Good Hope was a town that had once thrived on coal and camaraderie. But with the mines closed and the jobs gone, it had become a place where time seemed to stand still. The main street was a quiet stretch of cracked pavement, flanked by a handful of buildings that had seen better days. The restaurant and bar, with its faded red awning, was the heart of the town..... a place where locals gathered to share news, gossip, and the occasional drink. Next door, the retail shop sold everything from canned goods to fishing tackle, its shelves dusty from lack of use. Across the street, the automobile workshop stood silent most days, its owner tinkering with old engines and waiting for customers who rarely came.
The clinic was the most important building in Good Hope. Run by Dr. Evans, a man in his seventies with a gentle manner and sharp eyes, it was more than just a place for healing. Dr. Evans also managed a few rooms for travelers, offering a bed and a meal to anyone passing through. The population of Good Hope had dwindled to about fifty, and most of them were old-timers who had seen the town's glory days and its slow decline. Strangers were rare, and when one appeared, it was cause for excitement and curiosity.
One crisp morning, the bell above the restaurant door jingled as a young man with a heavy backpack stepped inside. He had the look of a student, thin, with sharp, observant eyes and a restless energy. The few patrons at the tables glanced up, their faces brightening at the sight of someone new.
"Morning," the manager called from behind the counter. He was a stout man with a friendly smile and a thick mustache. "You're not from around here."
The backpacker returned the smile. "No, I'm just passing through. I need a room for a month. Is that possible?"
The manager nodded. "Rooms are available at the clinic. Dr. Evans runs them. He's the doctor, too, so if you get sick, you're in good hands."
The backpacker thanked him and ordered breakfast eggs, bacon, and toast, with a cup of strong coffee. He ate quickly, watching the townspeople out of the corner of his eye. They were friendly but reserved, their conversations low and easy. When he finished, he paid and asked for directions to the clinic.
"Just down the street," the manager said. "You can't miss it. White building with a red door."
The backpacker thanked him again and stepped outside. The morning air was crisp, the sky a pale blue. He walked down the quiet street, taking in the sights. The town was small, but it had a certain charm a sense of resilience and quiet dignity.
The clinic was as described: a small, whitewashed building with a faded sign and a red door. Inside, the air smelled of antiseptic and old wood. Dr. Evans was at his desk, writing in a ledger. He looked up as the backpacker entered.
"Good morning," Dr. Evans said. "Can I help you?"
"I need a room for a month," the backpacker said. "The restaurant manager said you have some available."
Dr. Evans nodded and led him to a room at the back - simple, clean, with a bed, a chair, and a small table. The backpacker thanked him and closed the door. He set his backpack on the bed and unzipped it. Inside were a laptop, a thick notebook, and a few strange-looking devices small, metallic, with blinking lights and coiled wires. He took them out carefully and set them on the table, then opened his notebook and began to write.
Later that day, he roamed around Good Hope, asking about the way to the canyon. The townspeople were polite but unhelpful. Most had never been there, and those who had warned him it was a dangerous place, best left alone. The backpacker listened, nodded, but his mind was already made up. If no one would help him, he would go alone.
Days passed, and the backpacker became a familiar sight in Good Hope. He spent his mornings at the restaurant, his afternoons walking the town, and his evenings in his room, working on his strange devices. The townspeople talked about him, wondering what he was up to, but no one asked too many questions. Strangers were rare, and everyone had their own business.
* * * *
The clinic door burst open. Jake and the traveler stumbled inside, Jake's face pale, his shirt stained with blood. He collapsed to the ground, his breath ragged.
Dr. Evans rushed forward, his eyes wide with surprise. "Good heavens! What happened?"
The traveler knelt beside Jake, his own face streaked with dust and sweat. "He's hurt. He needs help."
Dr. Evans looked up at the traveler, recognition dawning in his eyes. "Where have you been? You've been missing for a week! We searched everywhere for you!"
The traveler shook his head. "I'll explain later. Please, help him first."
Dr. Evans nodded and called for his assistant. Together, they lifted Jake onto a bed and began to tend to his wounds. The traveler stood by, watching, his face tense with worry.
As Dr. Evans worked, the traveler's mind raced. He thought about the canyon, about the settlers, about the strange devices in his backpack. He thought about the loop, about the memories that had been stolen, about the people trapped inside.
He knew that Jake's survival was only the beginning. The real fight was still ahead.