Jim smiled at the irony of Cory's song mentioning a St. Bernard. Bernice was the first McGuire dog of that particular breed; she was born decades after Cory's demise. If his memory served him correctly, the family owned a little Cardiganshire Corgi named Rufus back then. Rufus was hit by a car and died a few years later, when Jim was eight.

He needed to get away from all of this for a while. If only it were poker night! How nice it would be to have the guys over, swapping stories, smoking cheap cigars and teasing each other.

Maybe he could go to Kelly's. Kevin might be there. But, then again, so might Frank Ward and some of the other local yokels. And Jim was tired of hearing people he hadn't seen since the funeral come up and offer their sympathies. Grandpa had been dead and buried for a year now. Wasn't it time to move on?

Jim got another idea. He checked his phone directory and began dialing. Eleven numbers and three rings later someone answered.

"Hello?"

"Margaret? Is that you?"

"Yes," the little girl answered shyly. It was obvious that Margaret did not recognize her father's voice. Had it been that long since he'd talked to her? Maybe it was just a bad connection, Jim thought.

"It's me, darling. Your daddy."

"Daddy?"

"Yes, Mag. Your daddy. And how is daddy's little--"

Margaret wasn't listening. Jim could hear his daughter put the phone down and call for her mother.

"Mommy! Mommy! It's Daddy. Daddy's on the phone."

There was a long pause. Then Jim could hear footsteps on a hardwood floor. The phone gave a crunching sound as it was being picked up.

"Jim?" It was Sarah. She seemed out of breath and more than a little surprised to hear from him.

"I'm sorry. Did I call at an awkward time?"

"Uh, well, no, no. I guess not. I just...wasn't expecting to hear from you. Is there anything wrong?"

"Wrong? No, no. I was just phoning to see...uh...if you two are still planning to come by next weekend."

"Yes, yes, of course. We should be at the airport around--let me check our tickets here...yeah, six P.M. your time."

"Good. I'll pick you up then."

"Listen, Jim, if this is an awkward time for you we could reschedule things--"

"Awkward? No, no. Not at all. I'll just tell one of my mistresses to move out to make room for you."

Sarah giggled.

"It's good to hear from you, Jim. Good to hear your sense of humour's come back. And, Jim?"

"Yes?"

"I'm really sorry I couldn't make it to your grandpa's funeral. No, really. I'm very sorry. I wish we could have been there."

"I know, I know," Jim said dismissively. "No problem. I know you and Grandpa were very close."

"Jim? Remember what you used to call him? What was that word again?"

The question caught him off guard. He hadn't thought of the word in years.

"Taspika," he replied. It translated to "guide of my passing". Sarah had never asked what the word meant.

"Taspika," Sarah repeated. "You must miss him a lot."

"Yeah. Yeah, I miss a lot of people."

The conversation stopped, as if Jim had thrown a spanner into the works.

"Well," Sarah finally sighed, breaking the tension, "I have to go. It's time to fix dinner."

Jim had forgotten that it was earlier on the coast.

"Tell Margaret I love her," Jim added weakly.

"I will. Bye-bye, Jim."

"Good-bye, Sarah."

He exhaled sharply and put the phone back onto its holder. Looking around for something to take his mind off things, he settled on making another attempt at reading the manuscripts from Stork. Having already tested their effects on his consciousness, he took the precaution of getting into bed first. The pyjamas had not shown up yet, but sleeping in the raw would prove no hardship. Five minutes after opening the book-to-be he was doing exactly that.

This place was completely different. No well lit hallways. No conference rooms. No rooms full of people engaging in sex, research, debate or contemplation. There was nothing but fog; a thick, ethereal fog that snaked around his legs as he tried to walk through it. Where was this? England, perhaps? A cheap rock video, maybe?

But unlike any mist he'd ever seen, this earth-bound cloud lacked moisture or coldness. If it had had a smell Jim would have taken it for smoke.

Another realization struck him. His footsteps came to rest on nothingness. While it made no sense, it seemed that he was walking on solid air. It was only this mysterious support that it gave which made the air apparent. No, this wasn't England. And special effects like levitation didn't come cheap.

"I am told your name is Kolry," echoed a voice to his left. Jim turned but saw no one. As he walked tentatively toward the sound an eerie white light shone through the obscurity. Closer and closer he crept, measuring each step, his eyes transfixed by the source of this strange illumination.

To his surprise, the light did not get stronger as he approached. It glowed with a constant intensity, highlighting the fog instead of dissipating its effects. He squinted and moved nearer to the source. After a few more paces he could make out the outline of a bearded man, dressed in a blue toga. Even as he stood a few inches from the man, however, Jim could not discern any facial features.

"Are you the one I've come to see?" Jim inquired.

Only by narrowing his eyes until they were almost shut could Jim see the man shake his head.

"No. I am Briel. I am only serving as a sign post," the figure explained, pointing to his right. "The one you seek is over there, ant farming."

"Ant farming?" Had Jim heard him right?

"That is what we call it here. You will understand."

Jim shuffled off in the direction indicated. After a few steps he turned around and asked: "What should I call him?"

But there was no one there. Only haze.

He trudged onward, parting the murk by swinging his arms in front of him. The air became thicker, giving him the feeling that he was wading through it.

Laughter! The sound was shrill and far off, but it was clearly laughter. Jim corrected his tack slightly, veering a little to his left, and proceeded towards the source of this noise. He did not see its point of origin until he was all but standing over it.

There, rolling around beneath him, was another figure in a blue sheet. This one emitted no light. Jim leaned forward for a better look, but could make out no features. The voice, still giggling hysterically, did not reveal the person's gender. The figure clutched its stomach with its left hand and pointed at a view port with its right. Jim peered through this screen to see a mundane scene of city life; commuters in a subway station at rush hour travelling to or from work. There was certainly nothing there that Jim could see that would inspire such gaiety. Jim asked the obvious question: "What's so funny?"

The entity tried unsuccessfully to stop howling long enough to answer. Jim considered reposing the query, but realized that the problem was a lack of breath, not a lack of hearing. He waited until the character on the "ground" could respond.

"Don't you see it?" was all the person managed to say.

"Well, quite frankly, no," Jim replied.

This served only to send the figure into greater heights of hilarity.

"Hee-Hee-HEEEEE!"

Jim was growing impatient. He had come here to make an appeal for help, not witness someone deteriorate into madness.

"What's so funny?" he reiterated.

"Haa-Haa-HAAAAAH!"

Jim was about to leave in disgust when he saw the figure motioning once again through the portal. He remained, waiting for his host/hostess to gather enough composure to answer him.

"I warned the wicked..." started the figure, pausing to collapse into gleeful chortling once again.

"...that I would send them..."

More chuckling. Jim rolled his eyes at this foolishness.

"...to a land of torture and torment."

The figure broke down once more. Jim was beginning to doubt that he would ever hear the end of this explanation. Nevertheless, the figure continued.

"And I promised I'd send the righteous..."

Mirth overcame the figure for another minute or so before it could press on.

"...to a land of milk and honey."

Jim waited for a punch line, but none was forthcoming. He realized that more prodding was in order.

"I still don't get it," he confessed. The figure seemed surprised that Jim would actually need more clarification. It took the person five minutes to gather up enough self-control to complete the explanation.

"I sent them both to the same place," the figure shouted in a rush of breath, "and neither was the wiser!"

With this the figure lapsed into uncontrollable roaring.

Jim had seen enough. He had learned nothing here, other than the notion that even dreams could waste his time. He retraced his steps, groping through the veil of swirling fog. A familiar light appeared in the distance. Jim stumbled toward it. As he approached it Jim discerned that it was the "sign post" character again. Briel.

"Don't tell, let me guess," Jim surmised, "he's been like that since the Mets won the World Series."

"Pardon?"

"Never mind," Jim said. "Listen, I'd like to go now. Can you take me home?"

"Home?" wondered Briel.

"Yeah, home. Where I live. You know."

"Home is where you live?"

Jim flashed the gentleman an are-you-for-real look.

"Yes," he said slowly, as if talking to someone with poor cognitive skills, "home...is...where...I...live."

"Are you sure?"

"Of course I'm sure!"

"Has it always been thus?"

"Of course it has! Now--"

"I am told that you once went to university," Briel observed.

"Yeah, back East. So what?"

"And where did you live then?"

"I lived in a dorm. So?"

"Did you consider that dorm your home then?"

"Well, no. Home was Gopher Brook--"

"So your home isn't always where you happen to be living, then?"

"Yeah, okay, whatever."

"Are you sure you know where your home is? Are you sure you even know what a home is?"

"Of course I do! Now, if you could just call me a taxi or something--"

"I will take you home. I promise. As soon as you direct me there."

"Okay, no problem. Take me to Gladen Drive, just outside of Gopher Brook."

Briel shook his head in frustration. Clearly, he was not getting through to Jim.

"Perhaps," he started, "you could start by telling me which galaxy?"

"Which galaxy?"

"Yes, which galaxy? That might help us narrow it down a little."

"Oh, right, quite right. The Milky Way. Planet Earth. Just hang a right at Venus and we're there."

"Which Milky Way?"

"I told you, the galaxy. Not the chocolate bar. The galaxy. You know, the Milky Way."

Both men were feeling the strain caused by their inability to communicate easily. It seemed that neither had ever encountered anyone as obtuse as the other. The old man cleared his throat and rubbed his chin. He looked around for heavenly guidance before making another attempt.

"Which Milky Way galaxy?" Briel asked again, posing the question as precisely as he could.

Jim wrinkled up his nose and bit his lip.

"You mean there's more than one?"

The "sign post" put his hand to his forehead and paused for a moment to collect his thoughts and patience. Finally, he settled on a way to explain things to his guest. The old man reached into the folds of his garment, brought out a dice and handed it to Jim.

"Roll this, please."

"Listen, I like to shoot craps as much as anyone, but I'd rather be getting back home now."

"Please," begged the old one, "indulge me for a moment."

"Okay," Jim obliged, taking the dice and throwing it onto the "ground". Unfortunately, the cube rolled out of sight. Jim chased it into the mist.

"Have you found it?" the guide asked.

"Got it!"

"And what number did you roll?"

"A five."

"And if I asked you to roll it an infinite number of times," the man wondered, "how many fives would you get?"

Jim's high school mathematics came to the fore. Infinity times any number is infinity.

"An infinite number of fives," Jim replied.

"Exactly. Very good. Now here's the part that you have to understand, Kolry. Existence proves possibility. The chances of anything coming into being is finite, like a many-sided dice. Space is infinite. Even if the odds of your galaxy coming into being were one in a billion, one in a trillion, somewhere it will happen again. Travel far enough and you'll find a third recurrence. Travel infinitely and you will find--"

"An infinite number of Milky Ways," Jim inferred.

"Exactly! Now, our problem here is finding out which of the infinite number of Milky Ways, which of the infinite number of Earths, which of the infinite number of Gopher Brooks, and which of the infinite number of Gladen Drives is your home!"

Jim had a sinking feeling that this was going to involve more than simply calling a cab.

"So tell me," Briel demanded, "which one is your home?"

"I-I-I don't know!" Jim stammered.

"Can't you tell me where your home is?" the guide persisted. Jim began to get the feeling that the old man was taunting him, embarrassing Jim with his own ignorance.

"Could you at least define your home?"

Jim ignored the man. He was lost in thought. If what he had heard was correct, he would never be able to get back.

"Just my luck!" he thought, "Marooned in heaven!"

It was an insoluble problem. After all, Jim conceded, there was nothing unique about James Kolry McGuire. There was little enough to distinguish him from his beer-drinking, poker-playing buddies. There would be absolutely nothing to delineate him from the "parallel" James Kolry McGuires on all of those other planet Earths.

He began to panic.

"My God," he figured, "I'm never going to get home!"

His mind raced, searching for one mark that he had made in his life which would be his own, which would separate himself from his "cosmic clones". He could find no such signature. In all of his forty-three years he had done nothing that could not have been duplicated across the infinite number of universes.

Panic gave way to despair. Slowly, painfully, he was forced to give up on the prospect of returning to Gopher Brook. Had he made out a will? No, that was one of those tasks he'd promised to get around to and never did.

Perhaps, he calculated, this was not such a tragedy. Certainly there are worse places than heaven. As for the people back on Earth, they would go on without any great inconvenience. Certainly Sarah and Margaret didn't need him. The guys would find someone else to fill in at the poker table. Maybe Bruce Jacobson, the pharmacist in town. He had made some overtures a few times, trying to elbow his way into the game.

Stork would have no difficulty finding another reader to edit and evaluate their manuscripts. Brother Robert would undoubtedly conclude that Jim had got cold feet and stood him up. After all, Jim McGuire was no Jason McGuire.

Life would go on.

Suddenly Jim's spirits took another nose dive. One life might not go on. Bernice. There would be no one to feed her. Jim tried to reassure himself that, when hungry enough, Bernice would know to scratch at the neighbours' doors until someone fed her. Bernice would survive. No worries there.

Bernice. For everyone else Jim's disappearance would be nothing more than a mystery soon forgotten. But Bernice would miss her master. Even if no one else did.

Wait a minute! That was it! He had it! Jim's pulse quickened. He waved his finger in the air, like Archimedes shouting "Eureka!"

"I've got it!" he shouted aloud.

"Oh? Please, do tell."

"Listen, all of those places have their Jim McGuires in place. But only one of them is missing a Jim McGuire. So, take me to the place that is missing me."

The old man beamed proudly, like a teacher on graduation day.

"Now you know what home is," he announced. "Home is the place that misses you."

Jim did not have time to let these words sink in. Jim would be going back to Earth, condemned to life. Suddenly a trap door opened beneath his feet. The atmosphere no longer supported his weight. Like a baby tossed above its father's head, Jim had reached the apex of his flight. With blood rushing to his brain he began a rapidly accelerating descent. But whoever had thrown him into the air had walked away. That was the catch: there would be no catch. He was free-falling. He had no parachute, no wings, not so much as a cocktail umbrella to slow his drop. The plunge continued, unabated, as he was sucked by a vortex of gravity towards terra firma. Towards the inescapable. Towards death.

The next thing Jim knew he was waking up in his bed. This time the sheets were dripping with perspiration. His heart pounded in his chest. His skin was clammy. Tears salted his cheeks. His forehead burned with fever while his body shivered from the cold.

But, hot damn! It felt great to be alive!

Jim dashed naked from his room. He flung open the side door of the house and exposed himself to the dawn's weak light. Oblivious to the near freezing temperature and the possibility of stares from the neighbours, he ran outside, hunted down his favourite furry friend like the dog she was and hugged her tight to his chest.

"Thanks, Bern. Thanks. That's twice you've brought me home."

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