morning was going to happen?"

"Not the details of what happened after I snapped back to my drunken twenty-four-year-old self," Jordan mumbled. "No, but I did remember seeing you and talking to you. And feeling this was even more fucked up than all those other times I projected myself into the future, because you kept trying to get me to go to the hospital, and for all I knew you might call the cops or something. But yes, when we first met... I didn't know who you were, but I thought you were familiar... and then I remembered you, only older. Like you are today. And I remembered this morning, remembered you saying we had been friends for a long time, so – well, here we are."

"Jesus, man." Frank picked up his own coffee cup, glanced at the unappetizing dregs. He put the cup back down. He looked up at Jordan. He hesitated. The idea had been creeping up on his for hours, now – ever since Jordan had told him about his special ability. It had been in the back of his mind, and now leapt to the forefront of his thoughts. But still he hesitated, not wanting to ask the question, not wanting to broach the idea. Not wanting to be disrespectful, or... or...

The silence stretched out. Finally, Frank had to say the words. "Can you still do it?"

Jordan didn't need to ask for clarification. "Come on, man, no."

"Sure you can," Frank said. "Why not?"

"I never liked seeing things before they happened."

"You liked it that first time."

"I didn't see anything that creeped me out that first time."

"So, what, seeing me in the here and now creeped you out all those years ago?"

"Yeah, kind of... not because you creeped me out, but seeing myself in the mirror, a lot older... Ever do acid? It was like that. Like seeing your face transform. It's fucking frightening, man."

"So don't look in a mirror. Just – go forward a few years and see what you see."

"I really don't want to."

"Come on, Jordan. Show me."

"Dude, I showed you."

"You showed me your past self looking through your eyes but you didn't show me you as you are now, looking into the future, and then..." Frank swallowed.

"And then?"

"And then... reporting back."

"Like, what do you want to know? The stock market? Powerball numbers?"

"No, just... like... is there still a world?" Frank asked, his voice rising with stress. "I mean, with Kirsch president now, and everything. Rattling his saber, threatening everyone from Zimbabwe to Canada with a nuclear missile if they don't agree to a new trade agreement or whatever. I mean... I mean..." Frank looked away. "I lie awake every night wondering how I can protect my family. Wondering if it's doing me any good to put money away into my retirement savings. Wondering if my kids are... they're just starting out. Are they gonna have a chance? Are they gonna have kids of their own some day?" Frank looked up at Jordan again, and there was real need written on his face. "Come on, man. Help me out, here, buddy."

Jordan looked at Frank for a long, long moment, and then sighed.

"Okay," he said.

"You will?" Frank asked.

"Okay," Jordan said. "Let's try something simple. Say, three years."

"Three years? You can't do more?"

"If I can do three I can do more, but I just don't want to see myself at, like, sixty. You know?"

Frank looked frustrated.

"Hey, I don't want to do this at all," Jordan told him.

"Okay, all right," Frank muttered, not satisfied.

"Just be quiet," Jordan said. "Let me try to..."

Jordan's voice trailed off. He stared at the wall behind Frank. Then his eyes changed. This time it wasn't an outpouring of silver light; instead, his blue eyes darkened, then went completely black. Frank swallowed, feeling apprehension crawl over his scalp with tingling fingers. Jordan kept staring, motionless, as a minute ticked by. Then three minutes, then six...

Was this how long it always took him to get a glimpse of just a few seconds into the future? Frank remembered with a start how every trip to the future took longer and longer to play out. Was Jordan going to be gone for twelve hours this time? For twelve days? Was he going to sit there frozen, with black eyes, that whole time?

Suddenly, Frank realized that Jordan's eyes were back to normal and he was looking at Frank with something like anger.

No... not anger – hatred. Sheer, utter hatred.

"Uh – "

Frank didn't get more out than that one grunt before Jordan was on his feet. At some point in his narrative Jordan had laid the hunting knife aside on the table; now he snatched it up again, its six-inch blade moving toward Frank with deadly purpose.

"What the – " Frank began.

"Fucking Nazi!" Jordan screamed, and without a hint of hesitation he plunged the knife into Frank's chest.

Frank topped backwards, still in the chair. Pain and terror radiated through him like an exploding sun. The knife was buried in his chest, between his ribs. Blood was pouring out around the blade.

"Don't pull it out," Frank found himself saying. He just knew if Jordan yanked the blade from his chest he'd die of blood loss in moments.

"No, take your time dying, you goddamn pig," Jordan shouted down at him, his face red with fury.

"What..." Frank felt blood in the back of his throat. He coughed and spasmed with pain.

"What did I see three years from now? You. In some kinda uniform. You had me strapped to a chair. Stark fucking naked. You were burning me. Burning me! You were telling me I was a filthy fucking faggot and had to pay for it. A fucking faggot, and even worse, a goddamn Catholic. That's what you said. You asshole!"

"I... no..." Frank gasped.

"And I kept telling you: We're friends. We've been friends for years. Remember how we used to go fishing at Lucky Peak lake? Don't do this to me. But you made fun of me, told me I was the evil that poisoned the world and you were going to burn the evil out of me. And your buddies, your fellow torturers... standing back by the door some place, I couldn't see them. Laughing and laughing...and talking about Kirsch. 'In the name of greatness!' you said. 'In the name of Kirsch!' Like Kirsch was a fucking king. Or a dictator – which he probably will be in three years' time. 'In the name of Kirsch,' you said to them. The minute you saw my eyes glowing, you knew. You knew what was up, you knew I was there to see the future just like you asked. You asked your goddamn fellow fascists to leave you alone with me. 'I want some alone time with this goddamn faggot,' you said, and they thought that was a riot. 'Gonna have some sexy fun with the gay guy, Doc?' one of them said. 'Save me a piece, I love me a piece of faggot,' he said. Goddamn closet case. And then they all went out of the room still laughing. 'In the name of Kirsch,' they said and you said it right back to them. Then we spent nine goddamn hours in that room, you and me, and you kept burning me, telling me that I better look good and raw by the time we were done or they would think you went soft on me and that would be no good for you. No good for you! And you stuffed filthy rags in my mouth and you had the fucking nerve to apologize. 'But you understand,' you said. 'I have a family,' you said. 'They'll kill me if I don't wear the uniform, if I don't torture the prisoners...'"

Franks stared up at him, coughing blood, red runnels trickling down the side of his face, dripping off his earlobe. He gurgled something indistinct.

"You told me they threatened you with torture until you joined up," Jordan continued. "You had to prove your loyalty with names. Names of dissidents, Catholics, Jews, gays, anyone who badmouthed Kirsch... you got double points for me. When the shit came down and the uniforms came out and the libraries burned and the camps were built, you went along with it. You went along with it! You sold me down the river. You joined in with the fascists and the thugs to save your own skin. You goddamn coward!"

Jordan leaned down and grabbed the hilt of the hunting knife.

"No," Frank protested weakly, his sight already going dim.

"But I'm changing the script, you dickless fucker," Jordan snarled at him. "It might be some other weak-willed parasite in that uniform, but it won't be you. And I don't care how many of you goddamn Nazi pieces of shit I have to kill, but you won't have me in that chair. This faggot is gonna bash right back."

With that, Jordan yanked the knife from Frank's chest. Instantly, a spout of blood fountained from the wound. The edges of severed flesh contracted together, but the blood still poured through, hot and fast, spreading across Frank's flannel shirt, pooling beneath him.

Frank felt cold. Then the fear receded and some calm part of his mind seemed to take over. Had he really become a Nazi, or whatever the equivalent would be in Kirsch's America?

And Frank, who knew himself, who quailed at his own essential gutlessness, knew it would have been true. Part of him cursed Jordan, who had stomped away into the kitchen with the dripping knife in his hand. But part of him thanked Jordan, too, grateful he wouldn't have to see himself degenerate into a killer... a torturer... a rat who sold out his friends. Part of him thanked Jordan for saving him from his own craven nature.

A sound of water rushing in the kitchen sink came to Frank as though from a long way off, as though from a dream.

"I'm s... sorry..." Frank tried weakly to make himself heard. Did Jordan notice, in the other room, over the rushing of the water from the faucet?

Frank's blood still seemed to be rushing out of him, too, but now the torrent was slowing. Everything was drifting away, in the most leisurely manner. A future of fascists rushing toward them, his own death looming over him, it somehow didn't matter any more. It was all so casual, all so incidental...

"Sorry? You're sorry? Tell it to God," Frank thought he heard Jordan say from the kitchen. Or was he imagining it? "Let him forgive you."

Shelly. The kids. What would become of them? Frank tried to see into the future, himself, tried to use his last moment to do what Jordan did and crack the barrier of time... see preternatural light... from the past, or the future, or Eternity. Wasn't that what they said dying people saw? A beautiful light, a tunnel into some bright, safe place?

But all he saw was blackness.

And then the blackness, too, was gone.

Next week's Peripheral Vision involves the ears as well as disbelieving eyes, when a reporter's digitally recorded interview picks up an unexpected narration: The deeds of a serial killer!