Profound loss and the passionless hands on a clock have delivered Tate Addison back to where he started, alone on a desolate beach in Fuerteventura. There before him, rotting in the placid tide, his first of many methods of transport is nearly gone now, a tormented metal skeleton, telltale proof of how nothing escapes relentless years, at least not without help from a series of well-placed dimensional doorways. These mysterious apertures in the fabric of space-time had taken him to someplace very special. Now the doorway is, at least for the time being, closed.