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  “This doesn’t show your tattoo.”

  Quint raised his left sleeve. “What tattoo?”

  Brandon stared at his arm and checked the snapshot. “You had it taken off?”

  “Never got it. I decided to trust what you told me back in sixty-five—that I’d regret it. Sooo . . . thanks, B.”

  “I gave you this,” Brandon said, holding up the picture. “It showed a tattoo.”

  Quint reached into his shirt pocket and withdrew a yellowed square. “No, you gave me this, forty years ago. The one in your hand was taken yesterday.” He dropped his snapshot on the table.

  Brandon set his picture next to Quint’s. “Why’d we take the one yesterday?”

  “I wanted to, for laughs,” Quint said. “I just zinged you about that skinny muscle of yours and you were more than happy to pose.”

  “Why isn’t one of the pictures burning up?” Sarah asked nervously.

  “Because they’re not the same thing in the same time,” Stephen said.

  Quint nodded. “Y’all are becoming quite the experts in this time travel business.” He took up his picture and patted Brandon on the back. “Keep the new one, B, if you’re not embarrassed by it.” He stepped into the kitchen and returned with three Dr. Peppers.

  Brandon slid the papers on the coffee table over and flipped the top one. He read the footer: http://www.philadelphiainquirer.org/archive/y1998/326/18. “What’s this, Quint?”

  “A newspaper article from 1998. Got it off the Internet.”

  Brandon glanced at the title—“The Children’s Hospital’s Healing Hand”—and immediately lost interest. He pushed the papers away.

  Quint settled himself on the couch with his coffee. “It needs more time than that, B. Why don’t you read it to us?”

  “Quint, we want to know the changes,” Brandon said impatiently. “We won’t get them from old newspapers.”

  “Oh, won’t y’all? Just read it.”

  Stephen and Sarah were now interested. Brandon grumpily took up the papers and made a show of rustling and snapping them. He read aloud: “The five-year-old patient, pale and bald, lay in his bed. He showed no interest in the stuffed animals surrounding him. His eyes and mouth were expressionless. The doctor pressed a hand to his forehead and stroked his cheek. ‘Billy, we’re going to make you well,’ she said softly. She went on to explain in skillful children’s English what a bone marrow transplant is and how it would help him. Billy, an inpatient at The Children’s Hospital of Philadelphia’s Marsha and Jeffrey Perelman Oncology Unit, smiled weakly. The doctor, Chief Oncologist and Unit Director Victoria Stanhope, smiled back and—” Brandon’s hand twitched and the papers got away from him. “Stanhope,” he gasped. “She’s—”

  Quint nodded.

  “The girl you saved,” Stephen whispered.

  Sarah snatched the papers off the carpet and started reading.

  “Wow,” Stephen exclaimed. “Wow!”

  “Do we really know it’s her?” Brandon asked. “The same Stan- hope?”

  Quint started to answer, but Sarah cried: “Yes! It says here her father was the governor. And . . . it says she fell off a horse when she was five.”

  “It’s her,” Quint said. He set down his coffee and lay a warm hand on Brandon’s shoulder. “B, a long time ago I reamed you for stopping that horse, and I was never so wrong in my life. I said it then and I’ll say it now, too. I’m sorry. That day you did the best thing anyone could ever do.”

  “A doctor,” Sarah whispered, immersed in the article.

  “She helps kids,” Stephen said excitedly.

  Brandon felt warm in the face and a little dizzy. He couldn’t think of anything to say.

  The doorbell rang. “As if on cue,” Quint said, grinning.

  “What?” Brandon asked.

  “Nothing.” He got up and made for the kitchen. “Get that for me, will you, B?”

  Brandon’s legs felt like rubber as he walked to the door. The rubber turned to jelly when he opened it.

  “Hello, B!” Reginald Jones boomed. He took a long step forward and thrust out his fist.

  Brandon jumped back and fell over a box of old magazines. He got up and stiffly returned the fist bump. Reginald threw an arm over his shoulder and playfully dragged him into the living room. He let go at the couch and Brandon, head spinning, took his seat.

  “Reginald, what a surprise.” Quint laughed, returning from the kitchen with a soda and a chair. “Take a load off.”

  Load? The word struck Brandon, for Reginald Jones, while big, was no four-hundred-pounder now. He stood tall and straight and moved with a bouncy step—not old Jonesy’s waddle. In fact, in the stuck-out ears and goofy grin of the man before him Brandon saw nine-year-old Reginald—not his old, nasty neighbor.

  Reginald shook hands with Sarah and Stephen. He took the chair from Quint and set it at Brandon’s end of the couch. He held his Dr. Pepper high. “Here’s to a happy ending,” he said. All raised their bottles and drank the toast.

  Brandon kept drinking until his soda was finished.

  “So, you all made it back with no bumps or bruises?” Reginald asked, taking his seat.

  “Not too many.” Stephen smiled.

  Sarah nodded.

  Brandon nodded too. He was trying to look at Reginald and not look at him at the same time.

  Reginald saw this and burst out laughing. He got up, pushed the coffee table out of the way, and planted his chair directly in front of Brandon. “Tell me, B,” he said, taking his seat again, “am I so different from that kid you sat with on the curb that day? That kid whose tears you dried? That kid whose mother was drunk?”

  Brandon sank into the couch. “I . . . I didn’t say she was drunk.”

  Reginald’s face softened, and he grasped the back of Brandon’s hand. “I know you didn’t,” he said kindly. “Thank you.”

  “And . . . you don’t look so d-different.”

  “But you remember something else, don’t you, B?” Reginald said. “The guy who tried to kick you when your football landed on his grass. The guy who barked on Stephen.”

  Brandon considered making a run for the door.

  “That didn’t happen . . . now,” ventured Stephen. “Did it?”

  “No, it didn’t,” Reginald said, his eyes on Brandon. “B, from the time you could walk you’ve been playing on your lawn, my lawn, it didn’t matter. I knew from the day you were born you’d grow into the boy who helped me when I was small. Who bucked me up when I really needed it. Believe it or not, we’ve been great friends from the time you were yea high.” He held his hand two feet off the floor.

  Brandon tried to imagine ever having been friends with old Jonesy.

  Quint spoke up. “So there’s the downside. Y’all made things better, but y’all remember the old stuff. The changes’ll take time to learn. Time to get used to. It won’t be easy.”

  Brandon felt dizzy and put his head back on the couch. Sarah left her chair and sat down next to him. She started to whisper in his ear but kissed him on the cheek instead. The ticking of the clock on the mantle was the only sound in the room.

  “It’s still worth it,” Stephen said finally. “Isn’t it, Sarah?”

  “Um . . . yes. It shouldn’t be too bad.” She smoothed her hand over Brandon’s cheek. “B?”

  Brandon raised his head. “I wouldn’t change it back even if I could. I’m glad we went to 1965.” He looked squarely at the man before him, so different from the Jonesy he had known all his life. “I remember what I promised you like it was yesterday,” he said without irony. “I meant it, and I mean it. No more hating. Just tell me one thing. I used to call you Jonesy, because you hated it. Now, what do I call you?”

  Reginald’s face puckered. “Well, when your mom and dad are around, you call me Mr. Jones. But when it’s just you and me, you call me . . .” He leaned forward. “R.”

  Brandon’s mouth fell open. “R?”

  “R and B,” Quint roared, spitting up
his coffee. Everyone laughed except Brandon, but Sarah put her face in his, and in a moment he was laughing too.

  They reminisced about 1965 for another hour. Reginald talked about his fight with Jack Halstead the day they had all met. “Jack’s a lawyer in town now,” he said cheerfully. “Turned out to be a nice guy.” Sarah recalled their walk that last night through the cold, dark streets to Kingsworth Shoes. Brandon brought up their close call with Officer Doug and Robbo in the factory. Quint told of his astonishment at the sight of moving pictures in the niche. Stephen mentioned The Beverly Hillbillies, and Brandon admitted it was not his favorite show. Reginald didn’t seem surprised and didn’t seem to mind.

  Quint got up from the couch. “Back in a second,” he said. He disappeared down the hall and came back with something in his hand. He threw the something at Brandon, who reached out and caught it.

  “What’s this?” Brandon asked. He held the thing by its ends and let it roll out. It was an old red-checkered shirt. “Wow, Quint, you kept this!”

  “A bit faded from its glory days,” Quint said, “but I thought you might want it for old time’s sake.”

  Brandon spread the shirt across his chest. “Last week I wanted to burn this thing. Now I want it. Thanks.”

  “Ho-ly smokes,” Reginald said, glancing at his watch. “I have to get moving. The missus expected me ten minutes ago.” He got up to go.

  “Missus?” Brandon said.

  “You’ll find out when you’re married, B. Your time’s never your own.”

  “Married,” Sarah whispered to Brandon. “That’s who the lady was.”

  Reginald overheard her and stopped on his way to the door. “Wait a minute. Wasn’t I married before you came to 1965?”

  Brandon pursed his lips at Sarah, and Reginald had his answer. He turned his left hand over and delicately touched the ring on his finger. His eyes were shining. “Well, I’m married now, B, sixteen years. I’m henpecked as hell, and loving every minute of it.” He gave Brandon a soft tap on the arm.

  A thought came to Brandon and he blurted it out: “Quint, have you still gotten divorced twice?”

  “Sure have, B, and I’m loving every minute of it, too,” Quint said. He gave Brandon’s other arm a tap. “Y’all are good, but you can’t work miracles, you know.”

  Reginald started to leave and stopped again. “Hey, why don’t you all come to my place for barbecue next Saturday? My missus makes the best ribs you ever tasted.” He laughed at the surprise on Brandon’s face. “Actually, you have tasted them, but I guess you don’t remember.”

  Brandon came to himself and said yes. Sarah and Stephen also accepted.

  “Good,” Reginald said. He nudged Quint with his elbow. “You’re invited too, Casanova, if you don’t have a hot date.”

  Quint slapped Reginald on the back and walked with him to the door. When he returned a minute later he took one look at Brandon and grinned. “What’s the matter, B? Too much too soon?”

  Brandon was staring blankly ahead. His hair was in a wild shape from his having just run his hands through it. “Huh?” he said, looking up. “What, Quint?”

  Sarah reached up and smoothed his hair into place.

  “Nothing,” Quint said. “Anybody want another soda? We need to talk.” His voice was now serious.

  “More?” Brandon asked incredulously. “There’s more?”

  “Yes.” Quint put on his reading glasses and took a square of paper from his back pocket. “This came late yesterday from Faye’s lawyer. Apparently her will was read last week, and I wasn’t even told about it. This is a list of her specific bequests.”

  “What’s a bequest?” Brandon asked.

  “Things she left to people,” Stephen said.

  “That’s right,” Quint said. He sat down on Reginald’s chair and unfolded the paper. “Guess what she left to one Brandon William Stratham?”

  Brandon shrugged. Then he stiffened. “Not . . .”

  Quint read from the paper: “‘Á Roman wall ornament, with Latin inscription, dedicated to the spirit of youthful exploration and discovery.’” He pulled off his glasses and looked hard at Brandon.

  “Okay, so?” Brandon said defensively. “It’s not my fault. I didn’t tell Aunt Faye to leave me anything.”

  “Wow,” Stephen whispered.

  Quint slid the paper back into his pocket. “You owe me a conversation about our friend the niche, remember, B?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Want to have it now or when we’re alone?”

  Brandon didn’t want to have it at all. “Now’s good,” he murmured.

  “All right,” Quint said. “What’ll you do with the niche?”

  “What d’you mean?”

  Quint’s eyes flashed and he leaned into Brandon. “You know damn well what I mean. Will you use it again? Go through time again?”

  The moment Brandon had put off forty years earlier had arrived. “Yes,” he heard himself say.

  “Sure,” Sarah said. “We’ll do Mardi Gras sixty-six in New Orleans.” She put her head back and laughed. No one joined her. She stopped and looked at Brandon. “B?”

  Brandon’s mind was racing. Aunt Faye left me the niche. It's mine! Wait . . . what's Sarah saying?

  “You’re not serious?”

  Serious? What's she talking about?

  Sarah got off the couch and stood over him. “You’d do what we just did, again?” she asked coldly.

  Brandon looked up at her. “Yes.” A stony silence followed, and he asked, “Well?”

  “Can I go with you?” Stephen asked breathlessly.

  “Sure!”

  Sarah stepped back from both of them. “Are you two crazy? We could’ve been killed. We barely made it back.”

  “You’re just stuck on the bad parts,” Brandon said dismissively.

  “Bad parts? What were the good parts?”

  “If you don’t know, I can’t tell you.”

  “Oh, puh-lease,” Sarah said disdainfully. “Okay, make it easy for me. What’s so great about getting lost where we don’t belong and maybe getting killed?”

  Brandon felt hot in the face at the “puh-lease.” Sarah would never understand the good parts. How could she? She’d spent half her time in 1965 crying. He stood up and got in her face. “What’s ‘great’ is not . . . knowing . . . what’s . . . next. In 2005 every day’s like yesterday. In 1965 crazy stuff hit me all the time. Stuff I didn’t expect. And the stuff I did expect wasn’t there, because it wasn’t invented yet. It was cool seeing what people did before stuff was invented. It was cool seeing what they thought about things. It was so wild I didn’t know up from down sometimes. I was scared, and I was stoked, and I want that. I want it!”

  Sarah paled and backed away from him. She gestured to Quint as if to say, “Tell him he’s crazy.”

  “Bad parts,” Quint mused. “The whole thing could’ve been a bad part, B. It could’ve blown up in our faces a dozen times. Mr. Robb might’ve called the police. Reginald might not’ve gotten the keys. We might’ve been caught in the factory . . .”

  “That kid in the park might’ve cracked your head open with that brick,” Sarah put in.

  “Y’all were damn lucky to come out of it safe and sound,” Quint said.

  “All morning you’ve been talking about the great things we did,” Brandon told him. “Now you’re saying don’t ever do them again.”

  “Y’all did do good, and I’m damn proud of y’all,” Quint said evenly. “But y’all were also lucky. And sooner or later, luck always runs out.”

  “Next time we’ll plan it better,” Stephen said. “It won’t be an accident like this one.”

  “Plan it how?” Sarah snapped. “You don’t know what you’ll find. How can you?”

  “And another thing,” Quint said. “Going to the past changes the present. What if y’all make a terrible mistake . . . maybe cause someone to be killed instead of saved. What then?”

  Brandon shook his head firmly. “That won’t happ
en.”

  “You’re not thinking, B,” Quint said. “What if you just talk with someone for a minute and delay him crossing a street. Then he crosses and gets hit by a car that wouldn’t have been there a minute before. What about that?”

  Brandon asked, “Are you for real, Quint?”

  “Sir,” Stephen said, “we can do that in 2005. You could keep us here a minute longer than we wanted, and a car could hit us.”

  “That’s right,” Brandon said. “Anyone can do a thing like that, anytime.”

  “But if it’s done in the past, everything that follows gets changed,” Quint said. “What gives Mister Brandon Stratham the right to do that?”

  “We all change things just doing what we do every day, Mister Coster,” Brandon shot back. “What’s the difference?”

  Quint got off his chair and stepped to him. “The difference,” he said angrily, “is that y’all would change not just the future, but the present. ‘We all’ don’t have the niche to muck around with history and turn our lives today upside down.” Brandon shrugged, and then Quint exploded: “What gives y’all that right?”

  Stephen jumped up and pushed his way between them. “Stop it,” he cried. “Stop it now.”

  They stepped apart and sat down.

  “I don’t think it has to do with rights,” Stephen said, straightening his glasses with shaking hands. “I don’t think the present is special just because it’s the present.”

  “I don’t think so either,” Brandon said to Quint. “Doctor Stanhope and Reginald did better because we went back. And you know it.”

  Quint pointed out the window and demanded: “What’s to stop me from going over to Faye’s right now and taking a sledgehammer to that damn thing?”

  “It’s mine,” Brandon said. “That’s what.”

  Sarah sat down next to Brandon. “I don’t care if the present flips over a hundred times,” she said in a voice too sweet for the moment. “But I’m not losing you to that crazy time machine. Promise me you won’t use it again.”

  “No.”