New windows? Or is it a whole new soul? Did what happened to me change me to the point where I’m no longer myself? Or is this still me, walking away from the center of town, heading slowly up Elm Street?

No doubt my Firestorm adventure and the long journey home transformed me. I’ve been so lonely. Spent so many sleepless nights staring up at the stars, trying to figure things out. Why was I chosen? If there’s a God, why did he or she let things get so messed up? Is our Earth really so fragile? If this is the Turning Point, can we save it? Do our lives have meaning, or is it all for nothing?

Many questions. No answers. But when you agonize long enough, it doesn’t matter if you come up with answers. The questions and the pain change you.

I know I’m very different from the guy who drove P.J. home from the Hudson River make-out spot six months ago, his mind on sex and football. But is he still recognizably part of me? Is there any Jack Danielson left in me?

Only one way to find out. Last remaining touchstone. The ultimate litmus test. P.J.

Here’s a sad but true definition of home: it’s where you go to find out if you’re still you, or if you’ve become somebody else.

Less than two blocks from P.J.’s house. I slow down. Scared out of my mind. This was a bad idea. Should have tried to make a go of it in England, where I landed after my Firestorm adventure. Or joined the crew of the tramp steamer that brought me back across the Atlantic to America. Could have stayed in Maine, in the small port city where it never stopped snowing. Might have hung longer in Boston, where I got a job stacking crates. Guy in the warehouse needed a roommate.

But I had to come home. A soft voice kept calling to me. Whispering across the months and the miles. “I’m still waiting for you. Come home, Bozo.”

P.J.’s nickname for me. Not very respectful.

Less than one block from her house. I can see the outline of her roof against the evening sky. The walls. My God, she’s inside there! She’s been there for the last six months without me. Doing her homework. Eating cereal for breakfast. Talking to her friends. Dreaming her dreams.

Half a block. Her window. No light on. Maybe she’s studying at the library. I should go check there first.

No, don’t leave. If I chicken out now, I’ll never come back. Better to be a man and tell her what happened.

Sure, just tell her the truth.