When the plane touches down at Logan International at 6:42 PM and he wakes up from light, fitful sleep in the economy section, Shannon's body thinks it's 8 AM the next morning and he has the beginnings of an absolutely killer hangover.

For metaphorical purposes, it's entirely appropriate that his trip home from Sydney to Auckland to Los Angeles to Boston is the kind of experience that leaves a person with no real idea who they are, much less where. Sydney is 14 hours ahead of Boston, but the flight itself took just shy of 32 hours, including seven and four hour layovers, so technically speaking he makes the journey in what appears to be a mere 18 hours, although it feels, appropriately, like a lifetime.

Small mercies: his checked bag (an enormous army issue duffle) actually appears in the same city at the same time he does, and no goblins appeared on the wing midflight. So whether or not it's good to be home, home he is, and scanning the area around American Airlines' baggage claim for whoever they sent to pick him up. It's been more than a decade since he was in this country for very long; he's taller (having finally, finally stopped growing at exactly six and a half feet) and tanner and there are the kind of streaks in his hair that come from the sun, rather than the salon - and he looks completely at ease even when he'd basically like to turn right around and get back on the plane.

So the more things change, etc etc.