Lloyd Simcoe wasn't a lady's man; he wasn't a raconteur; he didn't have a reputation as an after-dinner speaker. He was just a scientist, a specialist in quark-gluon plasma, a typical nerd who'd started out as a kid who couldn't throw a baseball, who spent his adolescence with his nose buried in books when others his age were out honing interpersonal skills in a thousand and one different situations.

And the years had slipped by — his twenties, his thirties, and now, here, most of his forties. Oh, he'd had success at his work, and he'd dated now and again, and there had been Pam, all those years ago, but nothing that looked as though it was going to be permanent, no relationship that seemed destined to stand the test of time.

Until this one, with Michiko.

It had felt so right. The way she laughed at his jokes; the way he laughed at hers. The way, even though they'd grown up in vastly different societies — him in conservative, rural Nova Scotia; her in cosmopolitan, overwhelming Tokyo — that they shared the same politics and morals and beliefs and opinions, as if — the term came again, unbidden — as if they were soul mates, always meant to be together. Yes, she'd been married and divorced, yes, she is — was — a parent, but, still, they had seemed absolutely in sync, so very right for each other.

But now—

Now, it seemed as though that, too, was an illusion. The world might still be struggling to decide what, if any, reality the visions reflected, but Lloyd had already accepted them as fact, true depictions of tomorrow, the one unalterable space-time continuum in which he had always known he dwelled.

And yet he had to explain to her what he was feeling — him, Lloyd Simcoe, the man whom words always failed, the good listener, the brick, the one others turned to when they had doubts. He had to explain to her what was going through his mind, why a vision of a dissolved marriage twenty-one years — twenty-one years! — down the road so paralyzed him right now, so poisoned for him what he'd thought they had.

He looked at Michiko, dropped his gaze, tried again to meet her eyes, then focused on a blank spot on the apartment's dark, wine-colored walls.

He'd never spoken of this to anyone — not even to his sister Dolly, at least not since they were kids. He took a deep breath, then began, his eyes still locked on the wall. "When I was eight years old, my parents called me and my sister down to the living room." He swallowed. "It was a Saturday afternoon. Tensions had been high for weeks in our house. That's an adult way of expressing it — 'tensions were high.' As a kid, all I knew was that mom and dad weren't talking. Oh, they spoke when they had to, but it was always with sharp voices. And it often ended in choked-off phrases. 'If that's the way—!' 'I'm not—!' 'Don't you—!' Like that. They tried to keep it civil when they knew we could hear them, but we heard a lot more than they thought."

He looked briefly at Michiko, then shifted his gaze to the wall again. "Anyway, they called us down to the living room. 'Lloyd, Dolly — come here!' It was my father. And, you know, when he yelled for us to come, it usually meant we were in trouble. We hadn't put away our toys; one of the neighbors had complained about something we'd done; whatever. Well, I came out of my room, and Dolly came out of hers, and we kind of looked at each other, you know, just a glance, just a shared moment of apprehension." He now looked at Michiko, just as he had at his sister all those years ago.

Lloyd continued. "We went down the stairs, and there they were: Mom and Dad. And they were both standing, and we stood, too. The whole time, we stood around, like we were waiting for the fucking bus. They were both quiet for a bit, like they didn't know what to say. And then, finally, my mother spoke up. She said, 'Your father is moving out.' Just like that. No preamble, no softening the blow: 'Your father is moving out.'

"And then he spoke. 'I'll get a place nearby. You'll be able to see me on weekends.'

"And my mother added, as if it needed to be said, 'Your father and I haven't been getting along.' "

Lloyd fell quiet.

Michiko made a sympathetic face. "Did you see him much, after he moved out?" she asked at last.

"He didn't move out."

"But your parents are divorced."

"Yes — six years later. But after the great announcement, he didn't move out. He didn't leave."

"So your parents made up?"

Lloyd shrugged a little. "No. No, the fighting continued. But they never mentioned him moving out again. We — Dolly and I — we kept waiting for the other shoe to fall, for him to move out. For months — really, all of the six years their marriage lasted after that — we thought he might leave at any moment. There was never a timeframe mentioned, after all — they never said when he was going to go. When they did finally split up, it was almost a relief. I love my dad, and my mom, too, but having that hanging over our heads for so long was just too much to bear." He paused. "And a marriage like that, one gone bad — I'm sorry, Michiko, but I don't think I could ever go through anything like that again."

Day Three: Thursday, April 23, 2009

The Los Angeles District Attorney's office has dropped all pending misdemeanor cases to free up staff to deal with the flood of new charges being laid related to looting in the aftermath of the Flashforward.

The Department of Philosophy at the University of Witwatersrand, South Africa, reports record numbers of requests for course calendars.

Amtrak in the U.S., Via Rail in Canada, and British Rail have reported huge increases in passenger volume. No trains operated by those companies crashed during the Flashforward.

The Church of the Holy Visions, begun yesterday in Stockholm, Sweden, now claims 12,000 adherents worldwide, making it the fastest-growing religion on the planet.

The American Bar Association reports a huge increase in requests for new wills to be drawn up, or existing wills to be revised.

The next day, Theo and Michiko were working on setting up their Web site for people to report their visions. They'd decided to call it the Mosaic Project, both in honor of the first popular (but now long abandoned) Web browser, and in acknowledgement of the now clearly established fact, thanks to the efforts of researchers and reporters worldwide, that each person's vision did indeed represent one small stone in a vast mosaic portrait of the year 2030.

Theo had a mug of coffee. He took a sip, then, "Can I ask you a question about your vision?"

Michiko looked out the window at the mountains. "Sure."

"That little girl you were with. Is she your daughter, do you think?" He'd almost said "your new daughter" but fortunately had censored the thought before it was free.

Michiko lifted her narrow shoulders slightly. "Apparently."

"And — and Lloyd's daughter, too?"

Michiko looked surprised by the question. "Of course," she said, but there was hesitation in her voice.

"Because Lloyd — "

Michiko stiffened. "He told you his vision, did he?"

Theo realized he'd put his foot in it. "No, not exactly. Just that he was in New England — "

"With a woman who wasn't me. Yes, I know."

"I'm sure it doesn't mean anything. I'm sure the visions aren't going to turn out to be true."

Michiko looked out at the mountains again; Theo found himself doing that a lot, too. There was something about them — something solid, permanent, unchanging. He found it calming to look at them, to know that there were things that endured not just for decades but for millennia.