The city bus slammed to a stop. Everybody obeyed Newton’s Second Law by sliding forward.

A few people said apologies to the passengers around them. They looked out the window to see what had interrupted their normal day.

There was a fresh accident just ahead. Everyone pressed their faces against the windows. They watched as police and an ambulance quickly came to the cars involved.

Jeremiah Britt, a man in his thirties, shut the small book he was reading. He shoved it in his coat pocket and got to his feet.

He was of average height. In fact, his looks were average. He had a muscular body, but so do a lot of people. His eyes were light blue. His hair, if you took off his cap, was somewhere between brown and black.

Jeremiah reached up and took a duffel bag from the overhead bin. He moved toward the front of the bus.

The driver stood to talk to the passengers.

“As you can probably see, an accident has happened. There will be a delay in the schedule you saw on the board,” he said.

He sat back down and popped a piece of gum into his mouth.

The bus was headed for a place just five miles from its current location. It had already been slowed down by the wet snow that was beginning to cover the roads.

Now, the grumbling began.

Jeremiah checked the time on his large wristwatch. Then he tapped the driver on the shoulder.

The man twitched his nose like he was annoyed.

“I am sorry to bother you,” Jeremiah said quietly. “But do you have any idea how long this delay will be?”

The driver looked over at the wreck, taking his time to answer.

“At least an hour before they get that all cleared up. You in a hurry?” he asked.

Jeremiah looked at his watch again.

“A bit,” he said.

“Well, I’m sure no one is happy to be here right now. But there is nothing we can do except wait it out,” the driver said.

“Thank you, but I think I’ll walk the rest of the way,” Jeremiah said.

He buttoned up his coat and turned to the door.

“You sure?” The driver asked. He reached for the "open" button, but he waited before pushing it.

“Yeah," Jeremiah said. "It is just a couple of miles. I can walk it in less than an hour.”

“Okay,” the driver said.

The man shook his head as he opened the door.

A gust of cold wind met Jeremiah as he walked into the outskirts of Portland, Oregon.

It was close to four in the afternoon. It was already beginning to get dark. The winter days were getting shorter and shorter.

Jeremiah lifted the duffel bag up over his shoulder. He blew on his hands before putting them into his pockets. He walked past the orange tape around the accident and made his way down the street.

It was a cold, wet day. His body was used to burning heat and dry sand. It was abused by the change in weather.

He didn’t need to ask for directions. He knew exactly where he was going. He had seen every road in his dreams for the last two years. He had walked past every shop, restaurant, apartment, and street sign. It was familiar because this was his town.

This was home.

The walk was quiet. Jeremiah had no one to talk to. Even if he had, he wouldn’t have said much. Too many thoughts were running through his head. It was the week before Christmas, and he was home.

One block before his house, Jeremiah Britt stopped at an old town hall. It was now open to the public. The doors were closed because of the weather, but there were a lot of cars parked in the lot.

Jeremiah was able to slip inside without drawing any attention. Sitting in the back row of chairs, he pulled off his baseball cap. Then he placed it on the chair next to him, along with his duffel bag.

A group of children walked up to the front. After a few seconds of nervously looking around, they started singing “Joy To The World.”