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  “I must’ve been dreaming,” Brandon said with his mouth full. “He doesn’t have time. He never has time.”

  “He hasn’t met me yet.” Stephen grinned. “When we get back let me ask him. I’ll connect with him.”

  Brandon swallowed a big lump and fairly spit his words out: “You connected with him yesterday. He’s the one who jumped you. The one who called you the N-word. The one who knocked Reginald on his face.” He flung his spoon down on the table. It bounced high and landed with a clang in the sink.

  “What?” Sarah asked. “How do you know?”

  “I know my own dad,” Brandon exclaimed. “I’ve seen pictures when he was little. And I’d know him anyway. I knew Jonesy, and I know my dad.”

  The hum of the refrigerator was the only sound in the kitchen until Stephen cleared his throat. “I can’t say anything right today,” he murmured.

  “I should’ve known something else was goin’ on with you, B,” Quint said. “How old’s this kid—ten?”

  “Something like that.”

  “You almost caught him yesterday when he hit Reginald,” Sarah gasped.

  This was news to Quint, and he muttered a curse. “What would y’have done if y’caught him?”

  Brandon was silent.

  Quint drained his coffee and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “It’s a damn good thing he got away.” Brandon started to speak, but Quint cut him off: “How many times do we have t’go through this, B? Muckin’ around with history in this town is trouble. Bad as it was, what happened yesterday was supposed t’happen. Don’t y’all want t’go home and know it when y’get there?”

  Brandon was in no mood to hear this again. “Who cares?” he said petulantly. “We won’t get home.”

  He knew right away he had made a mistake. Quint smashed his cup down on the table; it shattered, sending fragments every- where. Sarah screamed. Stephen rocked back on his chair. Quint got up and turned Brandon’s chair around to face him. “I haven’t come this far t’hear that from Mr. Time Traveler,” he said darkly. “It’s bad news for all of us if we’re caught in that factory tonight. So make up y’mind right now, B. D’we do it or don’t we?”

  Brandon felt Quint’s hot breath on his face. He opened his mouth.

  “WELL?”

  Brandon nodded stiffly. “W-w-we do it.”

  Quint sat back down. He slipped the china loop off his finger and placed it in Stephen’s bowl. He picked the fragments off the table.

  “I’m glad you’d finished your coffee, sir,” Stephen murmured.

  “Uh-huh,” Quint said. “Me too.”

  At three o’clock Quint was in the driveway working under the Edsel’s hood. The engine had been idling smoothly when suddenly it accelerated to a ferocious roar. A cloud of black smoke enveloped the car, at which point the engine cut out with a backfire. Quint walked out of the cloud, yawning into his fist.

  Brandon came out of the house and peered up the driveway. Quint saw him and beckoned him forward. They walked into the garden and sat on a stone bench facing the fountain.

  “How’s the car?” Brandon asked.

  “Never better. Ready t’go back.”

  Brandon leaned forward and folded his hands. “Sorry about this morning.”

  “That’s okay, B,” Quint said, scraping at an oil stain on his thumb. “Think Reginald’ll make it at five thirty?”

  “He’ll make it. He runs that house.”

  Quint chuckled. “Not bad for a—what’d y’call him before?— geek?” He laughed outright.

  Brandon bowed his head.

  “Nice kid,” Quint continued. “But y’can see why other kids pick on him. Doesn’t make it right, but y’can see why it happens.”

  Brandon was silent.

  Quint drew a Marlboro from his pack and lit it. He blew the smoke away from Brandon. “If I’m honest, I have t’say I kicked a few geeks t’the curb in my time. I’ve seen lots of Reginalds. When I was comin’ up I wasn’t good t’them.” He took a long pull on his cigarette. “How ’bout you?”

  “I never knocked one on his face. I never called one a nigger.”

  Quint grunted. “Glad t’hear it. Does y’dad do that in 2005?”

  “No.”

  “Think maybe he’s sorry he did it when he was ten?”

  Brandon saw where Quint was going. “How do I know?” he snapped. “He just gets on me for my stuff on his way out the door to play golf.”

  Quint drew deeply on his Marlboro and scraped it out on the stone. “Well, it’s certainly on y’mind,” he said in a tone Brandon didn’t quite like. “Y’could ask him about it when y’get back. Y’might be surprised by what y’hear.” He observed the look on Brandon’s face and added, “’Course, y’would need t’take that chip off y’shoulder before y’ask.”

  Brandon flew off the bench. He took five strides in the direction of the house, turned on his heel, and took five strides back. He plopped down next to Quint. “What do you know about it?” he cried. “You’re on his side, and you don’t even know him.”

  Quint laughed. “C’mon, B, y’know better than that.” Brandon leaned forward in a huff, and Quint rubbed the back of his neck. “Don’t worry, it’s comin’ t’a close. After tonight y’won’t have t’deal with me anymore.”

  Brandon’s shoulders slumped. He was quiet a long time. Then he whispered, “I’ll miss you, Quint.”

  “You’ll get over it. Anyhow, you’ll be seein’ me the way you’re used t’me. As an old man.”

  “You’re not old back home. You’re fifty-eight.”

  Quint chuckled. “Well, I’m eighteen now and I call that old. What d’you call it?”

  “I call it fifty-eight,” Brandon said stubbornly. “And it doesn’t matter. I told you before, you’re a lot like you in 2005.”

  “Then what’ll y’miss?”

  The question caught Brandon by surprise, and he had to think a moment. “Um . . . the fights, I guess. We fight like we’re brothers. I kind of like it.”

  Quint nodded. “Come t’think of it, I do too.” He squinted at the statue of the woman with her jug, dazzling white in the sun. “By the way, still got that picture of the both of us?”

  Brandon took out his wallet and withdrew the snapshot. “It got a little bent,” he said, handing it over.

  Quint held the picture out of the glare. “Man, oh man alive,” he said softly. “We sure don’t look like brothers here. I’m old and fat, and you look like a little kid—not like Mr. Time Traveler.”

  “It was two weeks ago.”

  “Uh-huh. Two weeks and a lifetime.”

  Brandon watched him study the picture. “We had fun that day. We were at your place a long time.”

  “Well, it looks like I’m enjoyin’ myself. What’re we doin’ with our arms, anyhow?”

  “You said my muscle wasn’t big enough for a tattoo. I proved you wrong.”

  “Y’did?” Quint brought the snapshot right up to his eyeball and drew it away slowly. He set it on his knee. “I’ll take y’word for it, B.”

  “Good.” Brandon laughed. “But you were having fun. You didn’t throw us out.” A rush of wind came up and he drew his jacket close around him. “You didn’t throw us out in New Orleans, either.”

  “I damn near did.”

  Brandon looked down at Quint’s work shoes and his own Adidas runners. “Thanks for everything, Quint,” he said softly. “No matter what happens tonight, I owe you.”

  Quint took out another cigarette, changed his mind, and slipped it back in the pack. “Y’welcome, B. But y’don’t owe me.” He took up the snapshot. “Can I have this?”

  “Sure.”

  Quint started to put it away, but Brandon reached over and snatched it. “But not now. I need it to get the niche started tonight. I’ll give it to you before we go through.”

  A few dry leaves skipped across the garden on another gust of wind. The day was turning colder despite the sun, and Quint zipped his jacket to his
neck. “Y’all have had one hell of a ride since November 9.”

  “Yes.”

  “Remember when y’said it was the best of times and the worst of times?”

  “Yes.”

  “Amazin’ thing, that niche,” Quint said coolly. “Tell me straight, B. After y’get back, would y’use it again? Visit some other time?”

  Silence.

  “If y’don’t know, y’can say that.”

  At that moment two golden retrievers, collars clinking, trotted into the backyard through the trellis gate. They followed the gravel path along the far edge of the garden and disappeared through a gap in the hedge. Brandon was grateful for the few seconds they bought him. “I didn’t really know until now. Yes, I’ll use it again.”

  Quint looked him full in the face. “Y’crazy.”

  “Maybe. I’ve never been so scared. But I’ve never been so stoked, either. I’ll do it again. I know it.”

  “Sarah and Stephen feel that way, too?”

  “Stephen understands. Sarah’d lock me up if she knew.”

  Quint took out his cigarette again and lit it. He burned through half of it with his first pull. “I’ll be damned. I can understand it too, but I still think y’crazy. I should just smash that thing after y’all go through it tonight.”

  “Then we won’t get home,” Brandon said grimly. “The niche has to be there in 2005—in one piece.”

  Quint gave his own face a slap. “Uh . . . right. Scratch that idea.”

  They sat quietly watching the woman with her jug. A leaf flipped up by the wind hit her nose and stayed there, and they both laughed. Then Brandon had an idea. “Right now, why don’t we just fight about 1965 things? We’ll fight about the niche in forty years. Okay?”

  “Uh-huh,” Quint said, scraping his cigarette out on the stone. “Forty years for me, tomorrow for you. You’re thinkin’ I’ll forget in all that time, right?” Brandon opened his eyes very wide, and Quint laughed. “Forget the innocent act, B, I know ya too well. But I’m okay with waitin’. We’ll just pick up this little talk in 2005.” He gave Brandon his hand and they shook on it.

  The woman with the jug lost her leaf and turned to gray as clouds rolled over the sun. Two squirrels bounded across the garden, chased by another gust of wind. Quint stood up and rubbed his hands together. “We done here?” he asked, and Brandon nodded. He walked over to the Edsel and got in. The car started smoothly and he rolled it into the garage.

  When he came out, Brandon was checking the license plate on the bumper. “I’ll miss the Edsel, too.” He smiled. Quint pulled the garage door down. He threw his arm over Brandon’s shoulder and they walked back to the house.

  The grandfather clock with the carved sailing ships struck five fifteen. Brandon and Stephen were sitting on the bottom stair in the entrance hall, an open bag of potato chips between them. Sarah was curled up two stairs above them. Quint came down the hall, took a potato chip, and checked his watch. He cracked the front door and peered outside. “Early,” he said as he closed it. He headed back to the kitchen.

  Five minutes later the doorbell’s Westminster chime started clanging. Brandon flew off the stair and had the door open by the third note. Before him stood Reginald in his boxy jacket and a red beanie that made him look silly. He was frowning.

  Brandon’s face fell. “Hi, Reginald. Couldn’t get them?”

  The corners of Reginald’s mouth turned up. He raised his beanie and tipped his head, and a ring of keys fell into his outstretched hand. “Told you, B.” He giggled as he stepped inside.

  They gathered around the kitchen table. “They’re for the back way in,” Reginald said, showing off his keys. “This one’s for the chain on the doors. This one’s for the outside door. And this one’s for the inside door.”

  “How do y’know all this?” Quint asked.

  “My mom took me there once when it was closed,” Reginald said proudly. “She wanted to see it. I opened the doors for her.”

  “Did you have trouble getting them?” Stephen asked.

  “No.” Reginald smiled. “It was easy.”

  “B,” Sarah said, nudging him, “wouldn’t it be something if stolen keys get us out of this mess after getting us in it?”

  “I got us in this mess,” Brandon said. “But I’ll do a dance if these keys get us out. Thanks, Reginald.”

  Quint, Sarah, and Stephen also thanked him. Reginald blushed. “So, when do we go?” he asked brightly.

  Quint sat up straight. Sarah and Stephen exchanged glances.

  “What d’you mean, ‘we’?” Brandon asked, hoping it had been a joke.

  Reginald’s smile disappeared. “I want to see the niche.”

  “Not a good idea, Reginald,” Quint said. “It’s big trouble for us if we’re caught tonight, and big trouble for you if you’re with us. Whatever happens, I’ll see y’get the keys back. And no one’ll ever know y’helped us. That’s a promise.”

  “I don’t care about that,” Reginald said in his nine-year-old wisdom. “I want to see the niche. And . . . I want to go to 2005.”

  Brandon’s chair almost slipped out from under him. “What?” he exclaimed. “You can’t. You don’t belong there.”

  Reginald crossed his arms on the table and put his face in them.

  “What about your mom?” Sarah asked. “She needs you.”

  “That’s right,” Stephen put in. “What would she do without you, Reginald?”

  Reginald mumbled something into his arms.

  “What?” Brandon huffed.

  Reginald raised his teary face. “I said she’ll be good without me. She doesn’t even know I’m around sometimes. I—I want to go to 2005, B.” He coughed and buried his face in his arms again.

  Brandon looked around the table and saw that no one knew what to do. He leaned over Reginald. “You can’t come and that’s it.”

  Reginald mumbled something.

  “No,” Brandon snapped.

  Reginald raised his tear-streaked face again. “I asked why not?”

  “Because you’re already there.” Brandon shoved his chair back and sat facing the entrance hall.

  Reginald pulled out his shirttail and wiped his eyes with it. “I’m there? You know me there?” he sniffled. Brandon didn’t answer. He turned to Stephen and Sarah. “You all know me there?”

  Sarah nodded slightly.

  “I knew you from the day we went through the niche to now,” Stephen said.

  Reginald tucked in his shirttail and slid off his chair. He walked around Brandon to face him. “That wasn’t fair,” he said accusingly. “You should’ve said you know me.” Brandon turned away from him, and he cried: “You don’t like me in 2005, do you, B?”

  Brandon dragged his chair back to the table. “Leave me alone, Reginald.”

  Reginald came and stood behind him. “Yesterday when Jack hit me and I was on the ground you looked at me real funny—like you knew me,” he said. “And at first you looked at me real nasty.” He made a fist and punched Brandon’s shoulder. “You’re not my friend in 2005, are you, B?”

  Brandon leaped up and stood over him. “Don’t hit me, Reginald, I mean it,” he yelled. “No, we’re not friends in 2005. You’re fifty years old in 2005. I don’t hang with fifty-year-olds; I’m fourteen.”

  “Mr. Coster’s older than me in 2005,” Reginald countered. “Are you his friend?”

  Brandon opened his mouth and closed it.

  “Hah,” Reginald said.

  Brandon felt an urge to grab Reginald and throw him out the back door. He dismissed it and took his seat. “Okay,” he said miserably, “just take your keys and go home.”

  Reginald seized Brandon’s wrist and smacked the keys into his hand. “Keep them. Just tell me why you don’t like me.”

  “What difference does it make?” Brandon moaned. “It hasn’t even happened yet.”

  “What hasn’t happened?”

  A stabbing pain hit Brandon behind the eyes. How could he tell Reginal
d about Jonesy? Did this kid really need to know how he’d end up in forty years: fat, alone, mad at everyone, crying over a name he was called when he was nine? He couldn’t tell him. But what else could he do? Reginald wasn’t giving up. Quint, Stephen, and Sarah were just sitting there. The worst of times—the words from Stephen’s book came back to him now in force. Could these times get any worse? Brandon pressed his palms to his aching eyes. He was about to find out.

  “What hasn’t happened?” Reginald repeated.

  “Okay,” Brandon said. “In 2005 we’re next-door neighbors. You’ve always hated me and my friends. You’ve always yelled at us for nothing. When I was ten my football landed two feet on your grass, and you tried to kick me when I went and got it. The day we went through the niche you ripped into Stephen for walking across your yard. He thought he was walking in my yard. You called him a school reject. He’s the best student in the school.”

  Reginald’s mouth hung open. “I yelled at you? I yelled at Stephen?” He felt behind him for his chair and sat down. “Um, um, why . . . why’d I do that?”

  “You haven’t done it yet,” Stephen said. “He’s talking about things that won’t happen for years.”

  “That’s right,” Brandon said. “It’s stupid to talk about them now.” He tried to give back the keys, but Reginald just sat on his chair. Then he got up and bolted from the room. Brandon ran after him. Reginald made it to the front door but didn’t press the latch. Brandon took his arm and pulled him into the living room. They sat down together on the hearthstone.

  “Sorry I yelled at you and Stephen, B,” Reginald murmured. He was hiding his face.

  “Forget what I said,” Brandon told him. “That’s forty years from now. That’s not why you can’t come to 2005.”

  “Then why can’t I?”

  Brandon took Reginald’s head in his hands and turned it toward him. “There can’t be two of you—there can’t be two of anything—in the same time.” He told how the keys from 2005 had burned up back in New Orleans.