"Aye, watch it!" John shouted in alarm as Paul pitched forward into his arms.
"What the hell...?" George said, dropping the movie script he had been reading.
"I think you nailed him in the nuts or something!" Ringo said, helping John push Paul back into an upright position. His head fell back at an angle against the back of the seat.
John looked at him, perplexed. "Didn't get him there at all, just his leg."
"Well, we can't show up for the film with him like this," George said.
At that moment, the uncomfortable tilt of his head brought Paul back into awareness. He tipped his head forward and groggily opened his eyes.
There, watching him with varying degrees of concern and curiosity, sat Ringo, George, and...John. Their expressions became even more bewildered as Paul's face went blank and drained of colour.
"Hey, don't do that fainting thing again," John warned.
Hearing John's familiar voice jolted Paul out of his shock. He experienced a moment of pure, radiant joy, so piercingly intense it hurt his soul like a ray of sun. Tears started to well in his eyes.
John frowned. "What the bloody fucking hell is wrong with you?"
Paul burst out laughing, "Ah, that lovely, abusive golden tongue of yours." He was clearly delighted.
George and Ringo, after clapping their gaping mouths shut, exchanged glances. "He's ill," Ringo muttered.
"Something like that," George muttered back.
Paul looked at his surroundings. They were riding in an old-fashioned limo. Glancing out the window, he recognized the familiar sights of London. He grabbed the script from the floor where George had dropped it and read "A Hard Day's Night."
Stunned, he fell back into his seat. It couldn't be, it just couldn't...how?! He was back with The Beatles in 1964. He leapt up and lunged over the front seat, grabbing the rearview mirror. "'Ello, Alf, old chum, how're you doin'?" he said to the startled chauffeur as he looked into the mirror. He saw a bright-eyed, smooth-cheeked twenty-two-year-old version of himself.
"We know you enjoy gazing at yourself, Paul, but get your arse out of our faces," John said and clouted him one on the behind with his foot.
Paul dropped back onto the seat cushion and faced the others.
"What's with you?" Ringo asked.
He looked at Ringo thoughtfully, trying to gauge what the others' reactions would be if he blurted out the truth. He quickly decided he wasn't ready to receive all that scorn and ridicule quite yet. Shaking his head, he said, "You wouldn't believe me."
The rest of them looked at each other and shrugged. "So be it," George intoned.
The car ride was spent in idle conversation about the upcoming film and the script. Paul was quiet, experiencing flashes of disbelief that he was really sitting there with his mates, back in the 1960s. But gradually, he fell back into that old joking comaraderie that had always characterized the Beatles' inner circle.
That morning was an initial meeting to familiarize the Beatles with the script and general movie production routine. As the others chatted with Dick Lester, Paul took a moment to collect his thoughts. Could he have possibly jumped in time or dimension? If he had, that would mean he could...
George nudged his shoulder, interrupting his revelation. "Aye, got a ciggie for me?"
Absently, Paul replied, "No, I quit..." He trailed off as he realised George was eyeing him with disbelief.
"Since when, yesterday?" he snorted.
Paul quickly patted his jacket and located a pack of cigarettes nestled into an inner pocket along with his favorite old silver lighter. He pulled it out and extended it to George who helped himself and meandered back to the group talking with Lester.
Paul studied the cigarette pack in his hand. He had always stuck to British smokes, convinced that American cigarettes had some extra ingredient that made them more addictive. Right, he smiled. He had given up smoking in the seventies after he had suffered a collapse in Lagos, recording Band on the Run. Bemused to be back in his youthful body and the days when he had smoked around a pack a day (at least), Paul pulled out a cigarette and lit it.
"Finding the answers to life there on your ciggie packet?" John walked over with a puzzled smile on his face. Lowering his voice, he continued, "Are you all right? What happened this morning?"
"I'm fine, John. I'd love to..." Paul started, then he heard George reading from the script according to Dick Lester's instruction.
"She's a drag, a well-known drag..."
Paul's legs went out from under him. He toppled into John who grabbed him under the arms to hold him up. People turned to look at them. John said something and gripped his arm, his brown eyes filled with concern. The others came running. He felt dizzy; his eyes refused to focus. No, not yet! he silently cried out. Please! But his head filled with only the repeating refrain, "a drag...a drag...a drag" and he was sucked back into a black void.
