Bob appeared behind the Happy Paws veterinary clinic in Batavia, Illinois.

He looked around quickly and determined that, as he'd suspected, no one was keeping watch on the rather pungent space beside the dumpster.

Bob hurried out from behind the clinic and sat down at the bus stop directly in front of it.

He took a deep breath and coughed, furrowing his brows. The air back on Thayland was quantitatively cleaner.

He looked around, but everything was the same as it had been the last time he'd brought Monroe in for a checkup.

He'd been gone for a year and a half.

The world may not have changed, but he certainly had.

With a hiss of discharged air, a bus came to a halt in front of him. Standing up, he pulled out his wallet and bounded up the steps. When he'd been blown to Thayland, he hadn't been carrying much cash, but he had eighteen dollars in his wallet, two dollars of which paid his fare.

Bob sat down behind the driver and went over his plan. His first stop would be the bank. He didn't have a lot of money, but he'd managed to save enough over the years to ensure he could handle any minor emergency. He'd need to pay his cellphone bill and buy a cheap laptop.

He wasn't sure how Bank of America would take his resurrection.

Cell phone, laptop, reach out to the people he'd met who played D&D. It was a good plan, but he had no doubt that at some point, someone was going to need to check his ID. He couldn't just portal around Earth like he had on Thayland, as there were cameras everywhere. He'd chosen to arrive behind the clinic because there weren't any cameras back there.

Bob frowned thoughtfully. He hadn't really thought about it, but back on Thayland, he'd found a sort of freedom in not being constantly under surveillance.

A few minutes later, the bus arrived at Bank of America, where Bob disembarked with a nod and a quiet "Thank you" to the driver. Looking at the building in front of him, Bob couldn't see any changes. Even the logo had stayed the same, which meant that somewhere there was a committee diligently working on a new one. Squaring his shoulders, he walked through both sets of double doors and into the bank.

"Robert," a cheerful voice called out from the far left teller window, beckoning him over. Bob smiled and headed over to the window, grateful that the bank was empty of customers this morning.

As he approached the counter, he recognized the woman who'd called him over, and his smile widened. He'd forgotten about Molly. She was a plump middle-aged woman, with black hair that she pulled back into a bun and streaks of silver at her temples. She was a gregarious woman who loved talking to people, which, she'd told him, was why she worked as a bank teller. She'd taken a special liking to Bob when he'd been forced to bring Monroe into the bank with him one day, as she was a fellow devotee of their Feline Overlords and had a Maine-Coone herself.

"It's good to see you," Molly said happily as she tapped at her tablet and then turned it to face him, where it displayed a picture of Arthur, her huge cream-colored Maine-Coone, looking disapproving as a smaller orange version of himself was climbing his difficult western face. "My friend Melissa's Cleopatra had a litter nine months ago, and I adopted little Merlin there," Molly cooed.

"Poor Arthur," Bob sighed, "his dignity may never recover." Over the years, Bob had learned that Arthur was a very proud and dignified kitty. "I know," Molly giggled before swiping through a few more pictures, most of which showed a very put-upon-looking Arthur doing his best to ignore an inquisitive Merlin.

"How is Monroe keeping?" Molly asked as she finished her slide show and pulled her tablet back over.

"You'll be happy to know that I've finally taken your advice and moved him off the dry cat food and onto a natural, meat-based diet," Bob replied. "And you were right; he's definitely happier at mealtimes," Bob acknowledged with a smile.

Molly shook her head, "I'd ask if you had any new photos of him, but I know how you are," she sighed up at him, "most young people your age can't eat lunch without taking a picture of their plates, but you're a different sort."

"Legacy of a misspent youth," Bob responded as he pulled out his wallet and inserted his card into the device on the counter. It prompted him for his pin, which he dutifully supplied. It then flashed a message; 'Error, see teller.'

Bob looked up at Molly and said, "Huh, my card isn't working."

"Mr. Whitman," Detective Hanson began as he entered the office where Bob had been waiting patiently for five hours, "it appears that reports of your demise were entirely false."

Bob tried very hard to suppress a smile. Hanson embodied the hard-edged, overworked, and underpaid detective in every crime novel he'd ever read. Graying hair, receding into a widow's peak, two days' worth of stubble, a rumpled suit that looked like it'd been slept in, raspy voice, bloodshot eyes, and an air of weariness.

He waited patiently as the detective slumped down into the chair across from him and opened a folder before shuffling through the paper inside.

"They tried to have us use laptops and then tablets," Hanson grumbled, "but we kept spilling things on them or dropping them, and they sort of gave up on the idea," he finished his search and pulled out a few pages that were stapled together.

"Robert Whitman, born March Fourth, Nineteen Ninety-Three to Alice Whitman, father unknown," Detective Hanson glanced up at Bob, then dropped his eyes and continued reading. "Attended a variety of schools in Watts, but you managed to graduate High School with honors, and a quick schlep through the school's records show that based solely on GPA, you ought to have been the valedictorian, although that honor somehow ended up going to a Ms. Williams."

"Accepted at UCLA, you completed your bachelors in only six semesters, and were accepted into the master's program here in beautiful Illinois at our very own Fermilab," Hanson shook his head, "where you languished for six years, apparently unaware that your work was being stolen, before resigning on the same day that your stolen work, altered by an incompetent coworker, caused the explosion that everyone presumed caused your death," he finished.

Hanson looked at Bob expectantly. Bob looked back. After several minutes, the Detective dropped the papers onto the desk, then leaned forward, pointing a finger at Bob's chest.

"You worked in a restaurant as a kid, illegally, or so a report from child protective services notes, then fast food once you were able to work legally, then you worked on a shipping dock driving a forklift," he shook his head again, "and once you came here, you worked as a Spanish translator on the side."

"That," he gestured towards the papers on the desk, "is everything we know about Robert Whitman," he chuckled, "a legacy of the investigation into your unfortunate demise."

Hanson stood up suddenly and walked around the desk, standing uncomfortably close to Bob. Bob did his best to maintain eye contact, although he didn't particularly enjoy having someone loom over him.

"Your fingerprints match, and every photo of you, not that there are many, is almost a dead ringer, but hey, maybe you just take bad pictures," Hanson went on, "so I believe that you are Robert Whitman, which means I have to ask, where have you been for the past year and a half?"

The last came out as a hiss.

Bob took a deep breath and slowly released it. "Detective, on that fateful day, I discovered that I'd been used, lied to, manipulated, and mocked for years," Bob began, "I believe you likely have a copy of my resignation letter in that file somewhere."

"What isn't in that letter is what I planned to do next," Bob continued, "I was done with academia. I'd spent a decade and a half trying to earn something that the universe clearly didn't want me to have, and in the moment I discovered what had been done to me, I let go of the dream I'd had since I was thirteen."

Bob shook his head sadly, "I'm not a particularly smart man," he said, raising a finger when the detective snorted. "I'm really not," Bob warned, "if you look at my grades, you might think so, but the truth is, I didn't out-think anyone; I just outworked them."

"Others might understand a subject twenty-five percent more quickly than I did, but that didn't help them when I put in twice the hours," Bob leaned back so he could get a better look at the detective's face.

"You know how much I made at Fermilab," he sighed, "I could have made more money working on the shipping dock; considerably more money in fact," Bob shook his head again, "and I would have been happier."

"I left that day, knowing that my time there was done, and happy for it, feeling as if I could close that chapter of my life, and start writing a new one, a happier one," he paused and shrugged helplessly, "and then, as I was walking down that corridor, everything went black."

Detective Hanson pushed himself off the desk and walked back around it to sit in his chair again. "You were dealt a shitty hand," he acknowledged gruffly, "but that doesn't answer my question; where were you?"

Bob shook his head, "Does it matter?" he asked.

"If I decided to go on a walkabout after recovering, then what of it? I didn't commit any crime or violate any laws," Bob said, "while I regret that so many people were pulled into the event that caused the misapprehension that I was deceased, I carry no responsibility for it."

"Mr. Whitman," Detective Hanson began carefully, "no one, least of all myself, is suggesting that you are anything but the victim here," he shook his head, "that being said, you do understand that legal actions were taken as a result of your demise, and your sudden reappearance is going to create an immense out of paperwork."

Hanson leaned back, "In short, if you could tell us where you've been, we could establish a paper trail and then attribute the inadequate investigation into your death unto whichever department should have caught it."

Bob failed to contain a snort. The detective raised an eyebrow.

"The issue isn't that I'm alive," Bob chuckled, "it's that someone needs to be blamed for making the mistake of declaring me dead."

The detective sighed. "You aren't wrong," he muttered, "although there are a few other issues that will arise, for example, your mother received a generous out-of-court settlement in the matter of your death."

Bob froze. He forced himself to breathe calmly. It appeared the detective was every bit as sharp-eyed as his fictional counterparts. "No love lost there, I see," Hanson said.

"I haven't seen her since the week before I graduated High School," Bob shrugged, "you presumably have her arrest records in that file somewhere, so you know she was barely present when she was supposedly acting as my parent."

"Well, I don't know how that will shake out, but I thought you should be aware," Detective Hanson continued, "also the criminal charges for Ms. Amber Crestwell will need to be addressed, although she also disappeared from a secured jail cell no less," he shook his head.

"This whole thing was a comedy of errors, although this one lands in your favor," Hanson smiled crookedly, "because of her disappearance, the case has been left open, and although your account was frozen, it was never actually closed."

He leaned back and gestured towards the office door. "As you're clearly alive and the case needs to be refiled if Ms. Crestwell is apprehended, I've had your account released," he grunted and motioned toward his desk, "and I've started the paperwork to bring you back to life, legally speaking, although you might want to make sure you file your taxes."

He stood up and leaned over his desk, "If you ever feel like telling me what really happened after that accident, I'd be happy to listen."

Bob smiled and stood up, "I appreciate you releasing my funds, Detective Hanson, and I'm sorry I caused all this work for you," he shook his head slowly, "as for where I've been... let's just say I'm not much of a storyteller."

Bob turned and walked out of the office, retracing his path to the exit.

"Good old Best Buy," Bob murmured as he stepped off the bus, pulling his suit jacket closer as an icy gust of wind sliced into him.

Magic, Bob thought, made everything easy. Too hot? Elemental water and air to cool off. Too cold? Elemental fire and air to stay warm.

Stepping into the store, he sighed in relief and headed to the rather prominent counter that advertised all of the latest and greatest cell phones from a variety of carriers.

Bob knew that his old cellphone wouldn't function as a hotspot, nor did it support tethering. So he smiled awkwardly at the bubbly young woman minding the counter and asked her which carrier had the least expensive phone and plan for use as a hotspot.

The young woman seemed excited to be making a sale of any sort and recommended a sixty-dollar phone paired with a fifty-dollar-a-month plan.

She even offered to transfer the contacts over from his old phone, which Bob gladly accepted, happy to avoid the extra expense of buying a different charger. He didn't have a lot on that phone, but he had a few photos of Monroe as a kitten that he wanted to save.

Paying for the phone and the service, Bob asked if he could do a little more shopping while she moved the contents of his old phone to the new one. Kelly, as her name tag read, was more than happy to send Bob out into the store after ensuring that he'd check out with her, as she would receive the credit for the sales.

The next stop was a long row of laptops, where Bob quickly skipped over the latest shiny gaming systems and headed to the lower-end machines. Locating a model with a decent processor, enough ram not to choke, and a lower resolution screen that likely explained the price point, he tugged one of the boxes off the shelf and grabbed a cheap wireless mouse from the other side of the aisle.

Heading back to the cell phone counter, he was pleased to see that Kelly had everything ready to go for him. She rang him up, smiled at him brightly, and told him to give her a call sometime.

The incongruity of that statement stuck with Bob as he smiled awkwardly and headed out of the store. Tapping the screen of his new phone, he checked the contacts and found an addition to the previous four entries, which had been Fermilab, Happy Paws Veterinary Clinic, Hola Translations, and his landlord. A picture of Kelly smiling happily, clearly taken only a few minutes ago, smiled up at him, labeled 'Kelly, Cellphone Angel.'

With a shake of his head, Bob walked back to the bus stop.