1989 (23 years old)

It took Matt three days to find Tim. He probably wouldn't have ever found him, but Tim's ex-girlfriend directed him to an abandoned house where she said Tim used to buy drugs, and one of the cokeheads sleeping on the floor of the living room remembered Tim as "the dude from Operation Ivy". Matt woke up everyone in the house, until he found a skinny, trackmarked girl who said she'd told Tim that Tilden Park doesn't get patrolled by cops a lot.

Matt found Tim at four in the morning on the South side of Tilden Park, underneath a tree, unconscious, the front of his shirt stained with blood, reeking of whiskey and piss. Matt lifted him by the shoulders. "Lint. Lint." He shook him. "Tim! Wake the fuck up!" Tim's head rolled backwards. Matt put his ear to Tim's chest, unconcerned about the mix of blood and vomit touching his face. Tim's heart was beating, but his breathing was shallow. Matt looked around, spotted a payphone across the street, and ran to it.

At the hospital the doctor put a tube down Tim's throat and pumped his stomach. Tim woke up halfway through the procedure, and started choking and flailing. "It's okay," Matt said, rushing up to the bed. "Tim! It's okay!" A nurse put her hand on his arm and asked him to leave.

The nurse directed him to the waiting room, but Matt sat on the floor outsided the ER's curtained partition and listened to the rustling of sheets and beeping of machines. It wasn't long before the doctor and nurses exited. "What a mess," the doctor said to one of the nurses. "If that kid got here an hour later he'd be dead." They walked past Matt without acknowledging him. Matt had just a moment to feel proud of how calm he'd been, before he was dashing to the bathroom in the hall. He threw up in the toilet, slumped to the floor, and sobbed into the palms of his hands, curled up on himself, trying not to be too loud, choking on his every sound.

Tim woke up from the sedative two hours later. He was weak, and could barely keep his eyes open. Matt went and stood over him, and Tim croaked out something unintelligable. Matt put an ice chip in his mouth.

"We're starting another band," Matt said. "But I'm not playing music with you unless you're sober."

Tim swallowed the ice chip, cleared his throat, and whispered, "What if everything goes to shit again?"

Matt shoved an ice chip in Tim's mouth. "Then we'll start another band."

"Okay," Tim mouthed, and he closed his eyes.

2009 (43 years old)

Matt found Tim at the 48th Street Park, asleep on a bench wearing a ski cap, his jacket folded under his head like a pillow. It was six in the morning on a Sunday, so the area was fairly deserted. Matt walked up to the bench, knocked Tim's feet off, and sat down.

"Ow," Tim muttered. He sat up slowly. "Oh, fuck, my back."

"You do realize you have two houses, right?" Matt asked. "You don't really need to sleep on park benches."

Tim eyed Matt suspiciously as he pulled a battered pack of cigarettes out of his pocket. "How'd you find me?"

"When I set up your phone for you I activated the GPS locator. I can track the phone online." Matt stretched his arms out along the back of the bench.

"That's cool," Tim said as he lit his cigarette. "A little creepy, but cool."

Matt studied Tim's profile. "You haven't been drinking."

"'Course not."

"Then why are you sleeping on park benches?"

Tim shrugged. "Just 'cause of memories."

Matt turned back to face forward. "You have brain damage."

"Probably," Tim agreed. He exhaled toward the sky. "It's been twenty years since you saved my life, and I don't think I ever thanked you."

"I saved your life like eight times," Matt said. "I'm sure you managed a 'thank you' in there somewhere."

Tim stood up and stretched. "Fuck, my back hurts. I'm getting old."

Matt stood beside him. "Yeah, I hear a lot of people's number one regret about aging is that they can't be homeless like they used to."

Tim looked at him. "Really?"

Matt nudged Tim's side. "You fucking weirdo."

Tim responded by pulling him into a hug. "Thank you for saving my life," he said softly. "Every time."

"No problem," Matt said. "Whenever you need something -"

"I know," Tim said. He broke the hug and smiled. "Come on. I'll buy you coffee."

1971 (5 years old)

Matt felt a thunk on the back of his batting helmet and turned around. A skinny kid stood there watching him. Matt recognized him as Tim, who played right field and would occasionally sit down in the middle of a game and eat grass.

Matt walked up to Tim. "Did you throw a baseball at my head?"

"Yeah," Tim said.

Matt frowned. "Why?"

Tim's face broke into a wide smile. "I wanna be friends with you."

"No," Matt said.

"Come on," Tim whined. "After the game my mom's gonna take me for ice cream and you can come if we're friends."

Matt considered this for a moment. He didn't really care about ice cream, he had some at home, but he didn't want to hurt the kid's feelings.

"Fine," Matt said. "We can be friends. But only for today."

Tim nodded. "Okay. Only for today."