Simone strolls with purpose down the main road leading through town. Several reams of paper, and a box of graphite pencils, are shoved into her gardening basket.

As Simone makes her way toward the farmhouse, the sound of someone humming energetically grabs her attention. She lowers the basket to the ground and follows the music to its source. Stepping behind the warehouse, Simone clamps a hand over her mouth to stifle a laugh.

Sherlock Holmes is once again showering behind the warehouse; all of his earthly wares on full display. Simone struggles to maintain her composure as she studies the apparatus he has rigged to get the job done.

On the ground is a large wooden barrel, attached to a wooden pole stuck deep within the dirt. From the pole hangs a long rope, on the end of which swings a green watering can. With a pull on the rope, Sherlock is able to tip the watering can. He is then splashed with warm water from within the barrel.

Simone turns away from the showering detective and makes haste to get out of the vicinity. She chuckles at Sherlock's lack of discretion.

"I thought his brother, Mycroft, was supposed to be the exhibitionist?!" Simone says to herself. "He could have at least put up a curtain."

With a tiny laugh, Simone retrieves her basket and once again heads for her temporary home.

-

-

Simone steps inside the farmhouse, laughter still threatening to pour from her lips. She crosses to the table where Crank is still tinkering with his devices.

Simone gently drops her basket of goods on the floor. She wraps her arms around Crank's neck and sits on his lap. Crank's brow creases and he examines Simone's face, wondering at the source of her sudden giddiness.

"You'll never guess what I just saw. No nevermind," Simone says. Suddenly thinking it'd be better to give Crank the general audience version of her discovery.

"Unless you just love heating up our bath water with your wonderful laser sight thing...I think our friend Sherlock has figured out an easier way," Simone says.

Crank's brow furrows deeply and his eyes narrow. Wrath boils underneath the surface of Crank's features, and he contemplates how to punish the ooman detective for his defiance. It is true, Simone would never allow him to kill the Englishman. Shooing the strange animal called a goat into the detective's abode might just do the trick.

"You mean, his outdoor shower?!" Crank says without enthusiasm.

Simone's eyes widen. She adjusts her position on Crank's lap and gazes at him in disbelief.

"You knew, he had a shower?!" Simone says, her voice cracking.

"Yes," Crank admits. "We did discuss it. I saw him cleaning himself during one of my searches for supplies. I find it distasteful. The ooman shows no care for the decency of others."

"Oh," Simone says in a voice that is both a sigh and a groan.

Crank tilts his head and studies her.

"If you wish, I will build you a shower also," Crank says. "A shower with walls."

Simone presses her forehead to Crank's and issues a short laugh.

"Oh, Crank. What would I do without you?!" Simone laughs.

"I'm sure, you'd get by," Crank jests.

Simone is not so sure. She raises her mouth to Crank's forehead and kisses the edge of his hairline. The tiniest of prickly hairs has begun to poke through the disguise, no longer held down by adhesive. Simone releases a deep sigh and kisses the same spot again. Mentally willing Crank's disguise to hold out a little longer. At least, until she knows he is safe.

-

-

After laboring several hours, drafting blueprints for the construction of the turbine, Simone steps out into the fresh night air.

“Wow,” Simone gasps. She stares up at a nebulous arrangement of stars stretching across the heavens. The colors of the nebula wax and wane, reminding Simone of the aurora borealis.

“We’ve been here a week, and I’m just now noticing…How beautiful the stars are from here,” Simone muses to herself. “Wherever here is. Wow. So beautiful. I wonder, if we’re even on Earth anymore? Maybe…A different timeline? A different Earth? Is this what it was like before life really began? An empty canvas…Collecting dust and waiting for someone to paint on it? Is that all we are?”

Simone is so engaged in her thought processes, that she doesn’t notice when Paul Bunyan steps beside her. He glances at her a moment, and then looks up at the sky as well.

“They are beautiful aren’t they?” Paul asks more to himself than to Simone.

However, his question serves to alert Simone to his presence. Simone turns to looks at him, apprehension etched on her face. Paul senses her hesitation to engage with him and tries to put her mind at ease.

“Don’t worry, Miss. I didn’t come to bother you,” Paul says. “I happened to notice you were stargazing and thought you could use some company. That…And I wanted to apologize. I don’t know what came over me. I was definitely out of line. But I’m grateful you didn’t say anything to Crank. I’m sure my head would be on the end of that pointy metal stick he carries, if you had. Please believe me when I say I am truly sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Simone replies. “Sometimes, people get in their feelings? It happens. But I’d prefer, we don’t talk about it anymore. Let’s just pretend it never happened.”

Paul Bunyan offers Simone a wide grin.

“Fair enough,” he says. “You know, you young people say the weirdest things. What does…‘in their feelings’ mean anyway?”

Simone, forgetting that Paul Bunyan is from another time and era, schools him on modern terminology.

“It means…Sometimes, we let our emotions get the better of us,” Simone says. “We act rashly or impulsively. We don’t take time to think. And…And…Young people do not talk weird. We just talk differently than you do. Not the same thing at all.”

There is a brief pause as they observe the beauty which is the nighttime sky. Simone glances over at Paul before breaking the silence.

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“It’s been a few days since Jane’s visit. How you holding up, Paul? Did you think about what I said?”

“I’m about as good as could be expected for a jilted lover,” Paul drawls.

The burly lumberjack slides his eyes over to Simone and rubs the toe of his boot in the dirt. He assesses her with a keen eye.

“How about you? You and Crank any closer to figuring out a way back to where you came from?” Paul questions.

“No,” Simone sighs. She runs a hand through her curls and shakes her head solemnly. “Not one single clue. Only thing we can figure is that the Jane in our world is somehow connected to the one in yours. But without the ‘how’ we can’t figure out the ‘how to.’ I feel like there is something we’re missing. But I don’t know what it is.”

Paul returns his attention to the vibrant nebula. At that moment, a large shooting star streaks across his vision. He points up toward the direction where it disappeared.

“Did you see that?” Paul says excitedly.

Simone looks around expecting to see someone, or something, else there.

“See what? Where?” She says.

“The shooting star. Did you see it?” Paul nearly hollers with excitement.

Simone’s shoulders sag and she lets out a sigh.

“Nope. Missed it,” she says.

Paul points his finger in an arc across the sky and offers Simone a bright smile. In contrast to the surrounding darkness, his eyes have a vibrant shine.

“Well, pretend you did. And make a wish. Maybe if there’s a spare wish granter up there…They might let you have one on credit,” Paul says with a wink.

Simone smiles back and briefly closes her eyes. After a moment, she opens them again. A soft sigh escapes her lips and she shoves both hands into her pockets. Paul watches her closely for a moment.

“What’d you wish for?” Paul asks.

“You’re not supposed to tell anyone your wish,” Simone says smartly. “Otherwise, it won’t come true.”

Paul laughs and runs a hand through his cropped hair.

“Fair enough,” he says again. “But I’m sure, I already know.”

“How could you possibly know what I wished for, Paul?” Simone says.

Simone pulls her hands from her pockets and places them at her hips. Paul really wishes she hadn't. In that pose, she reminds him a lot of Calamity Jane.

Whenever she became cross with him, Jane would plant her hands solidly on her hips. Her red lips would tremble and her fiery hair would become almost brighter. The woman he'd seen the other day was only a shadow of his old Jane. How he would like to have his old Jane back again.

“I just think I do,” Paul Bunyan says with a cryptic smile.

His smile is replaced by a solemn expression as he returns his gaze to the heavens.

“Gotta be careful though,” Paul continues. “Wishing for things that cannot be. Cause when things don’t go right…It’s only too tempting to blame the wrong source.”

Simone becomes irritated and her voice develops a sharp edge to it. She hadn’t expected their friendly banter to evolve into another male prowess competition.

“Well, maybe I have a little say in it too?” Simone retorts.

“Oftentimes, we believe we are in control. But the universe may have other plans. I should know,” Paul says. “Don’t hang your heart up on something that cannot be, Simone. It will hurt too much.”

Paul turns to walk away, but suddenly has a change of heart.

“One thing I’m not sorry about…,” Paul begins. His voice is a soft whisper. “I wasn’t funning you when I said that you are very beautiful. Crank…And that old husband you don’t like talking about…They’re the lucky ones. If only I had realized how lucky I was to have Jane. Maybe none of us would be here now?”

Without another word, Paul leaves the town square. Simone remains standing there. The nebula suddenly doesn’t look so pretty. It looks foreboding.

Back At The Exit

Jeremiah Upton, owner of the local gas station, waves as Hector strides into the store. Jerry offers Hector his usual toothless grin. Hector wistfully shakes his head. Old Jeremiah is always forgetting his dentures.

"Hiya, Hec!" Jerry yells. "Heard Paul left town today."

Hector reaches the front counter and leans against it with his back. Propping both elbows on the counter, he stares through the front windows of the station.

"Who told you that, Jerry? Our resident postal gossip?" Hector inquires in a resigned voice.

"Well...Yeah," Jerry says.

The old station owner tries to hand Hector a bottle of soda pop, but Hector waves it away. Jerry's smile wavers and he places the soda pop back in the mini fridge under the counter. It's not like Hector to refuse a cherry soda pop.

"Well, that's not what happened," Hector says. "Not exactly. I think he's hurt himself somewhere or he got lost after that downburst. But because he's a drunk...Nobody even wants to consider that something may have happened to old Paul. Not even the police. They said people like him run away and disappear all the time. Won't even look for him for another twenty-four to forty-eight hours.

"That's too bad--," Jerry starts to say.

The station owner's words are broken up by the sound of a loud vehicle. A souped-up, candy-apple red mustang. Four young men are seated inside the car. But not for long. The four men clamber out, nearly falling over each other.

"Oh boy!" Hector says warily.

"Oh boy, is right," Jerry agrees.

The four youths stumble into the station and go straight for the beer section. The first young man, tall with a biker jacket and a mass of stringy brown hair, yanks open one of the glass doors and hauls out cases of beer two at a time. He stacks them lazily on the floor beside him. He even goes for the singles on the top shelf. Another young man picks up three of the stacked boxes and heads for the front. But not the counter.

Hector glances over at Jerry and mouths the words: "silent alarm". However, another man comes to stand beside the counter, angling so that he can see Jerry's hands. He gives Hector a sarcastic head nod.

"What up, Gramps!" the young man says.

Hector nods back but says nothing. These punks are just itching for trouble and he refuses to give it to them. By the time Hector returns his focus to the original ring leader, the other men have helped him carry off his stash. The thug in the biker jacket picks up the last three cases of beer and heads to the counter. He gives Hector the stink eye.

"You got a problem, old man?" the punk growls.

The punk's breath reeks of rancid beer and sardines. Hector tries not to hurl up his lunch as he meets the punk's gaze. Hector's voice is level and calm.

"Nope. No problem," Hector says.

"Well you're over here eyeballing me like you got a problem," the punk reiterates.

Hector almost gives in to his rage. He opens his mouth to retort, but Jerry grabs him by the right elbow.

"You boys just get!" Jerry says. "You got what you came for. Just leave old Hec here be."

"You gonna make me, old man?!" Greasy punk yells. "How 'bout I come over that counter and whoop your old ass?"

Jerry grows silent and doesn't say another word. Hector is growing angrier by the second.

"Jerry's right, son!" Hector says through gritted teeth. "You got what you came for. Just leave."

Grease punk lifts one of the cases of beer as if to smash Hector with it. However, one of his buddies calls out to him.

"Come on. Leave the old man alone," punk two hollers from the station door.

Grease punk considers his options and then lowers the case of beer. Placing it on the floor, along with the other two, grease punk makes his way toward the back. He heads for the magazine rack.

"Just gonna grab me some light reading," grease punk says.

He never makes it to the magazine rack. As grease punk stumbles along, he bumps into a camouflaged Glor-- who is standing near the middle of an aisle. Glor bodily hurls the punk away. Grease punk flies over a stack of empty crates and slams into a rack of glass wine bottles. His buddies stand confused at the door as their leader sprawls on the floor. Catcalls fill the station.

"Way to go, Flake!", a punk with dirty red hair calls across the station.

"Oooooooooooooo," says punk two. He covers his mouth like a megaphone as he heckles his ring leader.

The third punk at the door only claps. The grease punk, named Flake, climbs unsteadily to his feet. He holds up his right arm which is bleeding from a large glass cut.

"Holy sh--," Flake stammers. "I'm bleeding real bad! I'm cut up! Damn. Let's go!"

Without grabbing his abandoned cases of beer, Flake races for the front of the station. All four men climb into the red sports car and it speeds noisily off.

Hector watches the car's lights disappear, from behind the door of the station. He shakes his gray head and sighs. He slowly walks back to the front counter.

"You know, Jerry...I've seriously been considering cutting my losses," Hector solemnly states. "Things aren't what they used to be. Kids these days...I don't understand them. I've spray painted a few barns in my day. But I never robbed no one. I feel like somewhere along the line...We've failed these kids somehow."

Jerry cocks his head and gives Hector a sarcastic look.

"We failed ourselves too, Hec! Look at where we are!" Jerry says. "This ain't exactly Beverly Hills."

"That it isn't, Jerry!" Hector says. There is a faraway look in his eye. "That it isn't. And boy, am I glad!"