Chapter 1.

The ringing of a phone stirred Michael Clarke from a nap. His head was pounding, as had been the case all day. Payback for another end-of-term party and a night of Guinness with whiskey chasers. Too many to count. The rigor mortis in his neck, he put down to the tattered sofa where he was lying. A halfhearted massage of forehead and neck did nothing to ease his discomfort.

The phone clicked to the answering machine. "Mike, it's Christine. Are you there? I hope you are not going to be late for the flight like last time."

He jumped up, and his world spun. He grabbed the phone.

"Hey babe," he groaned. "I'll be leaving soon. No way I will miss Pete's wedding."

He reached for a TV remote and turned on the thirty-inch hand-me-down sitting on a stool in a corner of the room. The six o'clock news on BBC1 was starting.

"Ok," he said, "I'll see you at the airport about seven-thirty. Love you."

He sat down fatigue and throbbing head still significant barriers to action.

Extrapolating backward from the flight time, he settled on a plan: pack, shower, and eat before seven, then on the road missing the worst of evening rush hour. With no check-in baggage and the optimism of the always-late, he calculated he could even arrive at eight and still make the eight-thirty flight.

He settled in for five more minutes of rest. After twenty, he jumped up and bailed on his carefully thought-out schedule, opting to eat first, then shower, then pack. Dinner was a piece of dry toast. A facecloth rubdown approximated a shower. With some express packing, forgetting toiletries, and a change of underwear, he was on the road a little behind schedule.

On the car radio, Cool FM's The Seventies at Seven played vaguely familiar golden oldies. The evening rush had not eased, though delays were not enough to jeopardize his plan. Just before eight, he pulled into Belfast City Airport's short-term parking.

At an enthusiastic trot, he found a British Airways self-service console and entered his reservation number. The broad smile on his face, evidence of another perfectly timed, last-minute rush to the airport, held and then slowly turned to a frown as the message lingered on the screen.

Looking up your reservation. Please wait.

When the screen refreshed, he felt his guts churn.

Cannot process request. Please go to Customer Service.

Cursing himself for his tardiness, he looked around and spotted the desk at the other end of the concourse. He took off like a thief fleeing a bank heist. No one was waiting in line.

"I couldn't check-in," he said to the agent behind the desk.

"Can I see your ticket, please?" She was young and cute, with the enthusiasm of someone new to the job.

Michael handed it over.

"Ok, Mr. Clarke, let's see here." The attendant studied the ticket and started typing.

She reviewed the screen for a few seconds. "I'm sorry, but you have missed your flight. I can rebook you first thing in the morning. We have seats available on the 7:00 A.M. departure."

"What do you mean I missed my flight?" Michael asked in mild disbelief.

The attendant's face registered confusion. "Well, sir," she said slowly, "the eight-thirty flight has already left."

"This is ridiculous. Did it leave early?" He glanced at her ID tag—Rose O'Boyle—and made a mental note of her name for the letter of complaint he would soon be writing.

"Sir, the flight left on time, almost an hour ago. Do you want to rebook for the morning flight?" The delivery was sharp.

"It left an hour ago?" he said slowly and looked at a digital clock on the wall behind Rose. Nine-fifteen. He looked back at Rose and her no-nonsense stare.

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"What time is it?" he asked.

Rose looked over her shoulder at the clock. "Nine-fifteen precisely."

"Nine-fifteen," Michael mumbled and checked his watch. "But that's not possible. I got here at eight."

"Well, it's nine-fifteen now. If you don't wish to rebook, could you please step to the side. Other customers are waiting." She motioned to an elderly couple standing well behind him, keeping their distance from the time-challenged lunatic at the counter.

Michael picked up his ticket and walked away, shaking his head. The attendant said something about being happy to help. He didn't hear her.

He left the terminal in a trance, searching for a rational explanation for what had occurred. Back in his car, he checked his parking ticket; it read 7:55 P.M.

He sat for a time in silence, his mind racing. Somehow, everything from the six-o'clock news and the Seventies at Seven, to his arrival at the airport had lagged behind the rest of the universe by one hour. Repeated replay of the events contributed nothing to an understanding. His analysis quickly gave way to growing anxiety.

"Fuck. Fuck. Fuck," he groaned as he rubbed his eyes.

He called Christine. The call went to voicemail.

"Hey, babe. I'm really sorry, but I missed the flight. Please call me back once you land. I can catch the first flight in the morning and make it to the reception by noon. Love you."

In anticipation of a heated return call, he opted for a flat tire excuse, thus absolving himself from all blame. Christine was a physics major and would not buy any time-shift nonsense.

He started the engine and turned on the car radio. As if waiting for that precise moment, a reporter's low, stressed voice interrupted with a breaking headline:

"We are receiving reports that the eight-thirty British Airways Belfast-to-London flight has crashed on approach to Heathrow Airport. Eyewitnesses at the scene describe the plane as falling from the sky and exploding into a fireball after hitting the ground."

Michael frowned, assuming he had misheard.

The reporter continued, "The pilot had reported engine problems earlier and was making an emergency landing."

For a moment, time stood still. Then, in a flash of clarity, so vivid no recounting could ever do it justice, he understood everything.

He had missed the flight and lived. Christine, his girlfriend of two years, was in all likelihood dead. He stumbled out of the car into a cold wind and light rain, struggling for breath. Two police cars, sirens screaming and lights flashing, pulled up to the terminal. The occupants ran inside. Michael fell to his knees, his head in his hands, and cried.

A passing security guard, hurrying towards the terminal, enquired if he needed help. He didn't answer, and the guard continued on. Suddenly the airport was alive; raised voices, people running, an ambulance siren wailing, a helicopter overhead.

By the time Michael got back into the car, he was shivering, and his clothes were soaked. A reporter, live at the scene, provided updates. Michael listened, praying for anything that could restore a shred of hope. A fire chief came on and brought his world crashing down.

"I regret to say that at this time, we do not expect any survivors."

Michael turned off the radio and sobbed. Quickly the sobs turned to deep cries that came from somewhere that had never before been wounded.

His cell phone rang seven times—panicked friends and family. He answered none. Each caller left a voicemail.

At the terminal, cars continued to arrive. People jumped out— mothers, fathers, husbands, and wives. Many still clinging to hope, some obviously beyond it.

Eventually, as exhaustion numbed his distress, Michael started back home, wiping tears from his eyes as he drove. Then, out of nowhere, it dawned on him, and grief instantly turned to fear.

He was not alive from simple good fortune, a chance turn of events that had dealt him a winning hand. Instead, he had survived because one hour of his life was unaccounted for. He had arrived at the airport at just before eight. He was sure of it. The parking ticket showed 7:55 P.M. Explain that, Rose O'Boyle. Tell me how I could have missed my fucking flight.

Unable to frame any rational explanation, his thoughts soared into the dark night sky. For a moment, he considered the possibility that he was dreaming. Neurons fired in vain. Nothing made sense. He recalled his grandmother, who had Alzheimer's and had once got lost while out walking a few streets from home. How must she have felt? There would have been fear, lots of it, panic, confusion, and profound isolation. And that's how he now felt. He was on that street, looking around at unfamiliar houses, frozen in place, and cursing the universe for breaking its own rules.

To fill the void, he entertained the idea that he was at fault. Maybe he had passed out in the car when he had arrived and came around without realizing it. Was the headache, now worse than before, a sign of a more serious problem? Deep down, he knew it was a forced fit, a pathetic attempt to reduce the pain by explaining the irrational with the rational. He was not willing to give himself an easy out. Not on that night, and not on any night in the years that followed.

He drove home in a trance, his thoughts unbounded from traffic lights and stop signs, conjuring up dire images of an uncertain future. He got very drunk that night and for many nights after that.

He told no one about the lost hour. What would be the point, and how could he possibly explain it? His life quickly spiraled downwards; booze, drugs, and what looks to many like self-pity. Friends and family tried to understand, but his distance and their bewilderment eroded sympathy and patience. Eventually, all parties found side-stepping issues easier than confronting them.

For years he struggled with the one question that filled his days and haunted his nights. Why had he been singled out to live while all others had been left to perish? No addiction or distraction could silence the dark voices in his head. Though time would gradually ease his pain and fear, they would always be there, ready to cripple when stray memories cast a faint light on them. However, a day would come when he would find answers to the questions that haunted his nights. Michael would accept his destiny.