Jake Ely woke with a start. He turned to the side of the couch and tripped as he stood. "Brat!" he muttered. She was always throwing her stuff around. Without opening his eyes, he drew several conclusions. His head was pounding, his body ached, and he was cold. So, he'd fallen asleep on the couch at River Bend. It shouldn't matter. He should have a clear path. Wait. Where was the door? He cracked his bleary eyes open, and the light that flooded his gaze made his head throb with quadruple the intensity. He was going to kill Quinn, he decided. Why would Quinn spike his soda? He thought the Cherry Coke had tasted funny.

Wait. This wasn't even River Bend. Since when did River Bend have apple green walls and girl toys thrown around. He spun, realizing he'd tripped over a Barbie car, just like Sam's when they were little. Shit, he thought. Shit, shit, shit. He'd fallen asleep in someone else's house. Was Darrell's cousin visiting? How the hell had he ended up at Darrell's, even though this place didn't look a thing like it? It was too modern, too fancy. He needed to get out of here, fast. Jake tripped as he caught sight of himself in a mirror.

He was old. Like, 30 old. His head was shaved and there was day old stubble around his mouth and chin. He was glad to see that age hadn't given him cause to get fat. Wait. He wasn't old. He was 20, for God's sake, home from his second year at school. He wasn't old. And where had he gotten the tatoo he saw on his bicep? Sam hated tattoos, though the fact that Brat hated them hadn't stopped him. He just hadn't settled on a design he'd liked. Once he did, there was no telling what he might do.

Jake got it now. He'd fallen, or been kicked, and his brain was injured. At the very least, he was asleep. He needed to wake up. Wake up, he said to himself. If he was hurt...there was no telling what had happened to..."Wake up, Jake!" he called in his head, "Wake up!" Maybe if he stunned himself, he could get up. He threw himself on the floor with a hard thud, wincing at the fancy hardwood and blend of antiques, and nothing happened, other than to make noise.

There was a giggle. "What're you doing?' A gap toothed girl with corkscrew reddish curls and green eyes demanded. She was wearing a blue dress, with a dinosaur on the pocket. He knew that dress, from long ago.

"Sam?" He gasped. If he was old, and she was young, maybe they were sharing a dream, or something. He could get them both out.

The girl shook her head. "I'm Maya, Daddy!" She laughed as though they were playing a game.

This was really too much. Now, he was hallucinating that he was old and a father? Where the hell had Sam gotten the name Maya from? Why'd she pick that name? He'd never thought of names, but he knew Maya wouldn't be one he'd select. His heart began to thunder again. Why was his mind insisting that Sam was this child's mother? He said, "Huh?"

"Silly Daddy. I'm hungry. It's lunch." She said.

"What?" He asked.

The girl faded into the kitchen, and called to him. Her voice sounded garbled over the buzzing in his ears, but he found himself standing next to her, in a sterile grey and white kitchen. There was a light shining in his face, and he turned from it, only to find himself staring at the fixings for a sandwich. Maya demanded a sandwich, and he figured out that he should go along with his delusion until someone pulled him out. Maybe he'd been drugged. This was not his reality.

"Maya...? He asked, once he felt himself sitting at a table. His voice was older, and it was jarring.

"Daddy! I hate mustard!" She called, "Why is there mustard on my sandwich?"

He grinned. Even brain damaged, he couldn't get away from Sam's oddity. He needed information. The date, his mind echoed, the date. His mind was frantically searching for the date. Some far off place in his mind begged for it, even though he didn't know. "Can you tell me the date?"

She nodded, and supplied it. His delusion was spot on, given his appearance. She said it was March. He had vague tingles of the fact that it was supposed to be summer. He was 32. "Maya, where's your mother?" He could find her and they could get out of this dream.

"Mama." She said.

"What's her name?" He pressed.

"Mama." She stressed, "Mama," Why had her voice sounded like his in that moment? Oh, his head ached.

"What do I call her?" He asked, begging.

"Perdita." She replied, seeing nothing amiss with the reply, though missing what she said around her mouthful of sliced turkey.

"I'm glad I call her pretty, but what's her name?" He cried.

His question was never answered, as he found himself back in the living room of what he now realized was a small house in a row of several. How he knew that, he didn't know. He needed to find Sam. He picked up the phone, and dialed her cell number after misdialing several times, and thinking "40..." There was no 40 in her number. Why was there a sudden pressure in his arm? He shrugged it off, even as his shouler twinged. God, what had happened last night? Ring Ring Ring Ring I'm sorry the number you have dialed... Jake slammed the phone down, missing the cradle twice. He'd call mom. Mom would help him.

After fumbling with the phone for what seemed like ages, someone answered, "Three Ponies, Helena speaking..." He inhaled, who was this? He didn't know a Helena.

"I...think I have the wrong number again." He croaked. His throat felt tight. No Sam. No Mom. What was he going to do? And there was this little girl, and she had Sam's eyes. Where the hell was Sam? He wanted his mother. He'd give anything to hug his mother. He was so cold.

"Jake?" The voice was shocked, and echoed in his head. "Jake Ely?"

"Yes. Is...my mom...is my mom there?" He asked.

There was a shout and a scuffle. Suddenly his mom was on the line. He could have cried. He didn't know what was going on, but if there was one thing he knew, he knew Max Ely loved him. And she would fix this. "Mom?"

"Jake!" She exclaimed, "I'm sorry, Jacob. Jacob. You think I'd remember. I'm sorry."

"What're you sorry for?" He asked. "Look, Mama. I need help. I..." The story tumbled out. "The last thing I remember, I was fine at River Bend, and I fell asleep. And now, I woke up, and I'm 32. Two hours ago, I was barely 20. There's this kid. And I can't find Sam. Where's Sam, mom? What if the same thing happened to her? I think...I think something's really wrong, Mama."

Max exhaled, "If you called after all these years to pull some prank."

"Mom, we talked three hours ago. You made french toast, and you burned the last slice, and Quinn said that he'd eat it anyway." He paused, "Mom..."

"Jake. Listen. You are going to go next door and get Mrs. Wietzman. Then you're going to Mass General. Tell them what you told me, and the nice people will help you."

"Mom. I'm not crazy." He thought about banging his head against the coffee table on as he realized for a second that it felt like his head was immobilized. He felt like vomiting, "Wait. I'm in Boston?"

"Where else have you been living for the past eight years? You're an FBI agent, Jacob." Max said, then said, "Listen, maybe you should call Perdita at work."

"Who's Perdita?" Jake asked.

"You don't remember your own wife?" She scoffed, continuing sotto voice, "Not that we were invited to the wedding..."

"Mom? That's not funny." He wasn't married, he wasn't 32, and he wasn't married. He'd never get married without his family. Where was Sam? He continued, "Did Sam put you up to this? I swear, if I find out she's behind this, she won't sit for a week."

"Sam?" Max bleated, continuing as though she were baffled, "Sam Forester?"

"Mom." He moaned. Who else would he mean?

"She's... " Max gave a bitter laugh, "God, you've not said her name in years, not that you ever call. Why are you asking about her?"

This was too much for the young man. He was stuck in some freaky place where he was old, married to some chick he didn't know, a father, cold, in pain, tired, and he couldn't find Sam. To add to it, his mother hated him. She sound wary, bitter, as he asked."What?"

"I saw her last week at church." Max offered.

"Mom, something's wrong." Jake vowed, "There's never been a week that you've missed seeing her. Ever. You need to find her. Call her, and tell her to come home, and we can..." He tone held a note of desperation.

"Jake. How old...are...do you think...are you?" She stammered.

"This morning, I was 20." He stated.

"God, Jake..." His mother's voice faded away as a brunette appeared in front of him. She was thin, and tall. She wore heels. She...wasn't his type at all, but she nodded in greeting as though there was nothing amiss between them, whoever she was.

"Who are you?" He demanded. Why was he so cold? It was so cold. Cold swirled around him. There was a buzzing in his ears. It echoed, and he nearly moaned.

She replied, "Funny. I need help with the groceries."

"Who are you?" He nearly screamed. His head was spinning.

"Perdita Ganager Ely." She quipped, even as the brightness of the light faded back to normal.

"I don't know you. I don't know who I am. I don't know..." He began, "Did you know there's a kid here?"

She laughed, "Yes, as a matter of fact, I did know that. Why are you trying to get out of that party Jacob?"

"My name is Jake." No one except his Grandfather called him Jacob. Jacob wasn't him. Jacob was... Well, he was Jake.

"You didn't want to be called that..." She said cryptically as she turned to him, "Listen, sweetie. Go take a shower. Call Harper. Go for a run. Do something. But be at Tartarus Hotel at seven if I don't see you. I've got to get my hair done."

"But...the kid, Maya?" He asked.

"She has a nanny, Jacob." His wife, wife, he gagged, smiled, "Go on. I refuse to be late."

"We're friends, right?" He asked, "I mean, you know me, right?"

"Since you came to a track meet at BU. " She nodded crisply, "You're an FBI agent. You like to read."

He shook his head wildly. He liked to read, and he wanted to be a cop, but something in his heart was tearing. His childhood dream of being an FBI agent was nothing when weighed against the land he loved. "I'm a rancher. That's all I ever wanted...Witch..." Something had happened to Witch. Where was she? "Witch..." he said, "My horse...Witch..." His plea for her reverberated in the soulless kitchen.

"We don't have horses." The strange woman moved about a kitchen filled with foods he'd never eaten. His mouth was suddenly completely dry. She continued, "You grew up on a ranch, though. Hmm." Her phone rang, it was so loud. Why was it so loud? "Sam..." he muttered, "Sam..." as if the words were coming from outside of him.

"We don't know a Sam, Jacob." She waved her hand and began to speak in another language. Reality faded for a tenth of second, leaving him unawares.

Suddenly, he was at a party. The room was a stuffy ballroom, filled with people. He heard a beeping again, that beeping, horrible and grating. Where was it coming from? He downed some champagne, but it tasted vile. He coughed it up and felt a wetness on his chest that didn't show on the tuxedo he saw that he wore. He slipped away from Perdita as soon as he could. Walking down a hallway away from the party, toward a large door, he saw her. "Sam!"

"Jake Ely?" Sam stopped as he ran to meet her. She looked older, but he'd know her anywhere. He suddenly recalled that this was a journalism benefit one that supported a Media Ethics group, though how his mind supplied that information he didn't know. She was a journalist. Her dreams had come true.

"Sam..." He threw his arms around her. His rapid heartbeat, one that had been flying since he woke up, slowed when she was skin to skin with him. She pulled away awkwardly. God, she was beautiful. She was wearing a shimmery pink dress. Her green eyes were wide, as he pulled her close again. If he could just get her closer, he'd be warm. His skin was so clammy, but he finally felt safe.

"What are you doing?" She asked, as she sat down against the cool wall. No one else was around, and he grinned as she pulled back her hem to sit and he saw her favorite work boots on her slim feet.

"Hugging my friend." He wished he was wearing boots, just so he could shuffle them as he plopped down next to her. What kind of guy was he, that he wore shiny shoes that he couldn't even work in? There was the bright light again, he thought, even as his gaze narrowed against it.

"We're friends?" She scoffed, adding softly, "Jake, we haven't spoken in ten years."

"What?" His heart fluttered, and there was some loud noise, some beeping in his head again. "No..." The word was drawn out.

She nodded, "Uh, yeah."

After another minute of talking, he had facts running through his brain. It seemed he'd gone to college, up until he'd come to BU his first semester of his third year for a track meet. Sam swore, "And...you never looked back. You came back, but you left right after. Grad school, Perdita, the FBI. You haven't been home in six years."

"Sam? That's not right..." He just knew that that wasn't him. He would never just go, just leave.

"I'm sorry, I have to go." Sam began to stand. He felt cold. He really wanted his mother. She'd explain how this happened. This wasn't right. Why did his head hurt so badly? Why was he so cold?

"No, Sam." His voice felt choked, funny, "Don't go..."

"Jake. You're happy. You have a little girl, and a nice life. I've got my writing, and I'm really doing things." Sam began.

He cut her off, "No! No! This wasn't how it was supposed to be. One day, we were fine, and the next thing I know, I wake up and I'm old, and everyone thinks I'm crazy." He swore as he brain echoed and shook with noise, "Fuck, what is that beeping?"

She frowned, "I don't hear anything..."

"Why?" He begged, "Why?"

She seemed to look into his soul, understanding his confusion, as she began softly voice warbling and slightly distorted at times, "I spent so many years trying to get you to love me. I won't beg for your love anymore. I won't beg for you to come back, come back to me. I won't beg you to say I love you. I spent so many years throwing myself at you, begging to love me, just me, just love me, and only me, and I wasn't enough. I won't beg for your love, Jake."

"You never had to!" He declared.

She smiled softly, and reached for his hand, but she faded away as the beeping and the bright lights exploded in his brain. The room spun, and he found himself sitting in the kitchen with the little girl. Gone were the party clothes. He was wearing his favorite blue shirt. "Maya?" He asked.

She looked up from coloring, "Daddy? Can we take a nap?"

So he found himself back on the couch with her on the other end. "I'll start." She said, with confidence.

"Start what?" He asked, even as he felt himself drifting away.

"The words!" She giggled, starting, to sing,"Come not in terrors, as the King of kings," He joined her in the next line, his voice felt weak, tired. Why was she singing in the middle of the song? He didn't care, as her tiny voice began to sound like his mother's as she moved through the verse. Every night he could recall as a child, his mother tuck them in, praying the words in her cheery voice. He could still hear her, as she sang, "But kind and good, with healing in Thy wings; Tears for all woes, a heart for every plea."

Wait, he could really hear her, as the little girl, Maya, faded away. He could really hear his voice, croaking, "Mom?" The prayer stopped as the beeping and light exploded anew as he cracked his eyes open, only to find himself plunging into the confines of an injured body. He was flat on his back in a hospital room. Suddenly, there was a light shinning in his eyes. It was oddly comforting.

He was dying. He could feel it, even as a new voice above him asked, "Mr. Ely? Mr. Ely? Can you squeeze my hand?" He was dying, but at least he was going with the last thing he'd hear being his mother's words of comfort. He hurt so badly. Wasn't death supposed to be painless?

The voice was insistent, "Mr. Ely, squeeze my hand as hard as you can..." He did, and he fell back into the bliss that was sleep. After what felt like seconds, he woke, and his voice was stronger, "Mom?"

His mother shifted, and he turned his head slightly to see her. She was there. She hadn't left him. Oh God, he was crying. "Mom?"

"Shush, baby." She touched his arm, right below an injured shoulder, he saw, and said, "You're okay." She spoke slowly, "You were working on the roof of the barn with your brothers." She pressed her lips to his his forehead at his look of confusion, "You slipped, and fell through. The old thing was more damaged by the storm than we thought. I'm so sorry. You're going to be laid up for a few weeks, they say. I'm so sorry, baby."

"Mom." He said, "Please don't leave me. Please. I was so scared. I couldn't find you. I called and called and..." He broke off with a gasp as the heart rate monitor began to beep faster. "Where's Sam?"

He swallowed. His mother raised the head of the bed slightly, and replied, "The nurses tried to kick her out."

His face drained, "Did they?"

There was a snort from the other side of the bed, "Like hell."

He turned his head to see Sam, worn and weary, rings under her eyes that matched his mother's. She was 17, and beautiful. He could see the dream her, though, in the angles of her face, and was awed that he'd seen the fulfilment of her potential even as his whatever it was had highlighted his failures. He would think later. Now, he just...just wanted to be back in his reality. "Hey..." He muttered.

"You scared us all." She stated.

"Sorry." He slurred.

"No you're not. You have morphine." She grinned tiredly.

He smiled. His eyes didn't leave her face as his mother spoke far too brightly, "Well, I need coffee!"

Sam's gaze shifted, as he asked, "How long was I...out?"

"You should..." she frowned, "sleep." She watched as his mother left the room.

"Come on Brat." He said.

"Fine. Not long. You were talking an awful lot, though." She picked some lint off his blanket.

"Oh?" What had he said?

"You didn't say much..."

"Sam?" He thought about telling her everything, but couldn't find the words. Instead, he asked, "What would you do, if I tried to move to Boston and join the FBI?"

She grinned, and said, "Buy a CharlieCard."

I know this sounds crazy, but all will be explained in the next update. Review with questions or comments.

This is a three part story, and the next part will be posted in a day or two.