7:06 am
Chance Harper's kitchen

"Impossible things," he mused to himself, opening the refrigerator. He was too hungry to go back to sleep. He'd missed dinner, and now that he thought about it, he'd skipped lunch the day before as well. No wonder he was starving.

The refrigerator was a sorry sight. Film canisters formed a neat line across the back wall, their yellow and black labels misted over with cold. He picked up the carton of milk that was the only other thing inside and shook it, hearing a solid noise as frozen - or worse, clotted - milk struck the paper carton. He let the fridge fall closed and pulled open the cabinet above the sink. It was just as empty.

Not knowing what to do with the spoiled milk in his hand, he popped it back into the refrigerator.

7:09 am
The Blue Plate Diner

He hadn't gotten dressed, and so he stood in the street still wearing his sweatpants and long-sleeved t-shirt underneath his battered brown trench coat, squinting in the bright light of the rising sun at the sign that hung on the door of the Blue Plate Diner.

CLOSED.

He turned his back, looking up and down the deserted street, then turned to look at the diner again, as though it would change the outcome. The sign still read closed. He walked up to the door and used his hand to shield the light from his eyes. No one was inside.

But the diner was never closed.

His stomach growled again, fiercely, prompting him to move on. He looked up at the steaming coffee cup above the door, where written in neon it said "24 Hours."

It made the back of his neck itch. Something was wrong. The diner was never closed. Was this why he'd gotten up, why he was completely starving, why he hadn't had any cash to buy groceries...

How far are you going to take that? he asked himself, hearing Dr. Richter's words to him echoing in his head: "You only think you're responsible, but you can't take on the problems of the whole world." Had she said them to him so many times he'd begun to actually believe them?

He looked down and realized his worn brown boots were still upstairs and he was standing in the street in white socks. He had to get something to eat.

7:10 am
Chance Harper's car

He slid behind the wheel and jammed the key into the ignition. It didn't stick this time. Sometimes it took a little finesse. But he couldn't complain - it was paid for. Besides, what good would a new car do him? It would end up a wreck sooner rather than later, and he'd still be making payments.

Besides, he liked his car. He smoothed the piece of duct tape that was holding the ignition against the steering wheel and then turned the key.

The engine purred.

The engine had never purred.

Chance touched the gas, thinking he had to be dreaming. Either that or he was in the wrong car, and there couldn't possibly be another late model brown dented whatchamacallit with a taxi door parked on his street. Although, stranger things had happened.

The engine revved beautifully, and stopped when he took his foot off the gas. It didn't choke, or die, or even falter.

Immediately, he turned the key and shut the engine off, knowing he should get out of the car, fast, half expecting it to burst into flames. It didn't, and he knew he was being ridiculous, but he had this feeling in the pit of his stomach. A feeling he'd learned never to ignore.

His car starting was just too bizarre. It had to be a bad sign. If he drove somewhere, against his better judgement, something bad would happen.

As he sat there, one hand still against the wheel, his eyes wandered back to the Blue Plate, which was still closed. He spotted someone lying near the doorway. He didn't look away, but looked more closely and saw the sun was glinting off something metal against the man's dark shirt.

It was a badge. That was no homeless man. It was a policeman.

Chance was out of his car in a second. His coat flapping as he ran, stumbling onto his knees next to the man, whose lips were already turning a ghastly shade of blue. Heart attack, probably. He'd seen this before.

He moved into action, performing the familiar movements associated with CPR, pressing on the man's chest and then breathing for him. There was no response. For a panicked minute, he thought he was too late and the policeman was dead. Then, as he turned his head to listen, he felt the faintest exhalation of breath from the man's lips.

He sat back.

"Clear the way, I'm a doctor! The paramedics are here!" Chance was jostled out of the way as a pair of uniformed ambulance workers moved in toward the policeman.

"He's okay," Chance said, his voice almost inaudible in the sudden turmoil.

"I did everything I could but he wouldn't respond. Who knows how long he's been here," the doctor was explaining. His hair was blond and receding slightly at the hairline, and the sleeves of his starched white shirt had been rolled up to his elbows, as though he was ready to dig right in and perform surgery.

"I said, he's going to be okay," Chance said, a little louder, getting to his feet and dusting himself off.

The doctor seemed to notice him for the first time and his eyes narrowed. "That's impossible. This man was dead -"

Just then, the policeman began to cough, hard enough to turn his ashen face red. He held his chest, but there was no question that he was breathing as the paramedics advised him to take it easy.

"He's not dead now," Chance said. Disagreeing.

"You don't understand. I'm a doctor. This man was dead -" His eyes were wide, and he swung his head to look from the policeman to Chance and back to the policeman again, who was on his feet now and talking to the paramedics. The doctor's voice faltered. "There's just no way."

The doctor looked like a man who'd just had his entire world upended, set off balance. Chance knew how that felt. "Hey. You made a mistake. It happens to everyone." He reached out to touch the man on the arm, but the doctor recoiled, throwing his hands into the air and then storming away.

"Hey, you're going to be okay now?" Chance said, moving in closer to the policeman, who appeared to be perfectly all right.

"We're going to take him to the hospital. Looks like he had a heart attack. Lucky for him you came along," one of the paramedics offered.

Chance nodded and put his hands into the pockets of his coat, turning to walk away.

"Hey." The breathless word stopped him, and he turned and found himself looking into the dark brown eyes of the policeman. "I saw the light. You know? You saved my life." He put his hand on Chance's in a gesture of thanks. From the look in his eyes, Chance knew the man believed what he was saying.

"You just passed out. You would have been fine," he said. He'd saved lives before. He knew what that was like, even with CPR. That's not what this was.

"Look," the policeman insisted, holding his hand out to Chance, as the paramedics gently pulled him away. Chance stood there and watched them help him onto a stretcher. He felt oddly cold and then he realized why the man had shoved his hand under his nose.

The glass on his watch was cracked, broken under the weight of his body when he fell. The hands had stopped at 6:23.

The cold intensified as the ambulance's siren began to wail a moment before they pulled away. It was impossible. Dead men didn't just come back to life after forty five minutes.

Suddenly Chance felt cold all over. Someone had once told him that in addition to being lucky, he had a healing touch. But that couldn't be true. Some things were just completely beyond the realm of possibility.

But Chance had learned one thing in his life - nothing was completely impossible.

And he was still starving.

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