Rick Edmund sat back in the uncomfortable airplane seat. He had grown a little too big to comfortably appreciate flight, but this was an emergency. The embarrassment of having to ask for a seatbelt extender, alone, would have been reason enough for him to drive, but with Tristan trying to break into the shed and Tim too slow witted to stop him, there really wasn’t any other choice. 

With a heaving sigh he clicked on the extra belt and pulled out his laptop. He searched for a nicer hotel room than he had offered Tim. He deserved it. He was an old man, and as far as the family was concerned, the singular patriarch. He had earned better sleeping conditions than a motel. 

Staring out the window as the plane ascended, darkness completely around him, all he could see was his shadow staring back at him. “They’re going to screw it up for all of us,” he grumbled as the woman across the aisle gave him a strange look and held tighter to her purse.

----------------------------

Late that evening, well past the time when the small town had pretty much shut down, Tristan crept up to the roll up door. He had an old backpack on, wore baggy jeans that hung a little lower than they normally might, and a heavy jacket. Pulling the bolt cutters out of his pack he approached the door and gave the snips a practice cut or two. 

“Save your strength. I’ve got the keys right here, you asshole.” Tim approached from behind him, keyring held up for Tistan to easily make out, even in the moon lit darkness. Tristan caught himself holding the cutters in front of him, almost threateningly, but dropped his hands to his sides when he saw what was going on.

Tim pushed Tristan aside as the latter watched, turned the light on his phone and helped the only way he could right now.

“What changed your mind?” Tristan asked, sheepishly.

Tim chuckled slightly as he pulled off the lock and started to open the door. “The thought that you’re going to do this almost no matter what I do. Unless I want to sleep here or spend hundreds of dollars on surveillance equipment, you’re going to find a way back, and then you won’t have anyone watching your back when this thing goes tits up - which I still think it will.” He added emphasis to the final statement, hoping that he could change the young man’s mind, but understanding in his heart the futility of even trying.

As Tim pulled down the door behind them Tristan looked to see that the mower and blower were parked off to either side of the shed so they could just slip the cover back and go down the stairs.

He pulled on the heavy handle as Tim stepped up behind him. “Nice jacket. The light blue logo...that’s the old Rangers jacket, right?”

Tristan nodded as he started down the stairs. “Yeah, from back when they won the cup in ‘94.”

Tim cocked his head as he followed down the stone stairs. “Wait, you wore a jacket from when they died? Is that your plan?” He started to laugh to himself, while Tristan scowled.

“Hey, I’m trying, okay? I’ve got a plan.”

“So your ass hanging out of those jeans is part of the plan, I’m guessing?” Tim couldn’t suppress his laughter while they made their way through the wine cellar and back up to the house.

“Screw you!” Tristan grumbled as he took off his jacket and tossed it on Grandpa’s chair. He carried his pack over to the phonograph. Tim narrowed his eyes as he saw that his cousin was wearing a faded pink t-shirt, but the underarms looked to be slowly encroaching with a blue color that spread out.

“You’ve got to be freaking kidding me!” he said in glee as he dashed over and grabbed the back of Tristan’s shirt. Tristan whipped around and swatted at Tim, but not before it was noticed that the spot where Tim had grasped was now turning blue as well. Now that they faced each other the words “Hyper Color” were easily seen on the front.

“You are completely 90’s!” Tim gasped, grinning broadly. “I both love and hate it.”

Tristan bristled and pulled a record from his pack. “Hey, this outfit will help get us to where we want to go. That, and this.” He held the record up. It was Willy Nelson, looking as old as ever. He didn’t know the album, though he, like anyone else, enjoyed Willy, or at least didn’t mind him.

“This is the Healing Hands of Time album. It came out two months before the plane crash. I’m gonna play it and we’ll close our eyes, imagine where we want to go, and hopefully something good happens.”

Tim shrugged and took a seat in the other chair. “It’s our best shot, I guess.”

The needle scratched the surface of the record as music slowly started to slip out of the long horn that worked as a speaker. Tim closed his eyes, sighed, and let the music flow through him. He tried to take in the memories of early January 1995, before the plane that had held his parents and Tristan’s mom had crashed, when life was easier. He felt himself drift away as Willy’s words whispered in his ears:

So already I've reached mountain peaks

And I've just begun to climb

I'll get over you by clinging to

Those healing hands of time

Tim’s eyes slowly opened and he peered around him. They were not in the Essence House anymore.