**_**Language warning**

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What the fuck?!

I absolutely hate these major shifts. It feels like a hot poker has pierced straight from my ass to the top of my head. Someone really messed up in a big way. I grab the binders (hit the brakes) and punch the door with my right hand. I was reaching for the shifter to downshift this big bitch while yelling "SHIT," as I punch the window. Suddenly, there's a door where the center console should be, and the whole truck has reversed in the blink of an eye. I need to use my left hand to shift? I’m driving on the left side of the road? Why is some asshole standing in the middle of the road? All these questions race through my mind in an instant, and it feels like they’ve opened my head from the back of my neck to my eyes.

Why am I in a right-hand drive truck, some sort of British vehicle? Why is there a guy straight out of 1950s London standing on a bridge in West Virginia?

The pain is a brain freeze for my entire body.

I can’t fully answer those questions, but I know exactly what happened here. You see, I’m involved in a time traveler’s project. While I don’t know all the details, I understand that this is simply a time paradox reset. These big shifts really hurt, and I feel completely violated, like a time gorilla just ran right through me.

“Hello, sir,” I mutter, realizing my right eye is twitching. Did I just speak? The crazy guy in front of me is just staring. Suddenly, I see a trickle of blood drip from his nose. I look into his eyes—his pupils are dilated, and they’re fluttering, meaning he’s directly involved in this paradox shift.

The fog starts to lift. “Was the fog just in my head?” I ask myself, realizing I’ve used some very colorful language. I don’t like to talk that way, but it’s a side effect of large time resets. Just as I start to look around, trying to assess the situation and formulate a plan, I hear the Englishman clear his throat.

“Well, hopped up Christ on a crutch,” comes flying out of his mouth like gibberish. “Motherfucker, this hurts,” is the next batch of curse words. I may be straight-edged, but I can’t help but smile, similar to someone who just farted loudly in public. “How the hell did I get here?” he spits out. “I thought maybe you could shed some light,” I say aloud this time.

“I...” he starts, then grabs his head and falls silent as his face reddens.

When I was maybe three or four jumps out, we had a large time shift, and the “flyers”—the nickname for people who’ve jumped through time—had to be held for a few weeks to allow their brains to catch up. Once they healed enough, they both retired to an island in the Maldives to live “the good life” for the rest of theirs. Wink-wink.

You see, once you FLY, you become stable in time and space from that point on. So, depending on the size of the reset, how long a flyer has been involved, how many jumps they’ve made, and direct involvement in the latest reset, the amount of pain and mental scrambling experienced will vary, but you always remember. You now are on this side of time and space, so all the normies have no clue, and we can't forget.

He is now grasping his hair with both hands, shaking his head back and forth. Some sort of guttural growl spills from his mouth. Man, this is brutal. I don’t know if it’s the worst ever, but this guy must be the paradox! No... no... NO!!

I wake to find my hands clutching the sides of my head. I’m sweating, I’m crying, and I have clumps of hair in my hands. Was it all a dream?

But I was the sane one...

He was going crazy...

What am I doing in a right-hand drive vehicle???_**