Brent opened his eyes. Sand. Everywhere. Some flames, licking into his field of vision from somewhere to his right, and a curlique of black smoke twisting up into the blue sky. He tried to move — first twitching his little finger, then bending his leg, and finally, in a blinding flash of pain, sitting up.

I’m alive, he thought. “Fuck,” he muttered, and pulled himself to his feet.

He looked around and saw the wreckage of his Cessna, and not much else. He had chosen this spot to crash for a reason — he figured no one would find his body for a long time, long after this whole Madoff thing had blown over. Only he hadn’t counted on not dying in the crash. And slow death by dehydration in the middle of bum fuck Egypt had definitely not been his plan.

You know the way out of this, he told himself.

All those years of desperately trying to be a normal guy — business school, the NYSE, suit and tie — and now, Brent was actually grateful for his curse.

“Fuck,” he muttered again, and time-traveled.