I whirled around, instincts kicking in. There is a presence not there two minutes ago. I grab the gun out of my belt and point, deadly.

There is a man, a tall one, standing in your room (it's not really yours, its more of the motels) where Sam was standing a second ago. He is tall and gangly whit a dark mop of hair covering his eyes.

"Who are you?" I shout to him. I don't like this, where is my son? How did he get in? The door is locked and no way would he be able to sneak in with out me, or either one of my young sons, noticing.

The stranger is still standing there looking confused. He looks around the room, and then he meets my gaze dead on. I stifle a gasp. I know those hazel eyes as well as I know the back of my hand. But it can't be! This man isn't Sammy!

His eyes are wide, staring at me with a mixture of disbelief and shock. I had to strain myself to here his questioning mumble of "Dad?"

"I said, who are you?!" I don't have time for this, my Sammy is missing, in his place is a grown man. This 20-something year old isn't Sam, no matter how much he looks like him. Right?

The man sees the gun for, seemingly the first time, and slowly raises his hands to say "don't shoot". I did notice his hand reach impulsively toward his pocket, though.

And then I could see something in his mind clicked into place, and he spoke, "Da- Sir, I need to talk to you."

I narrowed my eyes, "Were talking"

"I'm a hunter, don't shoot." He begged me with those all too familiar puppy-dog eyes of his to put the gun down. I tried as hard as I could, but succumbed to it.

"Who are you?" I asked, for the third time. This is starting to get to me, even if he is a hunter.

"Name's Sam." He said curtly.

"Well, Sam, mind telling me how you got here?" I asked the kid. He brought his eyebrows together, thinking about something intently. I can't tell is he heard me or not.

Just as I was about to ask again, he answered, "Trickster."

One word and some of the questions seemed to clear up. That explained how he got here without me knowing, and why he is so confused. But a whole new round of questions came back after his next question.

"Sir, mind telling me what year it is?" Why the hell does he need to know the year?

"'87."

"Shit!" The young hunter sat on the edge of the bed and grabbed his head. The outburst immediately reminded me of my 8 year old son in the room.

"Watch your tongue!" I snapped at the boy who muttered an apology. "Now mind explaining what the hell is going on?! Where is my son?!" The boy looked up at me with apologetic eyes and began to tell his story.