Locational Dissonance

Aliens. It must be aliens, Jackson thought as he rummaged through bales of hay in the old barn, searching for some sort of secret switch. He paced the interior of the barn, looking for anything, opening the door periodically only to find that his situation had not changed. He's seen spy movies. There's always a secret switch. But that doesn't apply here. This is more Doctor Who than James Bond. There were no mirrors, making it impossible to check for a Quantum Leap. He'd been beamed up, Scotty, and he wasn't the only thing in the crosshairs. Closed eyes. Opened eyes. Barn. Closed eyes. Open eyes. Barn. Click the heels, there's no place like home, but this still wasn't home. What happened? How did this happen? His mind raced back to aliens before opening the barn door to make certain he wasn't dreaming. He wasn't. This was a nightmare. What had once been the path from the house to the barn had been replaced by sand. A blank, empty desert from horizon to horizon. He had heard a noise in the barn, checked it out, and left to go back to bed, only to find the bright sun beating down on the Sahara-like dune. His mind had raced for logical explanations, of which there were none, leading him down the path of fiction. The problem being that fiction couldn't explain his very real situation. He didn't want it explained though. He wanted it fixed. He wanted to be back in his bed. He didn't even necessarily need the barn back. It hadn't been used in at least a generation, save for a place to unwind and get away from the world. So that settled it. Whatever outer world entity or mad science nut had resulted in this was free to keep the barn as long as Jackson was free to go. A fair trade, Jackson considered. It was a nice enough barn. In fact, Jackson came into this deal with nothing, so the other side was only getting a barn without having to give up anything they already owned. Yes, that would make for a good bargaining tactic. Wait a minute, Jackson realized, bargaining. A stage of grief. Does that mean it's over? There's nothing to grieve if Jackson isn't spending the rest of his days here. No, surely something would be figured out. Unless that was denial. He opened the door. Sand. Not even any cactuses. Just sand. Yellow, bland sand. He closed the door. Insanity, doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result. He'd like to see even the strongest of men not go a little insane when faced with the fate that befell him. No! Not befell, he thought. This is not the end of my story it is merely a chapter. But is it the final chapter? No. He had to tell himself no. Besides, this wasn't even the worst situation he's been in. No, that was a lie. This was by far worse. Worse than breaking his arm slipping on ice when he was 8. The arm healed as he knew it would. Worse than any breakup. There were other fish in the sea. Worse than getting fired as he'd always had a job lined up. This was so much worse. Should he start walking? It's not like this barn had any food for him. But there was the old adage of staying put if you get lost. Although that may only apply when people are actually looking for you. He'd decided to lie down on a hay bale and try to sleep. Maybe sleeping in a dream would kick him back to reality? If this was a dream. Denial. He closed his eyes, but his mind raced. Clearly. Impossible to get any kind of sleep here. He got up in a huff and opened the barn door again. Kicking at the ground, he became desperate. On his hands and knees, Jackson began digging. Sand crumbled into his digging spot to be thrown aside again, with the goal of making headway to something. Anything. Center of the Earth if he had to. About a foot from the surface and the digging got harder. No, not harder, impossible. It felt metallic. He cleared an area of sand away to reveal a sheet of metal with rivets running along it and a straight handle. Freezing in disbelief, Jackson acted. Gripping the handle with his dominant hand, he turned. A click, a jolt, and he was sent rocketing back into the barn by a bolt of pure electricity running through his body. He landed with a thud in the middle of the barn as the door swung back closed. Darkness fell in his vision. Light again as he opened his eyes. No clue how long he was out, Jackson surged upright and opened the door to reveal a very welcome familiarity. He was home. His own yard. His barn was exactly where it was supposed to be. Jackson absentmindedly wandered the two hundred feet back to his house, opened the door, and made his way to the bedroom, finally at peace in his home yet again. He had decided to call it a dream. Although he knew it wasn't. The overwhelming evidence to the episode being reality was a handle-shaped burn mark on the inside of his dominant hand. But no. Denial suited him. It was a dream.