Chances Aren't by Luke Young Page A

right of where the tunnel should be and push it open; ignoring the emergency exit warning sign in the process. The alarm that should be blaring isn't. The sunlight blasts me in the face and it takes a moment for my eyes to adjust from the poorly lit warehouse. Shielding my eyes, I look across the valley to where the building I work in should be and it's not there either. Instead heavy machinery rolls through a flat piece of undeveloped land. My gaze moves in to the green edge of the valley then to the stream below.
    I turn to William, giving my eyes a moment to adjust back to the low building's light, and I'm speechless. I feel different as well. I'm not me, or I'm not the same guy I was just moments before. With my hand I feel my stomach and it's flat. No longer is there the pouch of a forty-five year old man. I can feel the hard young muscles under my skin.
    Gone is the scar where I sliced my hand open cutting wallpaper ten years ago. Grinning widely, I think this is pretty fucking cool. This is big. I take a deep breath. Raising my gaze to William, I notice he's looking at three large men heading our way and they don't look happy. William steps toward me. "I think we should get out of here."
    Nodding, I follow him through the emergency exit just as one of the men rushing over shouts, "Hey, stop right there."
    "Hurry," William says as he sprints ahead of me.
    I take off after him, my young legs carrying me easily at his pace. I feel my pants slipping off my trim waist and take hold of the waist band, pulling them up. We move down into the valley, with the sounds of the construction equipment fading away as we head toward the road and the front of the old building.
    Standing in the parking lot catching our breath, I run my hands through my hair and it's all there, every last strand. Thick and full, my receding hairline is gone. It's amazing how much you don't realize you miss your hair; you lose it so gradually that the impact of the loss is, well, lost on you. But getting it back all at once, is a complete shock to your system. I can do nothing except smile. My mind quickly flies through all the other signs of aging that have surely now been reversed. I'm desperate to look at my face in a mirror. I'm sure the bags under my eyes are gone, the lines, the wrinkles. Then my thinking goes south, I'm hoping my equipment is functioning like it used to. Don't get me wrong, it still works or should I say worked in the future or whatever, wait I didn't say that right. I'm confused as to what tense I should be using about where I came from three minutes ago— that, in and of itself, seems like a weird thing to ponder. My head is spinning.
    I take a deep breath through my young lungs. "So, how do I look?"
    "What?" William replies, confused.
    "How do I look?"
    "Um, younger." William smiles. "Welcome to July third, nineteen eighty eight."
    "Dude, this is going to be amazing. I don't know how to thank you."
    "No thanks are necessary. Just make the most of this. You've been given a gift that most people can only dream about. Don't waste it."
    "I won't." I exhale deeply. "There is no way I will screw it up this time. No way."
    "And try not to be such a moody asshole this time."
    "What?" I look at him, insulted.
    "I told you I've been briefed."
    "Okay, all right." I look across the road to where the post office and Wal-Mart used to be and they are not there. They've been replaced with a gas station and beyond that nothing but trees. Turning back toward the building, I spot the parking lot full of cars from the nineteen eighties. I shake my head, shit this is wild.
    William puts on a serious expression. "So, good luck."
    "Wait, that’s it?"
    "For me it is."
    "What should I do now?"
    He shrugs. "You need to figure the rest of this out on your own."
    "Okay." I take a moment to think. "I guess I need to get to College Park."
    "I guess you do. Your shift starts at six."
    "Shit, how—"
    "You'd better get moving since it's a little after