The rain in Los Angeles was a different creature than the rain in Vietnam.
It wasn't a drenching, biblical flood or a warm, tropical curtain. It was a fine, persistent mist that seemed to bleed the color from the world, turning the stucco buildings a dull gray and making the palm trees look like forlorn, shaggy skeletons.
It was weather that spoke of quiet disappointment, and for Connor "Duke" Hauser, it was a perfect match for his current mood.
Weeks had bled into a month, then six weeks. The initial, electric confidence that had propelled him to the post office with the Jaws query had long since faded, replaced by the grim, grinding reality of the writer's life.
The beast was in the water, but the water was vast, and silent.
He was back at the typewriter, but the magic felt like it was somehow gone.
He was writing a story for Weird Tales about a French foreign soldier fighting a mummy's curse, a piece of pure, formulaic pulp based on "The Mummy" starring Brendan Fraser.
It was competent. It was marketable. But it semmed dead on the page. Each word felt like a betrayal of the epic he had poured his soul into. The memories of 2025, once so vivid and potent, now felt distant and dreamlike. Had he really seen those movies? Had he really believed he could just pluck masterpieces from the future air?
The rain tapped a soft, mocking rhythm against his single window. The four walls of his Echo Park apartment, once a command post, now felt like a cell. He needed air, even wet air.
He pulled on his army jacket, not bothering with an umbrella, and used his new cane to make his way out into the damp afternoon.
The streets were quiet, the usual sounds of life muted by the weather. He walked with no destination, the thump of his cane a lonely cadence on the slick pavement. His leg ached with a deep, familiar throb, a constant companion to his existential dread.
He found himself on Sunset Boulevard, the neon signs of clubs and head shops smeared and blurred in the rain. And then he saw it, plastered to a boarded-up storefront: a poster. It was stark, almost confrontational. A young man with a sensual, brooding face, his eyes holding a challenge. The name of the band was scrawled in a font that felt both ancient and brand new: THE DOORS.
It hit him with the force of a physical blow. This wasn't the clean-cut pop of The Beatles or the bluesy swagger of The Stones. This was something else.
Raw, psychedelic, and well new.
It was the sound of the world cracking open. Jim Morrison's face wasn't just selling a concert; it was heralding a revolution he knew was coming—the Summer of Love, the chaos of '68, the end of the innocent sixties.
His knowledge wasn't a static library; it was a countdown clock. The cultural landscape was shifting under his feet, and his window to exploit his foreknowledge was finite. The music, the fashion, the feel of everything was about to change at a breakneck pace. His memories were a perishable commodity, and the expiration dates were going to one day arrive.
The thrill of recognition was immediately followed by a cold spike of panic. He was wasting time. "Maybe i should just become a capitalist and exploit my way into becoming a Warren Buffet type of guy."
Soaked and suddenly weary to his bones, he turned and walked his way back to his apartment, the image of Morrison's face burned into his mind. The brief walk had drained what little spirit he had left. He fumbled with his keys, shoved the door open, and let his cane clatter to the floor just inside. He was about to collapse onto his bed when he saw it.
On the worn linoleum, amidst the usual litter of bills and circulars, were two envelopes. They were different. Thick. Made of a heavy, high-quality paper that felt substantial even from a distance. His heart, which had been beating a slow, dirge-like rhythm, gave a single, hard thump against his ribs
He stood frozen, dripping onto the floor, his breath caught in his throat. He forced himself to move, bending down slowly, his bad leg protesting sharply. He picked them up. The return addresses were printed in crisp, professional type.
DOUBLEDAY & COMPANY, INC.
277 Park Avenue, New York
RANDOM HOUSE
501 Madison Avenue, New York
The world narrowed to the two squares of paper in his hand. This was it. The silence was over. This was the moment his future would be decided—not by a god or a universe, but by a couple of editors in New York.
He didn't tear them open. A strange, preternatural calm descended over him.
This required a ritual. This required focus. He placed the letters carefully on his rickety table, next to the typewriter. He shrugged off his wet jacket. He walked to the hot plate and methodically made a cup of instant coffee, the simple, mundane actions a anchor in the roaring sea of his anxiety. The smell of cheap coffee filled the small room.
Finally, he sat down. He picked up the letter from Doubleday first. It felt heavier than it should. He slid his thumb under the flap and tore it open neatly.
It was a single sheet of the same heavy stationery. The letterhead was intimidatingly official. His eyes scanned past the formalities, hunting for the meat, the verdict.
…thank you for your query regarding the novel, JAWS…
…found the premise to be immediately compelling…
…the sample chapters you provided were utterly gripping…
His heart was hammering now, a frantic drum against his ribs.
…we are deeply impressed by the narrative power and the authenticity of the character dynamics, particularly that of the shark hunter, Quint…
…while we do not feel we can make an offer for publication in its current form, we are profoundly intrigued and would be very interested in discussing the possibility of a revision…
…the potential for this work is, in our view, significant…
He read it again. And a third time. It wasn't a rejection. It wasn't an acceptance. It was a callback. A second interview. They were "intrigued," "captivated." They saw "major potential." They wanted to talk.
Hands trembling now, he put the Doubleday letter down and picked up the one from Random House. The message was similar, the language slightly different but the core identical: fascination, strong interest, a desire to see a revised manuscript.
Two of the most prestigious publishing houses in the world had felt the hook. They hadn't swallowed it whole, but they were on the line. They were fighting the rod.
Duke put the second letter down on top of the first. He picked up his coffee cup, his hand surprisingly steady, and took a long, slow sip. The bitter liquid was the most real thing he had ever tasted.
He looked at his typewriter, the loyal Royal.
He looked past it, out the window, at the rain-slicked streets of 1966. The gray, disappointing world he'd walked through an hour ago was now transformed. The mist wasn't bleak; it was atmospheric.
For the first time since he'd woken up in this new-old life, he didn't feel like a ghost. The disconnect between his 2025 mind and his 1966 reality didn't feel like a schism; it felt like a strategic advantage.
He finished his coffee, placed the cup down with a soft, definitive click, and picked up the Doubleday letter one more time. A slow, hard smile spread across his face, the first real one in weeks. It didn't reach his eyes, which had gone the color of a winter sky, cold and clear and full of purpose.
"Okay," he whispered to the silent, waiting city. "Let's start."
......
I decided to make the pace faster