The Unusual Second Life of Thomas Weaver Episode Two (The Unusual Life Of Thomas Weaver Book 2) by Shawn Inmon

 

    Temporal Relocation Assignment Department, Earth Division

    The tall, white-clad figure walked the narrow aisle. On either side, identical desks extended beyond where the human eye would have expected them to disappear over the horizon. She lingered a moment at each desk, glanced at the individual's work, tapped a manicured finger lightly against the desk, then moved on.
    At one desk, she stopped and spent several moments examining the scrolling information flow. She lowered her chin to gaze over the tops of her half-rim glasses. “Thomas Weaver, Middle Falls, Oregon, United States, North America?”
    The worker, a round-faced, unruly-haired female, kept her eyes glued to her work. “Yes, Margenta.”
    “Emillion, how many cycles are you watching over?”
    “Forty-nine.”
    “And how many souls?”
    “Three hundred forty-three, of course.”
    The tall woman nodded, as if that were the expected answer. “It is policy, is it not, to give equal attention to all clients?”
    “It is.”
    “Then why, pray tell, is your mind so often preoccupied with this single cycle?” Margenta tapped a whirling display, bringing up an image of a teenaged Thomas Weaver. “Why this particular client?”
    “Are my reports not up to snuff, ma’am? Am I falling behind?”
    “No, you are meeting your quotas. You are feeding the machine.”
    “Then?”
    “Then, I can’t help but wonder why you are so interested in this singularly uninteresting life? Enlighten me.”
    Emillion reached out, touched the image of Thomas Weaver’s worried face. “He is so human, ma’am.”
    “By definition, all your clients are human. Is there an additional metric of which I am unaware?”
    “He has qualities I admire.”
    Margenta reached into the scrolling words and pulled a section close to her, tilted her head back to view them through the spectacles, then looked a wordless query at Emillion.
    “Certain qualities cannot be quantified, don’t you agree, ma'am?”
    “I do not. Everything can be quantified. That is why we are here.” Margenta continued on, pausing briefly at each desk, tapping a finger before moving on to the next.
    *

    After the disorienting breakfast and Easter gifts, the rest of Easter Sunday stretched before Thomas like an unexpected vacation from a lifeless existence. He was again fifteen. Zack was alive. All outcomes were still possible.
    Armed with grease rags, wrenches, chamois, Armor All, and Windex, Zack spent the day babying his Camaro. Anne cleaned the house, did laundry, and made a few casseroles they could pop in the oven and eat during the week.
    Thomas spent the afternoon on a long walk through the old neighborhood, reveling in its odd familiarity. In his mind, this place and time had begun to lose its color and fade into the sepia tone of memory. Here it was, though, in living color. He unconsciously reached into his jacket pocket for his iPhone to listen to his music, then remembered.
    Going to be a few things I’m going to have to get used to.
    The sun occasionally broke through the clouds, and the temperatures were in the low fifties—about as pleasant as March could be in western Oregon. As he wandered, he took stock of his new surroundings. This part of town doesn’t look much different now than it will in 2015. Satellite dishes the size of an RV might come and go, but everything else looks pretty much the same.
    Except for the kids.
    Everywhere Thomas looked, there were kids—drawing with chalk on the sidewalk or driveway, throwing balls, riding bikes, roller skates, or skateboards. This is what we did before video games.
    He walked half a dozen blocks, past rows of small single-story houses, until he reached the edge of the business district. The Pickwick Theater's marquee was advertising The Bad News Bears, but the sign and lobby were dark. No matinees on Easter Sunday in 1976, I guess. He walked past the Shell station, advertising regular gas for $0.579 a gallon. Premium was a nickel more. Just