[ WP ] You become your child self again for a day with your current mindset , but if you do anything differently , you life will morph around that difference and fast forward you to your current time with the changes .

Slowly I pour myself from my van, adjust my uniform, and approach the door. I do a quick check- breast pocket- small flashlight, pen, Sharpie, small sprial-bound notebook, check. Right front pocket- somewhat larger flashlight and my trusty pocket knife, check. Left front pocket- shoe covers, check. I pull the spiral-bound notebook and flip it open and refresh in my mind my customer's name. I'm ready. 
 I make my way down the driveway, taking in the front yard and looking for anything relevant to use for building rapport. There's nothing. It's unkempt, with large, old growth oaks hanging over the sparse yet overgrown yard, punctuated with shed branches that a well-meaning neighbor never got around to helping clean up. I do my best to keep from slipping on the acorns littering the drive. I notice there is n't a car in the carport, but boxes moldering in the autumn gloom. I sigh. It's been a rough day. 
 
 As I make my way up the stairs to the front porch, I notice a small carved wood sign above the door, proclaiming something in what appeared to be German. High school was nearly a decade and a half ago, and the three years of German my friends and I had taken is but a distant memory- the best I could manage nowadays is asking where the toilet is. `` Darf Ich zum... der... something'' I think to myself. 
 I flip open the notebook, my'pocket-brain', as I so fondly call it, to refresh her name one more time before I tentatively knock and ready my shoe covers. 
 Through the heavy wooden door, I can barely manage to hear someone shuffling about, making their way to the door. The locks slide open, then the door. I'm greeted by a frail-looking old woman, somewhere in her eighties, I guess. I've been doing this for a while, so I've gotten good at approximating my customers age, but my forte is figuring out from where they come. 
 
 `` Hi, Mrs. Fultz! I'm Aaron, and I understand you're having some issues with your furnace?'' I say, feigning a level of energy that only comes now after my second cup of coffee. 
 
 `` Yes, yes. It quit last night, and it's growing quite cold in here'' she replied in heavily accented English. 
 
 It's only in the sixties outside, but there's a hint of chill that's growing as the day gives way to evening. It's going to be unseasonably cold tonight, for a change. 
 
 We exchange pleasantries, and I ask her if I parked my company van in a place that she wo n't have an issue with, then ask permission to enter her home. I slip my shoe covers onto my tennis shoes, silently thankful that my company does n't make me wear boots. 
 The front door opens into a sitting room. It's fairly dark inside, the only light coming from a low-watt bulb in the floor lamp in the far corner. There are yet more boxes, but intact, not exposed to the weather outside. The walls seem to be primarily comprised of ancient, inactive cuckoo clocks. Nary a painting or other form of art in sight. The place reeks of old books, and reminds me of my favorite used book shop in the town next to the one in which I live. 
 Slowly she leads me to the thermostat, then through the similarly cluttered kitchen to a hallway that is somehow, almost miraculously, uncluttered. The bedroom doors are open, and like the sitting room and kitchen, are packed with boxes and stacks of books. She shows me the pull-down steps that lead to the attic, then turns around and shuffles away as I proceed to do a little reconnaissance. I pull my larger flashlight from my pocket as I make my way up the steps. The attic is absolutely barren, save for the furnace in question. Satisfied, I make my way back to the van to get my tool bag so I can knock this out before going home for a couple beers and a night of broken sleep. Depression's a bitch. 
 
 I pull open the access panels on the furnace, and check the control board for flashcodes that could give me a hint as to what's wrong. 
 `` Hot shit!'' I exclaim to myself under my breath. Not too loudly; it's surprising what a customer can hear even when you're in the attic. The flashcode points me to the ignitor, which I Ohm out and find to be bad. Cakewalk. 
 I give everything else a once-over to make sure that that's the only issue before I replace it. I pull my phone from the clip on my belt and check the time- I had only been here for fifteen minutes. I decide that I need to soak up a little more time before leaving, so she does n't feel like she was ripped off for $ 256 and fifteen minutes. That's when I decide to pull the blower and inspect the heat exchanger, just to kill a little time. Besides, the thing is fairly old and it's likely to be cracked and dumping carbon monoxide into the home. After a brief struggle with the bolts and control board bracket, I finally prize the blower assembly loose and wrest myself inside the furnace, mirror and small flashlight at the ready. 
 It's the end of a long day, and I'm sore and hurting. Screws are jabbing me in the back, and its dusty as hell inside. I ca n't help but to mumble under my breath, something about regretting my past decisions. Yeah, I'm proud of joining the Navy after high school, but I just was n't cut out for military life, and was discharged after four years of a six year obligation. Should've just gone to college instead. My job is n't bad, and it pays damn well, but it's just not satisfying. It's not stimulating. I'd rather be in the savanna, studying insects. Expanding the bounds of human knowledge, not breathing people-bits as I'm shoehorned into a fucking furnace. 
 
 Damned if those return ducts do n't carry voices well. I could've sworn I was quiet, but I have this bad habit of talking to myself when I think no one is around. 
 
 I reassemble the furnace, fire it up, and make my way out of the attic. Mrs. Fultz must've hear me folding up the stairs, because when I turn around she's standing at the end of the hallway. 
 `` You're all set!'' I say, with a feigned smile lighting up my face. 
 `` The ignitor gave up the ghost, it turns out. I checked everything else out, an-'' 
 `` I know, I could hear. You're good at what you do, but you hate it. Why?'' she asked. 
 I sigh, and let the question hang in the air as we make our way back to her front door. I sigh again, then apologize. 
 `` I... it's... I do n't know. I could just up-n-leave, but I just ca n't. I do n't know.'' 
 
 She looks up at me, pulls her shawl a little closer, and takes my hands into hers. They're cold. In them, is something. Something round, maybe a quarter-inch thick. 
 `` You're good at what you do. Do what you love. One more chance.'' And with that, she turns and disappears into the kitchen. I about-face and shut the door behind me. I slip the whateverthehellitwas she gave me into my left pocket, pull off my shoe covers, and head back to the van. It's still an hour drive home, and the sun has gone from the sky. Under my breath, I mutter `` Thanks, dispatch. Would n't be a normal day if I did n't end it an hour from home.''. I empty my breast pocket into the little tray between the dash and cupholders, and shove the shoe covers into the pocket in the driver's side door. It's nearly fit to burst; I make a mental note to empty it when I wash the van this weekend. 
 I light a cigarette and pull away. 
 
 I did n't look at what she had given me until I started undressing before my shower. I was so focused on getting home and having a beer that I had forgotten about it almost immediately. 
 I pulled my knife and flashlight from my pocket, then I remembered. I found it in my left pocket, and pulled it out. It was wooden and dark. Ebony? Nah, not that dark. Maybe mahogany? Beats me, I'm not deep enough into woodworking yet that I can easily discern different types of wood. 
 Except for oak. Oak is easy. 
 
 I look more closely. It's a wooden disk, a little larger than coin-size, maybe an inch-and-a-half in diameter. The backside is smooth, bare. The edges are slightly knurled. 
 But, the face. 
 The face. 
 It's carved, in relief. It's a bedroom. 
 MY bedroom. Not my current bedroom, mind you, but I swear to whatever diety you hold most dear, it was my bedroom from high school. Bookcase, love seat, hutch with the stereo, nightstand, and a frameless bed, just boxspring and mattress on the floor, just how I liked it at that age. 
 I could n't form words. I could n't form thoughts. The shower I was so looking forward to on the drive home, now a muddled memory. The more I stared at this wooden disk, the deeper it pulled me in. 
 A lone tear slid down my cheek. 
 I sniffed. 
 Another tear. 
 I was overcome with an irresistible urge to lie down, and I did just that. 
 
 When I awoke, I reached for my glasses on a nightstand that was n't there anymore.
