 
Offer Him Roses

Copyright 2013 by James Hampton

Smashwords edition

All rights reserved.

OFFER HIM ROSES

1

As cemeteries went, Annalee Rutledge supposed the one next to the Prince of Peace Episcopal Church on Greene Island, Georgia, was a pleasant sight to behold. Its battalions of stone Crosses and smooth granite slabs resembled those found in any other cemetery in the United States of America: some were old and cracked, while others were new and pristine; some were ornate, graced with weeping angels and soaring cherubs, while others were elegant in their simplicity. Yet owing to the efforts of parishioners who prized the natural beauty of Georgia's coast, and knew well how to incorporate that beauty into the grounds of their Church, the cemetery here resembled less a graveyard than some fine, sprawling English garden. Rows of burial spaces aside, the cemetery here was as suited to a shadowed castle boasting five hundred years of political intrigue and opulent living as it was to the plain white wooden Church nestled beside it—only instead of being populated by English roses and creeping ivy, this ten-acre stretch of land was swept with bulging Sego palms, massive, Spanish Moss-draped live oaks, and vibrant azaleas that bloomed pink, white, and blue in the springtime.

It was the kinship between the Prince of Peace Church cemetery and the traditional English garden that helped make today's planned activity a bit more palatable to Annalee. She had recently begun watching Downton Abbey on public television, and found that the more episodes of the program she viewed, the more enamored she became of the lives and mores of the British upper classes, at least in the post-Edwardian era. What knowledge Annalee now possessed of that long-vanished age—most of it derived from Abbey, with Wikipedia as a secondary source for additional historical background—she had used to invent a fantasy scenario to get her through the next couple of hours: she was imagining herself as a daughter of the aristocracy, accustomed to wealth and opulence, who nevertheless was pleased to sink down on her hands and knees in the dirt with the laborers on her family's estate and assist them in scrubbing down that estate's priceless statuary.

It was a nice daydream, albeit far from the truth. Rather than a Lord or Earl, Annalee's father was an amiable gentleman who sold insurance at his own agency, at which her mother served as his office manager; they were nice, down-to-earth people, hardly aristocratic in background or in bearing. Nor was Annalee doing any gardening today; instead, with a bucket of water and some gentle soap, she would be cleaning tombstones of deceased relatives, most of whom had left the world before she was born, and a few so shortly afterward she was unable to remember them. She would not have to perform this labor alone, however. The Rutledge party included not only Annalee, but also her grandmother, Susannah, whom she called Mamie, and her grandmothers' sisters, Roberta and Dorothy, known to Annalee and to the other seven grandchildren as Aunt Bertie and Aunt Dodie.

Annalee Rutledge was fourteen years old as of the beginning of this month, which was March. Her Aunt Bertie was the next youngest of the women she was accompanying into the cemetery today; she was five times Lindsay's age. Mamie was seventy-two and Dodie, seventy-seven. They were slender, elegant women, all of them tall with cottony white hair, graceful not only in stride but also in the general way they carried themselves. The senior Rutledge ladies all had a delicacy about them that Annalee felt she lacked. Though not overweight, she often found herself wishing her bones were just a little finer, her neck a bit longer, her waist slightly narrower...hers was not a masculine physique, but neither was it as feminine as she desired, and she had marked this coming summer as the season in which she would make herself beautiful. She was going to tan ritualistically, and experiment with some new colors and styles for her presently straight and naturally chestnut-colored hair, and buy a whole bunch of new clothes thanks to the part-time job she was going to get (whatever it turned out to be). She did not consider herself ugly—at least not most of the time—but she did think of herself as rather plain. And she was tired of feeling plain.

Beautiful, Annalee had promised herself time and again over the last few months. This summer, I'm going to be beautiful.

"Honey, I just can't tell you how glad we are to have you along with us this morning," Mamie said to her as they neared the family plot. "It's such a big help."

"No problem," Annalee said. Actually, it was a problem, just not enough of one to cause her to try to wriggle out of it when her grandmother's call came this past Friday, in the late afternoon, bearing a plea for assistance. For today was Monday, the first day of Spring Break, and Annalee, like other schoolchildren in the county, would be off the entire week, which meant she had the time to spare, at least this once. She had wanted to say no but knew she would feel guilty if she did. Sometimes having morals was a real pain.

Aunt Dodie seconded with, "We're just getting too old to handle this by ourselves."

Annalee gave a feeble "Yes, ma'am" as acknowledgement, but wondered just what Aunt Dodie meant by that remark. Was it to be taken at face value, as an admission that the ladies simply couldn't perform this ritual—once a month in the spring and summer—as they had for the last twenty-five years? Or was she was hinting that someone else, someone younger, ought to assume the job?

And, if so, who?

Not me, Annalee thought, no way.

At last they reached the Rutledge site.

"All right, girls," Mamie said, pulling on a pair of yellow rubber gloves, "let's get down to business."

***

Annalee learned, to her chagrin, that the older women did not speak much while they worked. In other venues—Thanksgiving dinners, Independence Day celebrations, family gatherings at Christmas—words flowed between them in sparkling torrents, taking the form of clever ripostes, humorous anecdotes, and conspiratorially whispered gossip; it was a pleasure for Annalee just to listen to them talk. But in the cemetery their behavior was muted and serious. They grimly, and in virtual silence, attacked the dirt and sponge mold that had crept onto the stones marking the final resting places of their loved ones. The cemetery had a full-time groundskeeper and by all accounts he did a fine job of keeping up the place; but Annalee understood why her grandmother and great-aunts might feel a strange man could never give adequate attention to the people these women had loved and said goodbye to during their long lives: three husbands, a mother, a father, and—in Roberta's case—an eight-year-old son struck and killed by a car in 1973. Perhaps because there was so little dialogue the work got done faster today; Mamie had asked for two hours of Annalee's time but after ninety minutes the family headstones were shining in the sun.

"Folks need a nice place to sleep," Dodie said as the women stood there, admiring their work. Then they began to pack up the cleaning supplies.

As Annalee wrung out her dirty sponge at the base of a nearby crepe myrtle, she noticed a small headstone, carved from rough granite, about five paces away. It was the only headstone in what appeared to be an otherwise unused plot, and having coming this way on numerous occasions in the past Annalee was surprised she'd never noticed it. Then again, obscured by shrubbery, it was easy to miss; only from where Annalee stood now was it clearly visible. The drab, mottled headstone was unadorned but for a simple Cross with an inscription below that read:

Matthew Nehemiah Hawkins

January 27, 1850 – December 13, 1864

Fourteen, Annalee thought. He was fourteen—my age.

Two years ago a girl she had known since kindergarten had passed away from leukemia. Annalee had not been close friends with this girl, whose name was Gwendolyn, but had played over at her house a couple of times when they were small children. In the years since, though, Annalee had seen less and less of her, and by the time the two of them reached middle school their friendship had largely dissipated. Eventually word got around that the girl was very sick and could not come to school anymore; not long after that, an obituary for one Gwendolyn Lee Abbot appeared in the newspaper. Annalee, in the wake of the girl's death, had found herself anguished and guilt-ridden over having not stayed better friends with poor lost Gwendolyn. But there was something else—a more selfish reason, in Annalee's opinion—that she shared with no one. It was that she'd never had somebody her age, or somebody even close to her age, die before; and she found the experience odd and deeply unsettling. The tragedy of Gwendolyn Abbot had struck just a little too close.

But here, now, lay a boy Annalee could never have known; a boy who would have been elderly when these other women were born, had he survived that long. She was sorry for Matthew Hawkins, yes, but he was from another era. His life—and his death—were far removed from Annalee Rutledge, a girl living in coastal Georgia in the early years of the twenty-first century.

So why does it bother me so much to see his grave?

Annalee frowned.

I'm just being silly here.

She turned, walked back to Mamie and her great-aunts. Yet, even as she approached the women, she felt the words building up inside of her, craving release.

Don't, Annalee urged herself. Don't ask. Don't!

She could not fight it, though. She was curious. She wanted to learn.

"Mamie," she said, coming up beside her grandmother.

"Yes, darling?"

"Do you know anything about that grave over there?" Annalee pointed to the little headstone, almost hoping that Mamie, whose knowledge of the cemetery was unparalleled among the congregation of Prince of Peace Church, would draw a blank on this one. For then the Rutledge ladies would have no choice but to leave the cemetery, piling back into Mamie's Cadillac to make the trip home. Annalee, for her part, could expect to quickly lose interest in what had turned out to be an unanswerable question—perhaps in just a matter of days. It would all be over, at that point.

But her grandmother knew, perhaps not remarkably.

She knew.

"Oh, yes," Mamie said. "That's the little Hawkins boy. I believe he died in the War."

Every conflict in which the United States had taken part was The War, according to her grandmother's lexicon. Sometimes the War meant the Vietnam War, and sometimes it was the Korean War, and sometimes it was World War Two. In this case, given Annalee's general knowledge of United States history, she understood the War to which her grandmother referred today to be the Civil War, fought from 1861 to 1865, also known as the War Between the States.

"Are there are any Hawkins family members left?" Annalee asked. "Do you know?"

Oh, stop it, you idiot. You know where you're going with this, and it's crazy.

"I think they've all pretty much gone away by now," answered her grandmother. "I've never heard of any of their descendants being members of this Church."

Don't do it, Annalee. Don't ask if you can clean his headstone too.

"Would it be okay if I used some of our stuff to clean this one?"

You just couldn't help yourself, could you? What's the matter with you? Don't you want to leave?

But Annalee felt obliged to make a gesture of kindness toward this boy. She didn't know why. It just seemed...right.

"Why, sure," her grandmother said, brightening. "I don't see anything wrong with that. Do you, sisters?"

The other two women shook their heads. They actually seemed quite pleased.

"Go right on ahead," said Roberta. "I think that's awfully sweet of you, to want to help him out like that."

"It won't take but a second," Annalee promised them.

She picked up the bucket, refilled it with water and mixed in a few drops of soap, and then carried it along with her sponge over to the lonely grave of Matthew Nehemiah Hawkins. The other Rutledge women busied themselves inspecting the shrubbery that surrounded the family plot, discussed what special favors they might ask of the groundskeeper next time he came around. Annalee was pretty sure they couldn't hear her; still, she lowered her voice as she went down on her haunches next to the boy's headstone.

"Hi, Matthew," she said. "I'm Annalee."

Then, very gently, she began to clean.

After a few minutes, Annalee decided the headstone looked about as good as it was going to look, at least given the tools she had. Though not as pretty as she'd envisioned, certainly it appeared in better shape now than it had before.

Sitting back on her heels, she asked herself:

Why did I do all that? I mean, what was the point?

And now she got to her feet.

It was just a nice thing to do. I guess that was the point. And that's enough, right?

"Bye, Matthew," Annalee whispered to the headstone.

Then she turned away, headed back to the others.

"So did you get him all fixed up?" Dodie asked as Annalee rejoined them.

"Yes, ma'am," Annalee said, "all fixed up."

"That was awfully sweet of you," Mamie said again, and while Annalee may have appreciated the sentiment, she didn't want to be told she was being sweet, especially a second time. It made her feel like a child—although she was sure that was how these women perceived her, and likely always would. But it was no big deal.

That really was sweet of me, though, wasn't it?

For some reason, as Annalee went down on her haunches again to help her grandmother and great-aunts gather up the last of their cleaning supplies, she got this strange tingly feeling. She thought, at first, it was just pride in her small act of kindness; but no, here was something different. Heat was rising in her chest; her skin was prickling; and she feared that at the slightest jest she might burst out laughing. It was the sort of feeling she'd gotten, Annalee realized suddenly, when a boy she liked showed signs of liking her back.

How strange, she thought, to have that feeling now.

You're so weird today.

Moments later, as the Rutledge women filed out of the cemetery, Annalee cast a single backward glance in the direction of the Hawkins boy's grave.

Don't worry, Matt—I'll come see you again.

2

Annalee had expected her grave-cleaning session on Monday to be about the most boring thing she would do over spring break this year. Tuesday, however, brought an activity she found just as unexciting, if not more so: visiting the Greene Island skate park, a little collection of ramps on a fenced-in concrete slab at the edge of a water oak-studded public park. She always felt uncomfortable when she came here, as if she were an intruder, and indeed that was what she considered herself. After all, Annalee knew nothing about skateboarding and didn't care to learn; but her two same-aged friends—Kara Waverly and Melissa Harper—had insisted on going, even though they, like Kara, weren't much interested in skateboarding themselves; they just wanted to ogle the guys who were. Annalee found her friends' behavior a bit tiresome, but she went along with them anyway, because it was either that or stay at the house, alone.

Kara's presence here was more understandable, since her boyfriend practically lived at the skate park: his name was Shawn Hudson and he was there so much that Annalee sometimes wondered how he was able to find any time for Kara; she suspected he didn't find much, given the hours he put in here. But if Kara was there to ogle one particular guy, Melissa was there to ogle pretty much all the others. She was adept at concealing her interest, Annalee had to admit; she could carry on a fairly decent conversation even as she observed the skaters in her peripheral vision.

Annalee took pride in not being an ogler; she just hadn't figured out what, exactly, she was when she accompanied her friends on trips like this. She had known Melissa all of her life and Kara nearly as long; they were close, she wanted to think, but there were times when she was seized with a burning jealousy: of Melissa, because of her flowing blond hair, bronze skin, and long, smoothly muscled legs; of Kara, with her sensuous brown locks and slender waist, because she was the daughter of a man who had made a small fortune in real estate, a fortune he was pleased to lavish on his eldest daughter. In her grimmer moods, Annalee pondered the notion that Melissa and Kara liked to invite her to come to the skate park because she made the two of them look even better by comparison—as if they needed help in the first place.

They wouldn't do that.

Would they?

The boys in the park mostly ignored them as they prepared to sit down on one of the several stone benches arranged nearby. Shawn—a tall, lanky kid with dark hair and even darker eyes, who seemed to be in a state of perpetual brooding—sailed up to Kara on his board and pecked her once, briefly, on the lips before returning to his friends among the ramps. He said nothing, or at least nothing Annalee could hear, but the kiss certainly seemed to satisfy Kara, who, with her flushed cheeks and the distant, dreamy look in her eyes, appeared as if she might faint from sheer joy.

Then a male voice, all too familiar to her, called out, "Hey—is that Annalee?"

"Jonathan," Kara mumbled, as if Annalee needed to be told.

And, yes, here he was: the great (in his own mind anyway, Annalee figured) Jonathan Ross, zooming toward the three girls on his board but only focused on one of them. He was Shawn's best friend; wherever you found one, you typically found the other. He was as tall as Shawn, maybe even taller, and just about as thin. But here the similarity ended. As Shawn was dark-hued and somber, Jonathan was all light and good cheer. His hair was a fiery reddish-blond, his eyes cornflower blue. He had moved down from Savannah last year, but his outgoing personality had earned him fast-track admission into the social milieu of teenagers living on Greene Island. From the start he had shown Annalee an inordinate amount of attention, all of it friendly, maybe a little too friendly, and she was still trying to figure out whether she liked all this attention or not. He loved to say her name, so much so that sometimes she felt as if he were making fun of it—and her. For example, Jonathan seemed to have in his head at least a few lines from almost every Top 40 song since the 1960s, and delighted in singing these revised song fragments with Annalee's name inserted in them, always loud enough for others to hear. But she reminded herself that often guys expressed affection toward their guy friends through teasing, some of which she thought was pretty harsh. She suspected at least a sizeable minority of the boys on the receiving end of such teasing would have agreed with her, but chose to grin and bear it because they understood that if they were labeled overly sensitive, it would only invite further ridicule.

So she was pretty sure he did it because he liked her.

But did she like Jonathan Ross back?

The jury was still out on that one.

If only, Annalee often thought, he would clean up a little—just a little—he'd be so much cuter.

On several occasions, after working up a sweat while skateboarding, he had come over to her and attempted to put his arm around her, not a good thing since, due to their height differential, her head rose to about even with his armpit. But worse than some occasional body odor, which was at least understandable following physical exertion, was Jonathan's apparent aversion to using Band-Aids. He was constantly suffering nasty scrapes from skateboarding—a number of which were visible on his forearms, elbows, knees, and even face, particularly his nose and chin—but he never used a bandage to cover any of them up. Each week it seemed to Annalee that Jonathan had some new crater of ragged flesh on his body, big and round like half-dollars, or a stretch of bloody furrows to exhibit to the world. She sat one desk over from him in English class and every so often would notice, to her great revulsion, the way some of his newer wounds glistened under the classroom's fluorescent lights. She almost felt she could reckon time by the progress his skin made in knitting itself back together: how one injury was fresh and soggy, how another boasted a crusty scab, and how the scab of another still had fallen off to reveal a patch of delicate, rejuvenated pink skin.

He arrived in front of the girls, stopping with a heel drag that he made look as natural as breathing. He stared down at Annalee, a broad grin on his face.

"Hi," he said, not even acknowledging Kara or Melissa.

"Hi," Annalee responded, glancing up at him briefly, and then looking down at the ground. Yet she could feel Jonathan's eyes on her, and was sure he still wore that big dumb grin.

Jonathan let a few seconds of awkward silence elapse—well, awkward for Annalee anyway—before he followed up with, "How are ya?"

"I'm good." She did not make eye contact with him this time.

"Really?"

"Yeah, really."

"I'm glad to hear that."

Annalee did not reply.

"The top of your head looks nice today," Jonathan observed.

This remark got Annalee to look up again. "You've got the sun behind you," she insisted. "It hurts my eyes."

"That's not the sun. That's my natural radiance."

Melissa giggled; Annalee sensed she would rather Jonathan be talking to her right now, and that, by laughing at what really wasn't all that funny a line, she hoped to get his attention.

"Would you like to know how I'm doing?" Jonathan asked her.

Annalee shrugged.

"I'm doing good too," he answered himself, "now that you're here to watch me."

"I just came with my friends," Annalee responded. She was starting to enjoy the banter; she couldn't help herself.

"Oh, Annalee," Jonathan sighed, shaking his head. "Annalee, Annalee, Annalee..."

Stop saying my name so much!

"You probably ought to get back out there," Annalee said, "and practice some more."

In other words, I'm telling you to go away—but I know that if I tell you to go away, it'll only make you want to bother me even more. And it's kind of fun when you bother me. So I'm sort of telling you to stay and go at the same time.

"Think so?"

"Yeah, probably."

"Will you cheer for me if I do something really cool out there?"

"No."

"Why not? What have I ever done to you?"

"You're annoying me," Annalee said, although she was fighting not to laugh at the feigned hurt in his voice.

"How am I annoying you?" He sounded much too aggrieved to be serious. "I'm just trying to talk to you. That's all."

"Well, I don't want to talk right now."

"Why don't you want to talk to me?"

"Just go out there, please."

"Will you talk to me later?"

"Yeah, if I'm still here later."

"I'm not just talking about today. I'm talking about at school."

"Yes! Yes! Will you go now?"

"Will you cheer for me if I do something cool?"

"Sure, Jonathan."

"Okay, that's good—because I will. You just hang on. Get ready to be amazed."

He sped off again.

"He likes you," Melissa said.

"Yeah, I know."

"Do you like him?"

"No, not really," Annalee answered—At least not right now. But ask me tomorrow and I'll probably have a different answer. It changes from one day to the next. Sometimes it changes inside of a day, and sometimes then more than once.

But Melissa had only heard Annalee's spoken answer. She pressed her. "You don't? Not at all?"

"I mean, he's okay. It's just, like, he's not—I don't think he and I would be right together. You know what I'm saying?"

"Why wouldn't you two be right?"

"Because he's never serious, that's why," Annalee wanted to reply. "At least I've never seen him act serious. Everything's a joke to him, it seems like. If he really likes me, then he ought to talk to me seriously once in a while. I don't mind joking around—but all the time? Come on."

Instead all she said was, "I don't know. That's just how I feel."

"I don't think he'd be good for you, either," Kara interjected. "He's always clinging to people."

Annalee made no answer, because she didn't consider Kara an unbiased observer on the subject of Jonathan Ross. While Kara had never come out and actually said she disliked Jonathan, there was often a subtext to the remarks she made about her boyfriend's close rapport with him that led her to believe Kara was maybe, just maybe, a little bit jealous. But Annalee had never quite summoned the courage to ask.

Suddenly, from across the skate park, Jonathan's voice boomed: "Hey, Annalee! This one's for you, babe!" She glanced in his direction and saw him standing in front of a crowd of boys, who he had apparently gathered to watch whatever feat of skateboarding prowess he was about to attempt. He gave her two thumbs-up.

He's so stupid. But in the face of such ridiculous, almost cartoonish, enthusiasm, Annalee was unable to repress a grin of her own.

And then, his expression suddenly serious, Jonathan spun round and took off toward a ramp.

I hope he falls.

She did not really want him to fall, of course. It was just one of those ugly random thoughts that crossed her mind every once in a while.

Annalee had time to overhear that the move Jonathan supposedly intended as a tribute to her was something called a laser flip. Annalee did not know what a laser flip was, nor any other kind of flip in skateboarding parlance, but she expected to be mildly impressed.

And indeed, she was supremely impressed this afternoon—that he survived afterward.

The skateboarders who inhabited this park seemed to have a sixth sense when it came to knowing how badly one of their peers had been hurt. If a guy had only suffered an embarrassing tumble, then the others were free to laugh and jeer as he picked himself up off the ground. If he was really injured, was barely moving or not at all in the moments afterward, then they rushed to him, and, should the situation warrant, got help.

In the aftermath of what turned out to be a spectacular fall by Jonathan, they rushed to his prone form. Annalee's distance was such that she could not see much of what went wrong, and probably wouldn't have been able to figure it out even if she were closer, but it seemed that after his feet left the board so it could do a 360 degree spin in the air, he misjudged where—or maybe when—they would come back down again. Whatever happened, the board popped up between his legs, unbalancing him, and he pitched forward onto the ramp, with his forearms and then his head slamming onto the unforgiving concrete. He lay still, facedown, as the crowd surged toward him.

Melissa and Kara sprang to their feet; Annalee, at least for a moment, was too stunned even to move. But she quickly regained her bearing, and hurried toward Jonathan along with the others.

"Are you okay?" she heard Shawn asking Jonathan. His voice was concerned, urgent, but not panicked. She admired his composure.

Please don't let him be hurt, she prayed. I didn't mean that, about wanting him to fall. Honestly, I didn't. Even if I thought I did for a split-second, I didn't.

"Yeah...yeah," she heard Jonathan say then. His voice was creaky. She imagined he was in terrible pain. She peered around the other kids and saw that he was able to move, albeit very slowly.

She breathed a great sigh of relief.

With a little assistance from Shawn and another boy, Jonathan was able to get to his feet. But he was done skateboarding for the afternoon. As he limped out of the park, with Shawn still supporting his weight, he glanced in Annalee's direction.

"Yay," the girl said softly, balling up her hands and waving them slightly in the air.

Annalee Rutledge learned a hard lesson that afternoon about how words and actions could be misinterpreted by others. She intended her mock cheer to be taken as a compliment; that she appreciated his try and that, even if it hadn't worked out, she was going to cheer for him anyway. But the hurt, bitter look he gave her—and the near-murderous one she got from Shawn—suggested neither boy saw it her way.

What they saw, Annalee realized almost immediately, was mockery, as if she had cheered his accident.

No, no, wait, that's not what I meant!

And not only the two boys, but the rest of the group, seemed to share their view. Some ugly remarks were muttered in the crowd, and suddenly Annalee no longer felt unwelcome here. She felt unsafe.

Even Melissa's tone was rough. "That was cold, Annalee."

"I didn't mean it like that," Annalee protested. "I was just, you know..."

I don't know what I was doing—because I'm a moron.

By now Shawn had gotten Jonathan to a bench and helped him ease onto it. Annalee yearned to go over to Jonathan—once Shawn left, naturally—and tell him she was sorry, tell him what she really felt, but she didn't. The emotions of the moment were too raw.

I'll wait, she decided, but I'll make it up to him. I'll be really nice to him the next time I see him. I'll apologize. I'll explain everything. I'll fix it all. I can do that. I can.

A moment later, as a sullen Annalee watched Jonathan get to his feet and start out of the park—walking rather than riding his skateboard—she hoped he might glance in her direction so she could smile at him, maybe give a little wave. But he didn't. He never so much as looked behind him.

***

This isn't turning out to be a very good spring break, Annalee thought at dinner that night. She had barely eaten all day, and yet she only poked at the tuna fish casserole, English peas, and tossed spread before her. Her parents—Madeline and Theodore "Ted" Rutledge—observed her with quiet concern. From her father, burly and imposing (though a gentle sort, according to anyone who knew him well enough), Annalee had inherited her dark hair and eyes; from her petite, auburn-haired mother, a small mouth and delicate nose.

"You all right, Annalee?" Ted asked.

"Yeah, I'm okay," Annalee said, absently pricking the tuna fish casserole with her fork, as if to see if it was truly dead. "I'm just not hungry."

"I can tell."

The Rutledge home was located on ten acres of land at the northern end of Greene Island. The property had once been part of a larger tract, now split among other relatives, with the whole of the extended Rutledge family's holdings encompassing about eighty acres. This portion, fronting vast saltmarshes to the east, was mostly wooded but for a network of narrow, mostly overgrown, dirt roads down which no car could fit anymore. The only other structure on Ted's portion—aside from the simple, white, two-storied home in which he and his family lived—was an old weathered barn that his great-uncle had built back in the late 1930s.

Madeline, too, sensed trouble. "Is everything okay?"

"Sure," Annalee responded, though her answer lacked conviction. "Everything's fine."

She was in no mood to recount the events of the day. She appreciated her parents' concern, but she really just wanted to be left alone at the moment. The trick was finding a nice way to tell her parents so.

"All right," Madeline said, "just checking."

After a few moments Annalee excused herself and went to her room. She did not want to do anything tonight except lie down on her bed and forget the day.

Tomorrow, she thought.

Tomorrow will be better.

***

Annalee had always found it odd, the way she could never remember actually falling asleep. She would recall seeing the digital alarm clock once or twice through the gloom, but deep into the night her brain would begin to shut down, and all memory of her last moments of waking life—at least then—would be lost. So it was never clear to her how much dark space loomed between the moment she closed her eyes and the moment she entered the country of dreams; perhaps none at all, though it hardly mattered.

Annalee loved to dream. Every once in a great while she was frightened by a nightmare, but generally her dreaming life was kind to her. In that life she might enjoy lovely, if fleeting, images of worlds both natural and fantastic; or run a great distance in starlight that was far too vivid to be found anywhere on Earth; or have conversations with friends or celebrities or with boys on whom she had developed crushes, speaking to these people in sentences that would have been incomprehensible in reality but which made perfect sense in her dreams.

Tonight, though, she dreamed about the barn.

Often Annalee recognized when she was dreaming, but not this time, and thus she was bewildered when, suddenly, she found herself in front of the old barn wearing old jeans and a plain yellow T-shirt. Why she would be outdoors and here specifically, of all places, at such a late hour, when stars glittered in the sky and the air vibrated with the songs of crickets and frogs. Nevertheless, she was standing on the side of the dirt road that led to the barn; down that road, she noticed a faint bluish-white glow. She was not so much afraid of this light as confused by it—and slightly intrigued. What, she thought, could be its source?

Annalee took a timid step forward—then, with a gasp, she stopped.

Someone was silhouetted against that strange light at the end of the road, someone who was in motion—coming her way, she realized now, very fast.

"Who are you?" she tried to say, but the words sounded garbled.

The shadowed figure did not answer, just continued its rapid approach toward her. As it came closer, she was able to make out certain features.

This was a boy, Annalee realized: a gaunt, oval-faced boy with long arms and longer legs and thick, slightly wavy hair the color of sand. He wore a tattered sweat-stained white shirt and an equally tattered pair of gray trousers. At first, because he was so much taller than she, Annalee thought he was older; but as he neared additional traits became apparent—small nose, sharp chin—and she realized he was no more than her age. His face was haggard and frightened, and when at last he reached her, rather than fearing him, Annalee feared for him: that he might collapse if he had to travel any farther.

"It's safe in there," she told the boy, gesturing toward the barn. He gave her a quick nod and then continued past her. Annalee was about to say something else when—

—she opened her eyes and found only the darkness of her bedroom. For several minutes she did not move. Her skin was cold and her breathing shallow; and yet, while she felt uneasy, she was not frightened either. Outside a soft breeze rustled through the treetops.

What was that all about?

Right away Annalee wondered about the identity of the boy. He was not anyone she knew; that much was for sure. Perhaps she had seen him on television and buried his image in her subconscious.

She rolled onto her side.

Maybe it'll come to me later.

Within an hour she was asleep again.

3

It surprised Annalee that she remembered her dream about the boy and the barn when she awoke the following morning, before sunrise; in fact, it was the first thing on her mind. But even more surprising was the strange urge she had to go out to the barn.

She looked at her alarm clock: 5:43am.

Are you crazy, Annalee Rutledge? Why would you want to do that? Why? Why? It was a dream, and that boy was a figment of your imagination. He wasn't real and he could never be real. So don't be an idiot.

Yet Annalee was getting out of bed anyway. She wanted to go to the barn; there was no way around that one simple fact. The boy didn't exist—she was sure of that—but still, it was a nice fantasy, she supposed, to imagine that he did, and to imagine, as well, that he was now hiding in her family's barn. Annalee liked to use her imagination, especially at times when she found dealing with actual people frustrating, difficult—and even hurtful.

Oh, great, so now you're making up an imaginary boyfriend. Nice.

No, no, no—she was really just going outside to get some fresh air, to enjoy the waning of night and witness the birth of a new day.

Sure you are. Well, go ahead then. Go to the barn and see your imaginary boyfriend. It's unhealthy and it's something no other girl your age would ever do—but go ahead anyway. Just don't ever let anyone know about this.

Not bothering to switch on a lamp, Annalee got dressed. The blackness of the room was no obstacle to finding her clothes. Having spent her entire life sleeping in this room, she pretty much knew where everything was—generally, wherever she had dropped it the night before.

***

Cold out here, Annalee thought, shivering as she stepped onto the front porch of the Rutledge house. No surprise, though. Here in coastal Georgia the weather usually stayed cool through Easter—although one could expect occasional warm spells, when temperatures reached into the high seventies or even touched the low eighties, during the winter. Just as certain, too, was a final cold snap after Easter, following which consistently warm weather would arrive.

Their home's relative isolation meant there were few sounds to greet Annalee's ears as she made her way into the wilderness, toward the barn. Aside from occasional notes of birdsong—a sound that Annalee always found pleasing—there was only the sound of her shoes crunching over twigs and dark brittle leaves to disturb the predawn silence.

As the old gray barn became visible through the trees and the early morning shadow, Annalee felt a strange fluttering in her heart.

There's someone in there.

Of course she had no reason to think such a thing. She'd heard no sounds coming from the building. Still, her instincts were telling her that there was a human being in the vicinity—either in the barn or in the surrounding woods.

Annalee stopped.

That's ridiculous, she assured herself. There's nobody in the barn and there's nobody in the woods. Your imagination is really running wild today, isn't it?

Yet she remained in place. From time to time poachers came onto the Rutledge holdings. They had not trespassed on her parents' property, but they certainly had done so on others.

Briefly, she considered going back.

No. No, I'm going. I'm making this silly trip to the barn and that's all there is to it. I'm not going to be scared of my own shadow.

Annalee started walking again.

***

The barn loomed over her. Annalee looked the place up and down.

Funny—it had never seemed quite so big.

These days it was more just a storage shed, and not much of a storage shed at that, since Ted liked to store his tools, riding lawnmower, and other expensive items in an expansive workshop he had added on to the garage some years back. The barn doors weren't even secure.

Which means anybody could be in there...

Annalee took a deep breath.

Somehow what had begun as a whimsical early morning jaunt was turning into a test of her courage. She was beginning to think that maybe, rather than dreaming of a strange boy coming into this barn last night, she'd actually had a vision of the moments before her own death—that the boy was some kind of escaped mental patient who was destined to strangle or gut her here before dawn, and that she had walked right into her own doom.

Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!

At that moment, almost against her will, Annalee strode smartly toward the barn. She wasn't afraid. She'd prove it to herself, if nobody else.

So, in she went.

Once inside the barn, Annalee glanced around, increasingly relieved as the seconds ticked by and no escaped mental patient burst out of the shadows to kill her. The barn's interior was empty but for a few sheets of plywood and a couple of shovels so ancient that they appeared as if they might fall to pieces should anyone have tried to use them. The sky was lightening steadily, which made it surprisingly easy to see in here. Annalee was fine. She'd been worried for nothing.

So why am I shaking? Why is my heart still beating so hard? Why am I—?

Then, behind her: a loud shuffling.

Annalee spun round, fired her gaze into a still-shadowed corner of the barn. In that corner she noted movement.

Fear cascaded through her.

"Hello...?" Annalee ventured softly.

Then, from this last pocket of shade, someone sprang out; Annalee, stifling a cry, jumped back. But the person came no closer, instead just stood before her, swaying in the half-light, and Annalee, frightened and bewildered, realized at once who he was: the youth from her dream.

He was real.

He was alive.

He was as much flesh and blood as Annalee.

Stunned, she opened her mouth to speak but he got the words out first—the very words she had been preparing to say.

"It's you," the boy gasped.

He took a shaky half-step forward and collapsed.

4

For a full ten seconds Annalee was motionless, transfixed by the sight of this boy who had just fallen on his face in front of her. Even though she'd heard his body hit the ground, she still could not believe he was anything other than a hallucination; that her ears had entered into a conspiracy with her eyes to convince that someone she had seen in a dream the night before now lay—seemingly unconscious, maybe even dead—at her feet.

Annalee felt she could not catch her breath. She placed her hand over her throbbing heart, as if to quiet it.

I haven't touched him, she told herself. Only if I try to touch him, will I know if he's real.

She made two paces toward the youth. Another four, maybe, and she would be standing over him.

The boy's forehead rested in the crook of his elbow, hiding his face. What if he was playing possum with her, waiting for her to get close enough so he could jump up and...

No, she decided.

If this boy—whoever he was, however he had entered her dream last night—wanted to hurt her, he could have easily done so earlier.

She took another step forward.

Maybe, Annalee posited, he was a local boy she had seen at school or at the skate park or at any one of a number places where kids here congregated; even if he didn't look familiar, that didn't mean her subconscious mind hadn't recorded his image, and then replayed it back to her while she slept. As for him winding up in the barn, the way her dream had indicated he would...well, perhaps that was just an extraordinary coincidence.

She saw his back rising and falling, albeit shallowly. He was breathing. He was still alive.

"Hey," she whispered, crouching down beside him, though she fancied herself far enough away that she could dart away if he really did try to lunge at her. "Hey, can you hear me?"

The boy stirred. His head shifted back and forth on his arm. He mumbled something into the hard, dry dirt.

"What?" Annalee duck-walked a bit nearer to him. "What did you say?"

He lifted his head now, met her gaze with his own. His eyes, she noted, were of darkest blue.

"An angel," he rasped.

"What angel?"

"The...I saw..." His head began to sink; he seemed to be passing out again.

That's it. I'm helping him.

"Come on," Annalee said, coming around behind the boy. His desperate state—clearly not a ploy—had moved her and she was determined to ease his suffering. She remembered there were some ratty old rugs in a closet in the rear of the barn, bound up in plastic bags. She would find something for him to lie on, and then go get help. That was her plan.

While the youth was almost a foot taller than Annalee, he was so thin that she was easily able to hoist him to his feet. He was surely a creature of flesh and blood, though precious little flesh, it seemed, as she could feel his ribs poking through his shirt. Additional confirmation that he was a real person—though hardly the sort she would have requested—came from the way he smelled. About the nicest word to describe it would have been earthy. Right away she knew he had been outdoors for several days.

What's this guy been doing?

"Come on now," Annalee said, dragging the boy onto the wooden portion of the barn floor. "Work with me here."

Her tone was gentle; she could tell that, despite his apparent delirium, he was trying to stay upright, but his legs kept buckling beneath him. Finally, after much exertion, Annalee got him onto the floorboards. Then she went to the closet, found the rugs, and brought them back to him.

"What happened to you?" she asked, helping him slide onto the largest and softest rug.

"You came to me before," he said again, his voice stronger, his eyes clearer, this time, though he remained profoundly weak. "You spoke to me."

"I don't know what you're talking about," she said. "Just rest here, okay? I'll go get help." As she began to rise to her full height, he caught her arm. There was hardly any strength in his grasp, yet she allowed him to pull her back down again—and closer to him.

"Don't go," he said.

"I have to. You're sick."

"Stay with me. Stay with me, please. I'll be all right. I only need to rest." Indeed, color was already returning to his face—but Annalee, at least for the moment, was not persuaded.

"I don't think that's a good idea," she answered. "Look, I'll be back soon. Just don't—"

"You're so beautiful."

"Thanks a lot." Annalee shook free of his grasp, stood. "I'll be right back, okay?"

"Even more beautiful than in my dream."

Annalee froze. She faced him. "What dream?"

"My dream last night," he answered, his eyes glistening, "when you told me to hide here."

Annalee, looking down at him, whispered, "Who are you?"

"I would have thought you already knew."

"I don't."

"My name is Matthew," he said. "Matthew Hawkins."

"Matthew," Annalee began.

Matthew Nehemiah Hawkins

January 27, 1850 – December 13, 1864

"Yes—I'm Matthew," he said. "But who are you?"

"Annalee," the girl managed to squeak.

"Are you an angel, Annalee?"

"What? No, no, I'm not that at all."

"Then how did you do it?" he demanded. "How did you speak to me through a dream? How did you tell me to come here?"

Even as he questioned her, Annalee could not help but notice he had the most beautiful Southern accent. It was slow, luxuriant, the vowels elongated, the R's at the end of his "here" flattened beyond recognition...and she could tell that his voice was shaping up to be very deep.

Snap out of it! This guy just told you that he saw you in his dream last night the same way you saw him! That he's got the same name as someone who died in the Civil War almost a century-and-a-half ago! And you're worried about his accent?

"I don't know, I don't know," Annalee said, shaking her head vigorously. "Listen, Matthew, you need to see a doctor."

Or maybe I do.

"No doctors," Matthew responded. "A doctor will delay me for too long. I just—I need to eat. If you have any food to share, I'd be so grateful." His tone had become pleading.

"All right," Annalee said, "but if you don't look like you're getting better right away, I'm finding a doctor. All right?"

"Yes, yes, I understand."

"Good, so wait right here," Annalee ordered. "I'll be back soon."

And she was off.

***

Annalee's parents still weren't awake when she crept back inside the house; no surprise, since they normally they got up around six-thirty or seven. As quietly as she could, Annalee went to the pantry, found a can of Chef Boyardee Beef Ravioli, opened it, and dumped its contents onto a plastic microwave-safe plate. After nuking the ravioli in the microwave for a full minute, she covered it with plastic wrap. With a bottle of water in one hand and the ravioli in the other, she raced back to the barn. She was experiencing so many emotions right now that no single one could be characterized as dominant: she was bewildered, exhilarated, frightened, giddy, and anxious, all at the same time.

I wonder, she thought, if he'll be there when I get back—or if I'll return and he'll be gone, maybe never have been there in the first place, and it'll turn out that I'm just losing my mind?

But Matthew Hawkins wasn't gone. He was still there, lying on the rug where she had left him, his hands clasped over his abdomen. He rolled onto his side, tried to rise when she entered the barn.

"No, don't get up. I'm coming to you." She knelt before the youth, tearing the plastic wrap off his plate of ravioli and handing it to him as he sat up.

"Thank you," he gushed. "Oh, thank you."

At that moment Annalee realized she'd forgotten to bring him a fork—although he immediately began shoveling in the ravioli shells with his hands, so obviously not having silverware was no big deal for Matthew Hawkins.

"What are these things I'm eating?" he asked her between mouthfuls. "Are they some kind of biscuit?"

"It's...an old family recipe. Do you like it?"

"Mm, yes..." He was eating so fast he could barely breathe, and Annalee found it both gross and strangely endearing to watch him devour the meal. He reminded her of a sloppy toddler—but she didn't think these were his normal table manners. He was just ravenous. She felt pity as she observed him desperately trying to fill his stomach, not revulsion.

And yet...

"Matthew," she ventured softly.

"Yes?" He gazed up at her, the lower part of his face painted in tomato sauce.

"Slow down, buddy. You're eating too fast. You'll make yourself sick."

He began to chew a bit more carefully.

"Good boy," Annalee said, and unscrewed the cap on the water bottle. "Drink some of this. It's just water." She handed him the bottle. "Sip it, though—no big gulps."

He drank from the bottle, and then wiped his mouth on his sleeve. "Thank you," he said shyly.

"No problem."

Annalee let him eat in silence for a moment more. Her preference would have been to let him finish, but there was so much she wanted to ask him, so much she wanted to know. But how much could he tell her?

Annalee began, "You said you saw me in a dream last night."

"Yes."

"What was I doing?"

"You don't remember?"

"No. Just tell me, please."

Matthew set the now-empty plate down in front of him, met her gaze. "It was night," he said. "I was coming down the road outside—and I was so very, very tired. But then I saw this strange light at the end of the road. At first I was frightened, but I went toward it anyway. I wanted to know what was making that light."

"What was it? Do you remember?"

"Not what," answered Matthew, "who."

"What...?"

"It was all around you, Annalee. You were standing beside the road, waiting for me. That's why I thought you were an angel; that's why I still think you may be one, despite all you've said to the contrary. Anyhow, once I reached you, I saw this barn, which I had never seen before even though I've lived on Greene Island all my life. And you pointed to the barn and said, 'It's safe in there.' So I went inside. That was the end of my dream."

Annalee was no longer actively trying to disbelieve him. She failed to understand what was happening, but that did not make it any less real.

"So," she began softly, "when did you actually come here, Matthew? Was it just after the dream?"

"Oh, no, it was far stranger than that. I only remember stopping to rest against an oak tree last night; but when I awoke from my dream, I was in this barn—as if the dream itself had brought me here!"

"That's...amazing," Annalee said, her words barely audible.

"Yet you say you had no hand in this?"

"I don't know. If I did, I have no idea how."

"A miracle, then," exclaimed Matthew. "Providence."

Annalee did not respond. She felt his eyes on her: worshipful, expectant.

"Matthew," she asked gently, "what year do you think it is?"

"What year? My goodness, you don't know the year?"

But Annalee was ready for him. She explained, "I need to make sure you don't have any damage to your head, you know, with memory loss or anything."

"Oh! Well, then—it's 1864."

"Right," agreed Annalee, her throat going dry.

It's official.

I'm in The Twilight Zone.

Matthew either burped or hiccupped then; he gave Annalee a self-conscious smile and she couldn't help but smile back, forgetting for a split-second that she was looking at someone who could not possibly exist in her time.

And yet here he was.

"May I ask you a question now, Annalee?"

"Sure, why not?"

"Why are you dressed like a boy?" He pointed to her blue jeans. "I thought you were one last night, actually, until I got close enough to see otherwise. Why on Earth would you, as a girl, wear trousers?"

Think fast! Think fast!

Annalee hit upon an answer. "My parents always wanted a boy," she blurted out.

Nice one, doofus. Next time, think slower.

"Ah! Well, I could understand that," Matthew said, "but they ought to give you girls' clothes, at least."

I'm glad you could understand that. Thanks, buddy.

"Yeah, I guess you're right," Annalee said. "But you know how parents are."

"And the fabric of your blouse is so strange..." He reached out to touch her T-shirt, but when Annalee flinched he immediately withdrew his hand and sat back, as if he knew he had ventured out of bounds.

"So, are you full now? Feeling better?"

"Oh, yes, that was wonderful food—but how did you make it so quickly?"

"It was nothing," she replied, settling down on her knees in front of him. "Chef Boyardee took care of it for me."

"Chef Boyardee—is he a servant in your house?"

Annalee suppressed a giggle. "Sure. So how long has it been since you ate?"

"Almost two days," Matthew said, taking a swig from his water bottle. Then he weighed the bottle in his hand. "Say, what is this material? Some sort of glass?"

"It's plastic." Before he could ask her what plastic was, Annalee followed up with, "How come you went so long without eating?"

"I had food, but I...I lost it."

"Lost it?"

"I was robbed," the boy confessed. He pulled back some hair on the right side of his head, close to his temple. An ugly bluish-black bruise discolored the skin. "Three men accosted me on the road. They took my provisions and what little money I had."

"I'm sorry," Annalee said.

"It's all right. Everything is perfect now," he assured her. There was a slightly amorous quality to his voice.

"Yeah, well, you're lucky to be alive," Annalee said quickly. "Those guys could have killed you." She paused, considering the ramifications of what he'd just told her. "You don't think they could have followed you here, do you?"

"No. They ran away after they robbed me. They were just common bandits. I'm sure you know the island is nearly deserted now. I had returned here looking for my family, but they seem to have gone. I found an old man who was a neighbor of ours when I was a child. He thinks they may have taken refuge in the Okefenokee Swamp, where we have kin."

"Refuge from what?"

"Refuge from the war," Matthew snapped. "What else could it have been?"

"Hey! You don't have to bite my head off."

"Bite your...what?"

"Never mind," Annalee said with a dismissive wave. "So you told me you came back to see your family. Where were you before?"

"I was at Chickamauga." He straightened a bit when he told her so; the pride in his voice was evident.

"Where's that?"

"Chickamauga? It's here in Georgia," Matthew answered, seemingly incredulous that she did not know the name. "You've not heard of what happened there?"

"No, I haven't. I'm sorry."

"It was at Chickamauga, in September of last year, that we crushed the Yankees." Fire had crept into his eyes. "They fled from us like the cowards they are—the ones who survived, anyway."

Unnerved by the boy's ardor, Annalee asked him softly, "How old are you, Matthew?"

"What does that matter?"

"I'm just asking. How old are you?"

"I'm fourteen." He seemed to resent the question. "When I fought at Chickamauga, I was only thirteen, though. I traveled from this island all to the way to the mountains of north Georgia so I could fight with the Army of Tennessee."

"Why?"

"You ask strange questions."

"Just tell me, please."

"Well, it's really quite simple. There weren't hardly any battles fought in Georgia until last year, and I've long yearned to go to war against the Union. They try to make boys my age drummers, but I had no wish to be one of those. So I when I finally reached the Army of Tennessee I told them I was sixteen—and they believed me, I suppose, because I'm so tall."

"And so you went on to fight at this Chickamauga place after that."

"Yes."

"Why did you come home?"

"My commanding officer ordered it, after I confessed my true age. He told me to go back and tend to my mother and siblings, at least for a time, as my father died of consumption three years ago."

"I see."

"But, of course, they aren't here," Matthew continued, "and so now I'm returning to the front."

"You've already fought once, though. Why do it again?"

"Because, girl, I'm needed. Desperately needed! This is a dark moment for us. A Union devil named Sherman has destroyed the city of Atlanta, and they say he means to march his army downstate, all the way to the sea—to Savannah, I hear. And I intend to stop him." Drawing his breath deep, he added, "Indeed, I myself hope to be the one who kills him."

Annalee did not respond. She was accustomed to bravado from boys—but this was not bravado, she sensed. His words were flat, declarative. He spoke these words as a simple fact, not as a threat.

I wonder, Annalee thought, if he's already killed someone in this war, or maybe even several people.

She didn't want to know, if he had.

Annalee continued: "So when you came back to the island, it was mainly woods, right? Just the way you remembered it when you left?"

"Yes, why?"

"And the only thing different was this barn. Am I right?"

"Yes, but I just assumed it was built after I left."

After you left...

Annalee took a moment to ponder the boy's words.

I think I get it now. I don't know how or why this is happening, but yeah, I think I finally understand a little of it. For me it's 2013; for you it's 1864. But this barn somehow manages to exist in both years. The Greene Island you know in 1864 is still mostly uninhabited, except for a few families. The Greene Island I know in 2013 has twelve thousand people living on it. This barn, and maybe a few acres surrounding it, sits at the crossroads of both our eras. That's just the way it is right now...but is that the way it'll be forever?

She looked down at Matthew's empty plate, and then back up at him. "I'll bet you're still hungry."

"Well, yes," the boy admitted. His demeanor was softening again. Annalee decided not to ask him anything else about his wartime experiences, at least for the moment. "But you've been so kind, I don't want to take any more food from—"

"Oh, be quiet," Annalee said, getting to her feet. "It's not any trouble. Let me go back to the house and see what else I can find. I might be gone a little longer this time, since my parents should be up by now, but don't worry. I'll be back. Don't try to go anywhere, okay?"

"I won't," Matthew promised, and, hearing these words, Annalee was gone again, racing out of her family's barn into the golden light of a new morning...the most baffling, most splendid morning of her young life.

***

Stay focused, Annalee urged herself, racing toward the house. Think about what you're doing and don't screw this up.

She tried to mentally step back, to look at the situation in terms of potential problems and possible solutions. One by one, breathlessly making her way home, she examined each problem—and then attempted to come up with a practical way to solve it.

Problem: You've got a boy in your barn who's somehow managed to travel all the way from 1864 to the present; you don't know how it happened, and he doesn't even realize it's happened.

Solution: for the moment, she was just going to play along with him and pretend it was 1864.

Problem: Even though your mom and dad hardly ever go out to the barn, that doesn't mean they won't at some point, and if this kid thinks he's in danger, there's no telling what he might do to defend himself—so you need to make sure he doesn't overreact, or somebody could get hurt really bad.

Solution: she was going to make sure he understood that he was in no danger here, unless he hurt one of her parents; then he would be in plenty of danger—from her.

Problem: You're going to have to take care of pretty much all his needs until you figure out what to do next: his food, washing his clothes, making sure he's got enough blankets to stay warm when it gets cold tonight.

Solution: Annalee had taken care of her family's Irish Setter—a female they had named Ladybug—until the dog died last year. Keeping a pet boy, she imagined, couldn't be that much more work.

Problem: You have no idea what you're doing—none.

Solution: she would just have to wing it.

***

Madeline Rutledge was up and about when Annalee returned. The girl had forgotten that, for her parents, today was just a normal work day. Her mother was sitting in the breakfast nook, eating a piece of toast.

"Hi, Mom," Annalee said, coming in through the back door.

"Where have you been?" Madeleine demanded. Apparently she'd assumed that Annalee was still upstairs in her bed, asleep.

"Outside," the girl replied, headed for the pantry. She grabbed two cans of fruit cocktail with peel-off lids, as well as another bottle of water and an old "spork" (a plastic spoon/fork combination) from Kentucky Fried Chicken they had saved for some strange reason, and then made for the back door again.

"Where are you going?" a befuddled Madeline asked as Annalee passed by for a second time, this time on the way out.

"Outside."

"Annalee, stop," her mother ordered. "Now just wait a minute."

Annalee halted and spun around; she was flustered and impatient. "Yes, Mom, what is it?"

"Why are you taking all that food with you?"

"I just thought I'd go out walking and maybe eat this along the way. Am I allowed to do that?"

"Well, I guess so—but why?"

"It's just something I feel like doing. Can I go now? I'm in a hurry."

She was already turning to leave.

"I guess, but—oh, all right," Madeleine groaned.

Annalee was halfway out the door anyway.

***

Moments later, stepping into the still-shadowed barn, Annalee called, "Matthew—you're still here, right?"

"Yes, yes, I'm here," he said, emerging from the dark.

"You didn't have to get up. Sit back down."

Matthew complied, taking a seat on the floor. Annalee handed him the second water bottle and then peeled the lid off a can of fruit cocktail for him. "Now I haven't told anyone at my house you're here yet," she said, handing him the opened can. "So if anyone comes into this barn, you need to hide. But if someone finds you in here—like my father—don't worry. Just say you're a friend of mine and I let you stay here. They won't hurt you."

"All right," the boy agreed.

"But don't you try to hurt them either, okay? I'm serious. If you hurt my dad or mom, even if you think it's in self-defense, I'll—"

"I won't. I'll immediately surrender if they find me. I promise."

"You'll just say you're a friend of mine and that's it, understand? Don't talk about the war or any of that stuff."

Matthew wrinkled his nose at these words, so Annalee followed up with, "They already know all about it."

"Ah, I see," he said, digging into his fruit cocktail with the spork. "It's just as well you haven't told anyone. I won't be here for long anyhow."

"When were you planning to leave?"

"Tonight."

"You're not serious, are you?" Annalee cried, aghast. "That's crazy, Matthew. I mean, look at yourself. You've got to stay here longer than that."

"I wish I could, but I'm needed on the front."

"It'll take a while for this Sherman guy to get to Savannah," Annalee said, recalling her decision to play along as if it were 1864 to her as well. "There's time."

Matthew shook his head.

I guess you didn't hear me, Annalee thought.

Surprising even herself, she snatched away his can of fruit cocktail, held it above her head. Matthew only glared at her in shock, a thin line of syrup hanging from the side of his mouth.

"Listen to me," Annalee said. "This is my barn, and you're eating my food, and I'm the one who's taking care of you right now. Understand?"

A still-stunned Matthew gave a weak nod.

"You're not well enough to go fight yet," Annalee continued. "You don't want to see a doctor? Fine, then I'll be your doctor. I'm saying that you're sick and you need to get better before you go anywhere. How are you supposed to help the people in Savannah if you're passing out all the time?"

Matthew made no reply.

"Well? Answer me."

"I..."

"Three days. All right?"

That should be enough time for me to figure something out.

Clearly appalled, Matthew repeated, "Three days?"

"At least three," she said.

"I won't do that."

"This is a miracle, right? You said so yourself. Don't you think you ought to relax and enjoy it before you go off to war?"

"I...suppose so."

"So three days," she said again. "You'll give me three days, won't you?"

Matthew folded his arms across his chest. His expression was grim.

"All right," he said at last, "but no more than that."

"Thanks. Here's your stuff back." She held out the can to him.

"You're awfully fierce," Matthew remarked, timidly taking it from her.

"Thank you," Annalee said, laying her hands in her lap.

"I normally wouldn't let myself be treated like that by a girl."

Get used to it, as long as you're sleeping in my barn.

As the boy resumed his meal, he asked, "Where do you come from, Annalee?"

"I'm from Greene Island."

"You are? How is it we've never met, then?"

"I don't know." Because I was born almost a hundred fifty years later, probably.

"Who is your family?"

"The Rutledges."

"Yes! I do know of the Rutledges. Is your father Charles Rutledge?"

"He's my...relative." In fact, he was Annalee's great-great-grandfather. She only knew who Charles Rutledge was because her father served as the Rutledge family's self-appointed historian and, in this role, had drilled the names of her ancestors into her head.

"Oh, I see."

To cut off—she hoped—any further questions about her family, Annalee added, "He's my cousin. I forget how we're all related. It's complicated. I can't explain it."

I can't even explain how you're sitting here in front of me.

"I won't ask you to, then."

"Looks like you're all done," she said as he set down the empty can.

"Thank you, Annalee."

"I brought you another one." She handed him the second can.

"You shouldn't have done all this for me."

"I don't mind."

"Well, I'm very grateful anyway," he said, starting into his new can. "What is this dish called?"

"Fruit cocktail."

"It's so sweet. I love it."

"Good," Annalee said. "I made it myself."

"You did?"

"I sure did."

"Do you have any brothers or sisters, Annalee? Perhaps I know one of them."

"I have a sister who's off at college—you know, studying at school."

"Where?"

"I'm not really sure." It was a lie, of course, but she doubted she could tell him the truth: that her sister was at Princeton University—in Princeton, New Jersey. Somehow it struck Annalee as unwise to tell a member of the Confederate Army of Tennessee that she had a sister studying in a northern state. As an explanation, she said, "We don't talk much."

"I see. And you have only one sibling?"

"Just the one." And she's plenty. "How many brothers and sisters do you have?"

"I have four brothers and two sisters. I'm the eldest."

"What does your family think of you wanting to fight like this?"

"My mother opposes it," Matthew said, pausing to take a swig of water. Then: "I imagine my father would have opposed it as well. He was a minister, and hated all violence and killing. I hate those things too, but we have no choice."

"Why don't you have a choice?"

"Because the Yankee is here," he answered, "occupying our soil. We have to fight him until either he leaves or all of us are dead. There's no other way."

Now it was Annalee's turn to be silent.

You died, she thought, observing Matthew as he downed the last of the water. I saw your headstone in the cemetery. You died decades and decades ago, and yet...you're here with me, alive, in my barn. Somehow you were able to slip out of 1864, and show up in here in 2013.

Her brain began to hum.

If you were to stay here in 2013—if you never go back to 1864—then that means you would never...

Annalee stood. "I have to go."

"You're leaving again?"

"I'm going to get you some blankets and a pillow and some different clothes for you to wear." That was part of the reason; not all, though, or even most of it.

"Why do I need different clothes?"

She answered, "Look, I don't mean to embarrass you or anything, Matthew, but the clothes you have on—they stink. So I'm going to give you some new ones and take the old ones home to be washed."

"I don't want to put you to any trouble."

"That's all right," she said. "I'll just have Chef Boyardee do it."

"He washes clothes and cooks?"

But Annalee did not hear his question. A theory was forming in her mind, and she knew of only a single way to test it.

"Wait right here," she told him. "I'll be back."

"How long?"

"One hour!"

***

The truth was that Annalee could have gone to her house, gotten a change of clothes for Matthew, and been back within ten minutes. It took a full fifteen minutes, however, for her to reach the cemetery of the Prince of Peace Episcopal Church on her bicycle. For that reason—factoring in the time it would take for her to find his headstone, confirm her theory, then obtain his new clothes and get back to him—she had told the boy an hour.

Please.

Annalee hopped off her bike, propped it up at the cemetery gate; then she scurried onto the grounds.

Please let what I'm thinking be right—please, please, please.

In a blur of hope and fear Annalee Rutledge bounded past the stone Crosses and marble slabs, past the rustling azaleas and the trunks of mighty oaks. If there were other living people present in the cemetery today, she did not notice them.

Finally she reached the headstone of, as her grandmother had referred to him, "the little Hawkins boy." Out of breath, Annalee could only gasp in astonishment, and a joy greater than any she had ever known, when she saw that the inscription had changed. It now read:

Matthew Nehemiah Hawkins

January 27, 1850 –

5

Having seen that which she needed—and so desperately wanted—to see in the cemetery of Prince of Peace Episcopal Church, Annalee cycled home. Her parents had gone to work by the time she arrived, which was a relief, because it meant she didn't have to be surreptitious about collecting the various items of clothing she thought her new guest could use. Since her father was the only man in the house, his wardrobe was the source of all of them: two pairs of socks, some sweatpants, one pair of old blue jeans, a couple of white T-shirts, a belt, and a Georgia Bulldogs sweatshirt. Next, she got a couple of old pillows and a frayed comforter, both of which had been stowed in the linen closet in the upstairs hallway for several years now. Annalee stuffed all of these things into two white trash bags. She hoisted one over each shoulder, and took off again for the barn.

I'm having way too much fun here, she thought.

***

Upon her arrival at the barn, Annalee found Matthew lying on his back again. This time he did not even try to get up. He seemed ill; his head was propped up on his right arm and his left arm was covering his face.

"Matthew," Annalee said, rushing to him, the trash bags tossed aside. "What's the matter?"

"You were right," the boy groaned, dropping his arm and looking at her grimly. "I ate too fast."

Annalee supposed that was part of it—but she also wondered if there hadn't been preservatives or additives in the food that she'd given him for which his digestive system was unprepared.

I hope I haven't poisoned the guy.

"I'm sorry."

"It's all right," Matthew said, sitting up now. "I'm the one who's to blame. You tried to warn me." He eyed the trash bags. "What's in those?"

"New clothes, just like I promised," Annalee said. "And some stuff to keep you warm tonight. I hate to keep you out here in the barn again, but—"

"No, please don't apologize. You've been so kind to me already. I understand if you want to keep my presence here a secret for now. I don't want to complicate things for you."

Too late for that, dude—but I forgive you.

She got up, went over and opened the bags. "All right," she said, pulling out the clothing she'd obtained for him. "So here's what I want you to do. I want you to change into these clean clothes and put the nasty ones you're wearing into this bag." She tossed the sweatpants and a T-shirt his way. "I'll step outside in a minute to give you some privacy. Just remember: everything you're wearing goes in this bag. Got it?"

"Yes, Annalee."

"But first we need to make a bed for you." She now emptied the bag that held the comforter, blankets, and pillows. "Once I leave, I want you to take a nice, long nap. Don't get up. Don't try to explore. Just rest for the afternoon and don't worry about anything. I'll be back with more food before it gets dark."

As Matthew watched, she spread out the comforter to serve as a sort of a mattress for him, and then laid the sheets and pillows down.

"Can I help you?" he asked.

"No. You just sit there and relax. You don't need to do anything."

"But I feel lazy when you do all the work."

"It's all right, Matthew, really." Her task finished, she stood. "Now get changed, okay? I'll be outside. Holler when you're ready for me to come back in."

***

A moment later, as Annalee loitered outside the barn, the call came: "Annalee? I'm ready." Annalee bounded back in, got her first view of Matthew in his new duds: the sweatpants and a white T-shirt. He stood in the center of the barn.

"These clothes," he said, feeling the waistband of the sweatpants, "are unusual."

"You'll get used to them," Annalee assured him. "Now get into your bed."

By now it seemed Matthew was accustomed to taking orders from Annalee; he made no reply, just slipped under the top blanket as she had commanded. Meanwhile, Annalee twisted shut the bag into which he'd placed his old clothes. When she turned around, she saw that he was observing her with his hands clasped behind his head. He was smiling at her, but not lecherously; instead, it was a peaceful, contented smile he wore.

"What?" she asked coyly.

"Nothing," he said. "I didn't mean to stare."

No—stare! Stare!

But Annalee steadied herself. She feared she was becoming too excited about this impossible boy. There were so many questions swirling around them right now, for which she did not have answers. And yet one thing seemed clear: so long as he was here in this barn, the fate awaiting him in 1864 could not come to pass.

If I keep him here in 2013, she mused, he's safe. But what happens when he wants to leave? If he walks out of here, will he go right back into 1864—and die there?

That was Annalee's guess.

Somehow, over the next three days, she was going to have to come up with a means of getting him to stay permanently. She needed to think, and think hard, while he was resting here in her barn.

There's got to be a way. There's got to be.

"Okay, well, I'm going for a while. And you won't disobey me while I'm gone, will you? You'll just sleep here in the barn, right?"

"Yes," the boy promised her, "I will."

"Good."

Now carrying just a single bag over her shoulder, Annalee started out of the barn again. But just before she was outside, he called from behind her: "And you'll come back soon, won't you?"

"Of course I will. Goodnight, Matthew."

She left.

***

That evening, at about half past four, Annalee returned to the barn with two more bottled waters, some hot Chicken & Stars soup in a Corning ware bowl, and a pair of Little Debbie zebra cakes she'd extracted from their wrapping so she wouldn't have to be asked, once again, by Matthew what plastic was. She entered quietly, found the boy swaddled in the blankets she'd brought for him, sound asleep. The expression on his face was so peaceful, she hated to disturb him. But it was time for his evening meal and she had only a limited window of opportunity in which to deliver it.

Crouching beside him, Annalee gently nudged Matthew's shoulder. She was a bit nervous: concerned he might think he was back on the battlefield and attack her. Fortunately, though, he just stirred; his eyes opened slowly, closed, then opened again. Annalee reckoned he'd been in a very deep sleep.

Poor thing.

"Wake up," she whispered, "it's suppertime."

Matthew propped himself up on one elbow, rubbed his eyes. "Thank you for this, Annalee."

"Here you go," she said, handing him the soup along with a spoon. "It's not as much as before, but..."

"No, Annalee, it's plenty," he said, dipping into the soup. "It's plenty."

She let him take a few more spoonfulls before she asked, "Are you feeling okay?"

"Yes," he replied. "That was a good rest."

"Well, as soon as I leave, I want you to go right back to sleep again."

"When will you be here tomorrow?"

"After sunrise," she said.

"That seems a long time to me."

"Me too," Annalee said quietly. "But it isn't."

After a moment, Matthew said, "This soup is good. Did you make it?"

"No. It's Campbell's."

"He makes good soup," Matthew told her between slurps, "this man Campbell."

Annalee chuckled to herself.

"What's funny?" Matthew asked.

"Oh, nothing. By the way, I've finished washing and drying your old clothes. I'll bring them back tomorrow. I just forgot. Sorry."

"No, Annalee. After all you've done," said Matthew, "you mustn't apologize to me for anything. I owe you too much."

"Yeah, well, you've been pretty easy to take care of—so far, anyway." She noted that his bowl was empty. "Here, I brought you these too." She set the zebra cakes down beside him. "They're from Little Debbie."

"My goodness," the boy exclaimed. "How many servants do you have, Annalee?"

"Lots." You know, like Mrs. Paul, Sara Lee, Mama Celeste—and the Quaker. As he scarfed down the cakes, Annalee warned him, "You're getting crumbs all over your blanket." She began picking off some of those crumbs. "Seriously, Matthew, you're eating like you're the Cookie Monster or something."

"The what...?"

Oops.

"The Cookie Monster," Annalee said, trying to think fast on her feet. "It's an old story my...grandmother used to tell us about a monster that lived off cookies."

Matthew, his brow furrowed, remarked, "I'm not sure if I've ever heard of a creature called the Cookie Monster. Is that a Greene Island story, or from someplace else?"

Think fast! Think fast!

"It was actually a legend in the country her parents originally came from."

Boy, Annalee, you're digging a deep hole here.

"Oh, I love old legends, especially those from foreign lands. What country did her parents come from, may I ask?"

"Um, well," Annalee stammered, "I think it was called Sesame."

Matthew frowned. "I've never heard of a country called Sesame either."

What do you do when you find yourself in a deep hole? Annalee demanded of herself. You stop digging. So stop!

"Yeah, well, I'm not really sure if that's its name or not," she said. "Now here, let me take your bowl. You keep the bottled waters and just sip on them if you get thirsty tonight, okay?"

She started to get up.

"Wait," Matthew said, "before you go, tell me the legend of the Cookie Monster. It sounds interesting."

"I'm sorry, I don't remember it," Annalee said. "Lie back down, all right?"

"Well, can't you try to recall—?"

"No, I can't." Hesitant to touch him before, she was agitated enough by her accidental reference to modern American children's programming—and embarrassed enough by her subsequent ham-fisted attempts to explain it away—that almost without thinking she placed one hand on his chest and gently pushed him onto his back again.

But Matthew was undaunted. "Is it a fairytale?"

"Hush up," and then Annalee, in a gesture both found equally shocking, bent down and kissed him quickly on the forehead.

It was meant to get him to be quiet, she tried to tell herself, or to be maternal, or sisterly, or any one of a number of non-romantic options. Still, her cheeks shone bright red afterward, as did those of Matthew Hawkins. But if the goal was to silence him, it worked. He ceased his pleas for more information about the fabled Cookie Monster of the country of Sesame; indeed, he only glared at her in stunned silence.

"Now I'll see you in the morning, all right?" Annalee said, trying to pretend that the kiss, brief though it was, had never happened.

"Yes...yes, see you then," Matthew responded. "Goodnight, Annalee."

***

Walking home, dusk settling in around her, Annalee wondered where all this would lead. She was embarrassed by her spontaneous display of affection, and yet some part of her, deep inside, was glad she'd made it.

"Is it a fairytale?" the boy had asked her.

No, Matthew, she thought. We're the fairytale.

6

Having hardly slept at all the night before, Annalee found it amazing she was as alert and as lucid as she was when she came downstairs before sunrise. She'd set her alarm for 5:30am, hoping to fix Matthew's breakfast and get to the barn before her parents woke up, for surely they would want to know why she was preparing a meal and trying to take it outdoors. Besides, she wanted to do something a little special for him today—something more than just dumping a blob of processed food onto a plate and sending it through the microwave. She was not much of a cook yet, but she figured she could handle a few simple menu items, and if none of them turned out as well as she wanted, most likely Matthew wouldn't mind.

***

About a half hour later she entered the barn with a basket.

"Hey, Matthew," she called inside. "Breakfast!"

"Watch this, Annalee," came a voice from above. She looked up and saw Matthew standing atop a beam overhead. Below him, moved slightly forward on the ground, he had piled up his blankets and pillows.

"Matthew—" she began, alarmed.

But that was all Annalee got out before he leapt from the beam, executed a somersault in mid-air, and plummeted into the stack of blankets. He did not land on his feet, rather on his back, but he survived the landing without injury and she found even this accomplishment remarkable.

"Well," he said, grinning at her from amid the blankets like a happy baby wrapped in warm towels after a bath, "what did you think? I've been practicing since early this morning."

Annalee pursed her lips. "That was very dangerous. You could have broken your neck."

"Nonsense," Matthew disagreed, hopping to his feet. "I wanted you to see how much better I feel—thanks to you."

"I can tell. Don't do that anymore, okay?"

He bounded forward, coming extraordinarily close to her; another few inches and her nose would have touched the center of his chest. "What did you bring me?"

"I'll show you. First move out of the way."

Matthew stepped aside with a deep bow.

Annalee knelt, extracted a tablecloth from her basket and spread it on the ground. Then, one by one, she set out the items she'd either made, or obtained, for him—all in Tupperware containers.

"All right," she said, "first you've got waffles and the syrup that goes with them."

Matthew squatted down beside her. Out of the corner of her eye she noticed he was looking at her rather than the food. "You'll make me fat," he warned.

Annalee ignored him, went on: "And there's bacon and some toast here too. I brought you both grape and strawberry jelly because I wasn't sure what kind you liked."

"I would love anything you brought me."

"Well, it's just important that you eat a good breakfast," she said airily. "Here's your silverware." She handed him a fork and a butter knife.

"Thank you, Annalee. Did you already eat?"

"Yeah," she said.

"Next time I hope you'll bring your own food with you, so we can share a meal," he said, starting on the waffles, "instead of you just sitting there and watching me."

I don't mind watching you.

"I don't like to eat in front of guys, normally." Wait, did they have the word "guy" back then? She clarified, "In front of boys, you know—boys my own age."

"Why not?"

"Because I like to eat, and I'm always afraid I'll look like a pig if I get too much food in front of them."

"I must look like a pig to you right now," he said, munching cheerily.

"It's okay to be a pig if you're a boy," Annalee responded. "People just expect it. But I'm a girl so I have to be more, you know, delicate—more refined. That's the word my mother always uses: refined."

"I think you're most refined, Annalee."

"You hardly know me."

"I know enough," he said, and held out a piece of bacon. "Here, eat some."

"No, thanks."

"Are you certain?"

"Yes."

Matthew shook his head and ate the piece of bacon himself.

After a short pause, Annalee remarked, "I guess you're getting bored around here."

"Of course not. Though I'll definitely need to be on my way soon."

"You told me you'd stay for three days."

"It's already been one day."

"No, that didn't count. I only found you here yesterday morning. It's three complete days."

"I don't remember agreeing to that."

"Well, I do."

"You didn't explain your terms."

"Hey, you should have asked more questions," Annalee retorted.

Matthew opened his mouth to respond—then closed it again and went back to eating.

"What?" Annalee demanded. "What were you about to say?"

"Not a thing."

"You were about to say something. What was it?"

"Just you," he said, carving up his last waffle, "the way you switch from gentle to firm to gentle again. It's really quite something to see."

"Well, you just seem like you want to leave so bad."

"It's not that I want to leave, Annalee. I don't."

"Then why are you in such a hurry to go?"

"I told you before: I'm needed at the front."

"Don't you think you've done enough already in this war?"

"There are others who've done far more than I have," Matthew said, his food now gone. He sat back on his hands. "There are men who have given their lives in this war. I would dishonor their memories, to say nothing of myself, if I quit simply because I thought I had done, as you call it, enough." The boy spoke that final word with consummate disdain.

"Matthew," Annalee began, "there's something I need to tell you."

"Yes?"

"I—"

"What is it?"

"I need to go fix your lunch."

Nice going, stupid. Tell him the truth, like you were about to: that he's destined to die if he goes back. Tell him! Save his life!

"Do you have to do it right away?" Matthew asked her. "You just arrived."

"Yes, right away." Annalee got to her feet. "It's the staff's day off."

"Please don't trouble yourself with anything fancy or elaborate. I really don't need much to be happy."

Although maybe it's okay to wait, after all. Give it some thought before you tell him the truth. Rehearse how you want to say it. And then prepare yourself for his reaction. Don't forget, he's from the nineteenth century. Things were different then. Even as kind as he seems, it's hard to predict what he'll do. He might go nuts. You need to be careful.

"Just stay here and relax," Annalee instructed him. "And no more jumping off the beams like that. I'm serious."

"As you wish," Matthew responded, quietly adding, "Mother."

So they had sarcasm back in the old days. How about that?

Annalee turned to go, but just before she was out of the barn he called from behind her, "Annalee."

"What?"

"Don't stay away for long," he said. "I miss you when you're not here."

Yeah, buddy—me too.

But she made no answer, just left.

7

Annalee returned three hours later. She'd spent only about fifteen minutes making his lunch: a couple of ham sandwiches and some potato salad. The balance of that time she'd spent draped across the sofa in the living room, her brain hard at work. Inside the barn, Annalee laid down the basket. Matthew took a seat Indian-style in front of it, and then patted the space beside him—the space close beside him.

Do I want to? Annalee asked herself. And if I want to, should I?

She pondered the situation for a moment.

Yes, I think so—on both.

She sat down. Once she was settled, Matthew leaned over and bumped her softly with his shoulder. "Will you stay a bit longer this time?"

"What are you talking about?"

"Every time you've brought me food all you've done is observe my eating, and then run off afterward to get me more food," he reminded her. "You've asked me to stay for three days, but you keep leaving me alone here for hours."

"I'm sorry," Annalee said. "It's just that you and I are so different—I guess I'm not sure what to say to you sometimes."

"Are we so different really? We're both natives of this island. We're both citizens of a new nation just now being born."

"Yeah, about that—" Annalee began.

"About what?"

"About that new nation thing, you know, us here in the South being our own country—" she gathered her courage "—I'm not so sure that's going to happen."

That's it. Let him down gently.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, I'm saying we might not win. We might, you know, have to surrender."

Matthew's face darkened. "I will never surrender," he growled.

Okay, Annalee, maybe you need to just let this go for now. He doesn't appear to be taking it well.

But then Matthew put his hand on her wrist, gave it an affectionate squeeze. "I understand why you're fearful. Sometimes I have doubts too. We've had our share of setbacks, certainly. The Yankees are more numerous, and they're better equipped, better-armed. But, whenever I become worried, I just think back to the example of George Washington. I'm sure he had his moments of doubt during the Revolution. After all, the British were very powerful, and he knew that if the colonies' War of Independence failed, then he and the other leaders of the rebellion would be hanged. So, yes, I understand. But don't fear. We will prevail. I know we will."

Annalee was silent for a moment; then she said, "I just wish you'd stay here, Matthew."

"I'll come back after the war is over. That's a promise."

It's a promise you can't keep, though—not if you leave. That's why I have to find a way to keep you here.

After a long moment, during which Matthew finished his first ham sandwich, Annalee asked him, "What was your life like here on the island, before the war?"

"Not much different from yours, I reckon—except I'm a boy and you're a girl."

"Yeah, I know, but I'd really like to hear you talk about it. I'd like to know more about you, is what I'm saying."

"Will you tell me about yourself afterwards?"

"Sure," Annalee said. Well, maybe.

Outside, sun-soaked trees whispered in the breeze; the old barn swayed around them in that same breeze but held firm, as it always had.

Matthew talked.

Annalee listened.

Matthew's father was the Reverend Samuel Hawkins. His mother's name was Emma; her maiden name was Baker. Both of his parents were born on Greene Island, and were even delivered by the same midwife—one of three midwives living on the island then. Matthew's grandfather had also been a minister; it was he who had founded the small Episcopal Church, really not much more than a chapel, of which Matthew's father eventually became Rector. He was their first child, and so they had named him Matthew—in Hebrew, "Gift of God." His middle name was derived from Book of Nehemiah in the Hebrew Bible: the chronicle of Nehemiah, the governor of Judah, who rebuilt the walls of Jerusalem and restored the Law of Moses within the city.

Reverend Hawkins was a man who saw the glory of God everywhere he looked. It was imprinted along the veins of newly sprouted leaves; it twinkled in the dewdrops that clung to the grass on a summer's morning; it sheathed the bright green skin of each blade of cordgrass, no matter how tall or how stunted, in the thousands of acres of saltmarsh that separated Greene Island from the mainland. He found it in the dance of sunlight atop the sapphire-hued tidal rivers—some of which were nearly a mile wide—that flooded those marshes twice each day at the moon's behest. He found it in the croaking of plump bullfrogs after sundown; in the midnight symphonies of crickets and cicadas; in the fast glide of dragonflies at dusk; in the dazzling play of lightning bugs, winking on and off, against the backdrop of a night-swept coastal wilderness. But, according to Reverend Hawkins, one did not even have to look as far as the natural world to see Divine Architecture. It was present in the design and functioning of the human body; in the laughter of children, the songs of mothers, the patient instruction of fathers, the encouragement of elders, the comforting words of good friends, and the poignant remembrance of kind voices that had long ago fallen silent.

Each Saturday Reverend Hawkins would rehearse the sermon on which he had worked during the prior week, saying it aloud—and largely from memory, with just occasional glances at notes—in preparation for his delivery of it the following day. Usually he would recite new sermons while taking lengthy walks around the island, and it was Matthew's privilege to join him on most of these walks as companion, critic, and muse. Of course, the boy had little to offer in the way of theological insights or helping his father improve as an orator, but the talented Reverend Hawkins didn't need much help in either regard, even if he always pretended to want Matthew's expert advice on whether his sermon was truly a valid interpretation of Scripture, or which sentence ought to be switched to some other place or removed altogether, or if there was a better term to describe a certain thing. They were together; this, for Matthew, was what truly mattered. He suspected his father felt the same way.

And so, at least on the majority of Saturday afternoons during Matthew's childhood, it was a given that father and son would have two or three special hours to explore Greene Island together, all the while talking of any number of subjects: religion, nature, things that had been, things that were, things yet to come. The muscular branches of squat, rough-barked live oaks interlocked above their heads on many of the paths down which they walked, forming tunnels of wood and leaf into which the sun breathed some light, but not much, so that while the island's cotton fields and acres of rice and corn might shimmer in the savage heat of a Georgia summer, its wilderness existed in a state of perpetual twilight, cool and dark. If there had been rain lately, one could expect that, in addition to ever-present beards of gray Spanish Moss, those same branches would be sleeved in vivid green resurrection ferns, a miniature variety that grew along the limbs of oak trees, appearing brittle and dead in times of drought, but which sprang back to life when doused by a good storm, hence its name. In the same wilderness palmetto bushes that murmured in the breeze, with fronds like bursts of stars, covered much of the forest floor, burning red and green and gold—the colors of Christmas—all throughout the year.

Matthew supposed his behavior on these occasions was like that of a puppy, sometimes bounding out in front, sometimes hanging back to sniff at some exotic scent, but never venturing too far ahead or falling too far behind, and always, always, happiest when at his master's side. He did not deny that, much as he loved the sound of his father's voice, he frequently got distracted. For example, while walking along a bluff—with the vast marshlands sighing in breezes from the west and the river swollen with seawater—he might have noted the silver glimmering of a bottlenose dolphin as it hurtled itself after a school of mullet, attempting to drive its quarry onto the river's muddy banks; or he might have been mesmerized by a cloud shaped vaguely like a horse or an elephant as it drifted over those same marshes toward the mainland, which was still largely as wild as Greene Island in those days; or he may have been transfixed by the sight of a slick-bodied otter crossing from one side of the water to the other. But his mind, like his body, never strayed far from his father's presence when they walked together, not because he feared Reverend Hawkins might discipline him for failing to pay attention—it was uncommon for Reverend Hawkins to even raise his voice at one his children—but because Matthew respected him so.

He was endlessly fascinated by the great epics of the Old Testament: the creation of the world; the exile of Adam and Eve from the Garden of Eden; the tragedy of Cain and Abel; Noah and the Flood; Jacob's wrestling match with the angel, and his refusal to let go until the heavenly being blessed him; the exodus of the Israelites from Egypt; Samson and Delilah; David and Goliath; the Judgment of Solomon; Jonah and the Whale; the casting of Daniel into the lion's den. Reverend Hawkins would discreetly try to expand his son's interest to the New Testament: the life and teachings of Jesus Christ; the Acts of the Apostles; the letters of Paul to the Romans, the Corinthians, the Thessalonians, Galatians, Ephesians, and Colossians, his mentorship of Timothy and Titus; the General Epistles; and over the course of many walks, as he patiently explained the parables of Jesus and their application to the modern world, he was successful in this endeavor. Reverend Hawkins had a gift for adjusting his language to best fit the ears of the person or people to whom he spoke—old or young, rich or poor, well-schooled or not schooled at all. He was a man of learning who encouraged his son to become a "scholar of the whole world," and took time to tutor Matthew and the other children not only in their religion but also in Latin, Ancient Greek, Astronomy, mathematics, the literature of both the United States and Great Britain, history, geography, almost any subject about which he could find a few books to use as study tools.

Reverend Hawkins was the best father any boy could have had, Matthew concluded by saying—and Annalee thought she saw his eyes glisten briefly in the half-light of the barn, but maybe not.

He went on to tell her of other things. He told her of the marvelous smells that came from his mother's kitchen every day: hot batter and bacon frying in the morning, biscuits so light that eating one was like taking bites from a buttered cloud. He told her of flounder gigging off the vast sandbars that rose out of the tidal rivers at low tide, and the pride he took when flounders he had speared in the morning ended up sizzling in salt, pepper, and flour later that day. It was a grand feeling, he claimed, for a boy so young to already be putting food on his family's table. He talked of hunting the wild boar in tangled thickets, and how, on several occasions, a boar had suddenly turned round and chased him up a tree, in a flash making the hunter the hunted; talked of uncovering nests of turtle eggs on the beach and boiling them up for a rare delicacy; of trapping and killing the alligators that prowled the blackwater swamps in the island's interior like aquatic dragons, and stews his mother would make from the great tails that only hours earlier had propelled these beasts through the tea-colored deeps. He spoke of harvesting oysters from their grand bone yards of shell and mud in the creeks, of pulling up limitless bounties of blue crabs from the waters, and of how his family grew watermelons, potatoes, green beans, okra, figs, and "the biggest tomatoes you ever saw, Annalee."

The more Matthew said, the easier the words seemed to come, and the less effort he made to bind those words into any kind of coherent narrative, which was fine with Annalee. Just hearing his voice, watching him grin and even laugh at times as he described island life in those days, was fascinating to her—and endearing.

When he described his many friendships with other children of Greene Island, she thought they sounded like some nineteenth century version of the Peanuts gang, though Matthew, with his penchant for Biblical quotations and his elevated diction, struck her as closer to Linus than Charlie Brown. She loved hearing of the kids' adventures together: building forts on the long shoreline of Greene Island to guard against future incursions by British or Spanish warships; mounting fruitless but still enjoyable searches for the hidden treasure of Captain Edward Teach, better known as Blackbeard the Pirate, who was rumored to have buried his riches somewhere in the barrier islands of Georgia's coast; ambushing other troops of children from groves of cherry laurels in the course of raucous mock-wars in which no side ever lost; loading baskets-full of the wild blackberries that grew in abundance on the island, and how the boys would sometimes spit out a little of the blackberry juice as they chewed them up, in conscious imitation of the way their elders spit tobacco; of uncovering a patch of marsh on the island's north end out in which stood a grove of skeletal, petrified trees that had been poisoned—and were now preserved in their doom—as the ground beneath them sank low enough for the saltwater to contaminate their roots, and noting that this area was particularly prone to heavy mists, and concluding it must be a sanctuary for Earth-bound spirits and therefore ought to be treated with reverence, if not avoided altogether. He told her of the island's two schoolteachers: Beatrice Parker, a rotund, ever-smiling matron with a cloud of white hair, who was responsible for educating the younger children; and Florence Watson, a tall, dour, long-faced woman who taught the older ones and had earned the nickname of "Crab Claws" for the vice-like grip she used to snatch up misbehaving pupils. When great thunderstorms rolled in off the sea, making the wonders of the outdoors unavailable to him, Matthew dove into his small collection of reading materials, among which were books like Robinson Crusoe by Daniel Defoe and Nathaniel Hawthorne's Twice Told Tales—"The Great Carbuncle" was his favorite story from the latter work—as well as copies of assorted magazines like Merry's Museum, a popular periodical for children in the nineteenth century. He spoke of how most houses on the island were made of tabby—a hardy mixture of sand, lime and crushed oyster shell, baked in the sun—aside from the grand residences of the island's several plantation-owners, such homes being built from exotic, expensive brick. This was life for the tiny population of settlers on Greene Island.

Yet it is written in the twenty-fourth chapter of the Holy Gospel According to Matthew, beginning at the sixth verse:

"And ye shall hear of wars and rumours of wars: see that ye be not troubled: for all these things must come to pass, but the end is not yet. For nation shall rise against nation, and kingdom against kingdom: and there shall be famines, and pestilences, and earthquakes, in divers places. All these are the beginning of sorrows."

There had been many attempts since independence to defuse the explosive issue of slavery and settle, once and for all, its Constitutional status in the United States of America, then not even a century old. Southern states held that the federal union was a voluntary association; in order to protect its interests, even if its main interest was the perpetuation of slavery, any state had the right to leave that union at any time. Following the election of Abraham Lincoln in 1860, no fewer than seven Southern states seceded from the Union—South Carolina, Mississippi, Florida, Alabama, Georgia, Louisiana, and Texas—and on February 4, 1861, a new nation appeared on the globe: The Confederate States of America. Its motto: Deo Vindince.

"Under God, our Vindicator."

At the time of secession, however, Matthew and his family were more concerned with the failing health of Reverend Hawkins, who by the winter of 1860 had been diagnosed with consumption, which Annalee recalled to be an older term for tuberculosis. Reverend Hawkins carried on as best he could, and it was remarkable indeed that he managed to stay on Earth for another year. Matthew's voice grew quiet as he spoke of his father's last days, yet he remained composed and clear-eyed when he told of how Reverend Hawkins—a big, imposing man—withered to such small size in the bed he awoke in one day and found he could no longer get out of; how his flesh whitened and sunk into his bones; how the joints of his fingers could easily be counted under his wasted skin; how he was rendered virtually unable to move; and how, in spite of his ordeal, his eyes still shone with joy whenever his children gathered around him, touched him, kissed him, read to him the same selections from Scripture that he had read to them when he was still hearty and whole. On what turned out to be Reverend Hawkins' final morning alive, Matthew was sitting beside him. Voice faint, breath shallow, he said to his son, "Don't be afraid. I'm only going a few steps farther than you can see me, and surely you know that what we see is not all there is, nor all that can be. I will live henceforth in a mansion of light, but from that mansion I will cheer for you and comfort you and love you as much as I ever did in life. Rejoice. Rejoice. I am returning home, and there I will wait until the day we are reunited. Farewell for a time." Then he died, and afterwards, Matthew recalled, his mother became an old woman almost overnight. She still moved about the house just fine and did all the things she'd done before, but in the wake of his father's death she seldom smiled, hardly ever laughed, and never sang as she once had nearly every day.

It was at this point in his narrative that Matthew looked at Annalee and said, "I probably ought not to have told you that story. Surely you didn't want to hear anything sad."

Annalee responded, "I want to hear whatever it is you want to say."

After a pause, Matthew said, "You always speak so kindly to me."

"Oh, I don't know about that. I think I probably boss around you too much."

"No. Even when you're ordering me about, there's kindness in it." He placed his chin on his fist. "So tell me about yourself now, Annalee."

The girl shrugged. "There's not a whole lot to say about me, honestly."

Not a lot I can say, anyhow, without clueing you in to some pretty big differences between my Greene Island and your Greene Island.

"Tell me about your family," he urged her, "or your friends. Or the things you like to do."

"Matthew, really, I—"

That was when Annalee's smartphone rang. She had recently downloaded a soft electronica ringtone because it was so pleasant and unobtrusive. But here with Matthew Hawkins of Greene Island, born in January of 1850, it was like a grenade going off. The boy sprang to his feet.

"What is that?" he demanded. "What is that noise?"

It was her mother, Annalee realized, also jumping up. Understandable, really, that she would hear from Madeline now since it was after five o'clock and her mother had likely come home to an empty house with no note from her young daughter detailing where she'd gone or when she might be coming back. Annalee was amazed so many hours had passed since her arrival here; to her, the time seemed to have flown by. In the future she'd have to pay more attention to the clock. Reflexively she pulled it from her pocket, meaning to decline the call, but, in a panic, inadvertently answered it.

"Annalee?" Madeline barked from the other end of the line, audible to both of them. "Annalee, is that you?"

Eyes wide, bottom lip trembling, Matthew seemed to be in a state of abject terror. "What is it? What is that machine?"

"Hi, Mom," Annalee said quickly. "I'm fine. I've got to go."

"Annalee, where are you? Don't hang—" But Annalee had already terminated the call; for good measure, she turned off the phone too. Her mother would certainly try to call back.

I'm really going to get it now.

"What is that thing?" Matthew gasped, pointing at her phone. "I heard a voice! Someone was talking through it!"

"Matthew, calm down."

"Tell me!"

The girl stammered for a moment—and then inspiration hit her. "It's...it's something my father invented a couple of days ago."

"Your father invented that?"

"Yes. He's an inventor, didn't I tell you already? Just in his spare time." You know, lying is pretty easy once you get the hang of it.

Slowly Matthew was relaxing; his eyes now shone with curiosity. "May I hold it?"

"No, I've got to go right now. But I'll be back."

She hurried for the door.

"Annalee," Matthew called from behind her.

She stopped. "What? Say it quick 'cause I'm in big trouble when I get home."

"Come back tonight, no matter how late," he told her. "I'm tired of being apart from you."

***

Little of her mother's tirade registered with Annalee when she arrived home, moments later. In the time it took her to travel from the barn back to the house she'd invented some silly story about having run up on a deer while walking in the woods and pausing to observe it; when the phone rang, she'd shut it off for fear of alerting the animal to her presence. Madeline was furious anyway after being hung up on by her daughter, and didn't seem to buy Annalee's tale, though she stopped just short of calling it an outright lie. But Annalee offered little protest in the face of her mother's diatribe, which Madeline apparently took as evidence her daughter was not listening, because she got even angrier.

"What's the matter with you, Annalee?" she finally demanded.

"Nothing," Annalee muttered. "I'm sorry, okay? Can I go now?"

Madeline, flummoxed, gave her a wave of dismissal. Annalee turned, bounded up the stairs to her room.

The truth was that she could have endured a charge of elephants at this moment. Matthew's final words fluttered about in her head: "Come back tonight. I'm tired of being apart from you."

And Annalee would, she promised herself.

She would.

***

Of course she couldn't go back right away. Her parents, fortunately, typically retired early on weeknights, often around ten o'clock, and this night was no exception. Annalee, her heart jittering, lay on her bed waiting to hear their bedroom close, the last running of the water faucet, the last toilet flush. Then, just to be on the safe side, she waited another forty-five minutes. She could barely stand the anticipation. It had been bad before, each time she was forced to leave the barn—but never this bad.

A couple of days aren't enough time to fall in love with somebody, she reminded herself, lying on the mattress.

It's not logical.

She smiled, thinking how she would have sounded like Mr. Spock on Star Trek if she'd said those words aloud.

Because we all know love is supposed to be logical, right? Yeah, sure we do.

She wondered if it would be cold tonight.

But I'm starting to think, Matthew Nehemiah Hawkins, that we've known each other much longer than that.

Probably she needed to wear a jacket—but her thin blue one or her thick purple one or the really thick pink one?

I have no idea why.

Not the really thick one, no. That was more for temperatures in the thirties or below. It wasn't going to be that cold tonight.

I shouldn't feel this way, and yet—I do.

The thin blue one and a warm shirt struck her as the best choice.

It's like you've always been out there, waiting for me—waiting for me to find you and kiss you back to life, or, no, to just make it so you never died.

She stared up at the ceiling.

It's like all those years you were just biding your time in some other place, a place that wasn't Heaven and wasn't Earth, but somewhere in between. I wonder what it was like there.

She conceived of this fabulous country as a sort of dream land in which the trees were made of fog, and the flowers shaped from light, and the rivers and streams ran with currents of liquid rainbow. She saw Matthew Hawkins sitting in a meadow awash in springtime colors of violet and pink and white; envisioned him looking up at a sky that was ice-blue in the daytime, and shimmering at night with brilliant stars that no telescope on Earth—or likely on any other world—would ever see; imagined his eyes patiently scanning this enchanted void for the hand that would someday reach out from another era and draw him back into the living world.

The hand was mine.

The Rutledge house was silent now.

Maybe it was supposed to be mine from the very beginning.

Annalee, with all the stealth she could muster, slid off her bed.

All I had to do to reach you was touch the headstone of your grave.

She tiptoed to her closet, pulled out her blue jacket and a new shirt.

I've taken you out of that grave now, Matthew.

In the dimness she changed clothes. Then she moved softly toward the door.

And I've made up my mind.

Down the hall now, so quiet she might as well have been robbing the place.

I'm not giving you back.

***

Matthew was sitting outside, his back against a fencepost, and here at night Annalee could not see him when she came into the barnyard.

"I was worried," he said, getting to his feet; Annalee jumped at the sound of his voice.

"You scared me," she snapped, putting her hand over her heart.

"I apologize." He took several steps toward her. "It's warm tonight."

"Yeah, I know." Annalee shrugged. He was right about that; for a night in late March, it was exceptionally warm this evening—maybe in the mid-seventies. At least she'd worn her thin jacket instead of a fat one. "I guess I thought it would be colder. I never seem to dress right for the weather."

Matthew did not acknowledge her statement; instead he held out his hand. "I want to take you someplace."

"Where?"

"It's a surprise."

"I'd rather not be surprised, okay? Just tell me."

Matthew dropped his hand. "To the creek, then, since you've forced it."

The creek, Annalee thought, and realized: He means the tidal creek at the eastern border of our land, where the saltmarsh begins.

"Why there?" she asked.

"Because," Matthew began, once more reaching out to her, "I've grown weary of this barn. Haven't you?"

***

She allowed Matthew to lead her out of the barn, into the wild night. All around them were the ageless whispers of trees moving in the soft breath of night. There was strength in the boy's grip but no pressure, and certainty in the way he guided her down the dirt road but no coercion.

"Careful," he warned suddenly.

Careful...?

But before Annalee could ask Matthew what exactly she was supposed to be careful of, she got her answer. Apparently, without the girl realizing it, they had left the dirt road and were now following some new route to the creek—a route that was winding and full of springy roots, large enough for a horse maybe but certainly not a full-sized truck, as was the road her father regularly tended.

A path, then, previously unknown to her...what other explanation could there be?

On they went, plunging deeper into the forest, toward the marshlands, the salt-scent of which had already begun to creep up her nostrils.

Up ahead, along the edges of their path, and well back in the gulfs of blackness that hid the most distance trees, fireflies danced: tiny specks of golden light blinking on and off, on and off, as they drifted above the underbrush.

My whole life I've lived here, Annalee thought, and I never realized how beautiful it is until tonight.

She studied Matthew from behind: his hair, his shoulders, his back, all cloaked in shadow—and yet as visible, as real, to her as if he himself were fashioned from the bits of moonlight now at play atop his head.

Maybe that, too, is because of the guy who lives in my barn.

Soon, through the trees, the creek appeared before them. As was true of all the tidal creeks and rivers that threaded these marshes, it cut a swath from the Atlantic Ocean through the green-gold cordgrass, rising and falling twice each day at the moon's behest. Most bodies of water of its kind split off into smaller and smaller tributaries as they delved farther away from the sea, so that by the time they neared high ground they were much diminished in size and potential depth: unsurprising, given that they were extensions of that sea and, as such, could not endure far from it. But this creek, which had no name, was an exception: by either grace or an accident of geography, it not only brushed up against the Rutledge land along a narrow bluff, but remained a grand, deep, silken ribbon of saltwater even at this juncture, its dark currents pulsating with life: timid, darting minnows; tiny, transparent, newborn shrimp that were barely distinguishable from the waters in which they swam; cantankerous blue crabs that prowled in the shallows along its banks.

Matthew and Annalee came to the edge of the creek and stopped. He continued to hold her hand as they observed the awesome tableau into which they had found their way tonight.

With no trees anymore to obscure it, the moon was free to bathe the marshlands below it in silver radiance. Every blade of marsh grass, every ripple on the surface of the creek, had turned luminous and magical under that moon's kindly gaze.

For a moment, Annalee found herself adrift in the night sky, as though her spirit had come untethered from her body and, now free, had gone soaring into space. In that moment, she saw hot blue stars emerging from the wombs of exploding nebulae, and galaxies flinging their incandescent arms into the cosmos, and great storms billowing up inside the heart of eternity, and—

"Annalee," Matthew said, squeezing her hand.

She looked up at him. "Hi," she answered, settling back down to Earth.

"Let's swim."

"What?"

"Let's swim," he told her again, and cocked his head toward the creek.

"Swim—what, in there?"

"Of course." Matthew dropped her hand, turned to face her fully. "Where else would you have us go?"

"We can't swim in there," Annalee blubbered.

"Why not?"

"Well, for one thing, there could be alligators."

"They won't bother us."

"How do you know?"

"My friends and I swim in creeks like this all the time. Nothing ever happens."

Annalee placed her hands on her hips. "All right, well, here's something else. I didn't bring a suit. What am I supposed to swim in?"

Matthew's teeth flashed in the night as he broke into a grin. "What about your undergarments?"

Now how did I know that would be the answer?

"No, Matthew. No way. Never."

"Why not?"

"Why not? Because I'd feel weird, that's why. I'd feel embarrassed."

"Why, though?"

"Wouldn't you get in a lot of trouble if the townsfolk or whoever found you and a girl had gone swimming together in their undergarments? Isn't that against the law or something?"

"Who's going to tell them?" Matthew backed away from her, to give himself more room to get out of his clothes—and no doubt to give Annalee more room to get out of hers. "Besides, it's too dark for me to see anything," he added, pulling off his shirt, "if that makes you feel better."

"Still—I'd rather not."

"I promise I won't look at you until you're in the water."

"I don't want to do this," Annalee said. "You're making me really uncomfortable here."

Matthew stopped undressing, just held his shirt in his hand. Annalee felt his eyes on her and wondered what would happen next. Then, after a long moment, he said in a voice that was vaguely hurt, "All right."

"I mean, I'm not sure how you were raised, but I was taught to be modest."

"Of course you were," he grumbled.

"I just don't go getting into my underwear anywhere I feel like it."

"Obviously not," Matthew replied. "You don't feel like it here, when you're with me, and so you refuse. I understand." He started to put back on his shirt, albeit slowly.

"Are you mad?" Annalee began to ask, but caught herself. In his day, "mad" probably meant "crazy." So she made what she thought was a better word selection. "Are you angry?"

"No."

"Are you sure?"

"No, Annalee. If anyone, I'm angry at myself—for causing you distress. I just thought...the wrong thing, I suppose. We can go back."

There was a brief pause. Then Annalee said, "Matthew, maybe..."

"Yes?"

"Maybe if we kept most of our clothes on," Annalee began, amazed at the words coming out of her mouth, "it would be okay then."

"We don't have to, Annalee. It's all right with me if we just go back."

"No. I think...I think I'd like it, actually."

Well, at least until an alligator eats me.

***

The water was much warmer than Annalee had expected, although she imagined that, once she got out—with her shirt and jeans were soaking wet and stuck to her flesh—she'd not be nearly as comfortable as she would have been if she'd gone in her "undergarments" after all. But she was more at ease with the situation this way. At the moment only Matthew's shirt had been spared from tonight's dip.

The youngsters had entered the water separately, tiptoeing in, but as soon as they were shoulder-deep Matthew had swept her into his arms. She'd offered no resistance.

"Got you," he said softly.

"Got you," she whispered back, clasping her hands behind his neck.

"It's not so bad now, is it?" he said.

"I guess not."

"Still worried about alligators?"

"No. You're the bigger one; I'm pretty sure they would try to eat you first."

Matthew laughed. "Good. That's just what I would want—for them to take me instead of you."

"Maybe I could make it so we both survived," Annalee found herself suggesting.

Is this it? Is this the moment?

"How would you do that?" he teased. "You're just a girl."

"Just a girl, huh?"

"Have I said something wrong?"

"Well, when you say just a girl...it makes me feel kind of, you know, like I'm not all that important."

"I don't mean for it to."

But Annalee barely heard him; she had much more to say but was not yet sure how to say it. "See, Matthew, I would want to save you, if I thought you were in trouble. I'd do anything I could to save you."

"And I'd do anything to save you, Annalee." He drew her body closer to his, began to turn with her in the water. "I'd never let any old alligator harm—"

"No, no, shut up about the alligators. You don't understand what I'm trying to do here. And I don't know how to tell you."

"Try, then! You can tell me anything," he promised her, "anything you want."

Annalee did not answer him. Matthew, clearly disturbed by her state, took her right cheek in his hand. "Annalee," he began, "what is it that's making you so sad?"

"Because—" She faltered.

Can I do it? Can I tell him? Can I make him trust me?

"Please, tell me what's wrong. Tell me what I can do."

"You have to believe me."

"Believe you...?"

"You have to believe me when I tell you I can save your life."

"All right," he said, perplexed. "I believe you, then."

"No! No, don't say it like that. You have to believe it for real, not just because you think it's what I want to hear."

"I believe you, Annalee," the boy insisted. "Why wouldn't I? You've saved me once already, remember? I might have died if you hadn't found me."

"I want to save you for good this time, though." Slowly, Annalee was finding her courage. "I don't want you to go back into the war, Matthew. I want you to stay with me, here."

Matthew frowned; his embrace of her slackened. "That's how you mean to save me? By keeping me from doing my duty to the nation?"

"If you go back, Matthew, I just—I don't think you're going to survive."

"There's always a risk of that, but...I'm sorry, Annalee. My country has to come before my life."

"I wish you wouldn't talk that way. I hate it."

"So let's not talk any more about the war, Annalee, not tonight," he urged her. "Let's just enjoy what we have now and worry about tomorrow when tomorrow comes." His arms were tightening around her again.

Annalee rested her head against his collarbone. "I'm afraid for you," she whispered into his chest.

"Don't be."

"I can't help it."

"Whatever else may happen," Matthew said, taking her by the chin and lifting her head so that their eyes met, "we have this one night."

Annalee, gazing up at him, did not respond.

Matthew tried again: "We know that much, don't we?"

"Yes," Annalee agreed.

"And it's all we need to know," Matthew said; then, leaning down, he kissed her. He kissed her right there in the middle of the creek; kissed her in that enchanted realm of starshine and moonlight and rustling marsh grass; kissed her as the billowing, night-haunted seawater gathered them up like a gentle governess taking two small children into her arms. The kiss was long and deep and as his mouth closed over hers—

He's so alive.

—and his right hand caressed her throat while his left pressed against the small of her back—

He's not a ghost. He's not a dream. This boy is alive.

—Annalee felt a wondrous heat rising in the center of her chest, growing fiercer, hungrier, with every beat of her heart—

And I'll keep him alive.

—and then there was Matthew's own heartbeat, rhythmic, joyful, a miracle, yes, a miracle—

I'll keep him safe.

—and now there were her own hands, clasped behind his back—

I don't know how, but I will.

—and Annalee Rutledge knew, just knew, that she would succeed; that she would go into battle against Time itself for the life of this boy, and win.

Through their flesh, now, they spoke to one another.

"Dive into me," Annalee would have said, holding onto Matthew in the water, had words still been necessary. "Know me. Know everything there is to know about me. Know everything I've ever searched for, dreamed of, believed in. I allow it. I want it."

And he heard her. She knew this because she heard him too—heard him through the heat of his skin, the softness of his eyes, his gentle caresses as the tide bore them along.

"Dive into me," he was telling her. "No matter how deep you swim, you'll never reach the bottom of the love I have for you. It just goes on and on and on."

It was a night on which nothing was demanded but everything was offered; on which nothing was consummated but everything was imagined, and much, anyway, was understood.

At Matthew's urging, Annalee got behind him and grabbed hold his shoulders; then, with several powerful strokes, he swam back to shore. He was a magnificent swimmer; she almost thought she was riding on the back of a dolphin.

"How do you feel now?" Matthew asked her when they reached shallow water again, with Annalee still lying atop his back.

Most likely he wanted to know how she felt—now—about tonight's swim. But Annalee chose to ascribe a different meaning to the question.

"I feel beautiful," Annalee said into his ear, "like you."

Not surprisingly, the girl was freezing the moment she emerged from the creek. But something else, something she noticed just afterward, struck her even more.

About a quarter-mile down this same creek, to the south, there was a dock; it belonged to a distant cousin of Annalee's and had a powerful fluorescent lamp at the end of it, the light from which could easily be seen from this bluff.

But there was no light coming from where the dock was supposed to be, only darkness and more darkness.

Annalee, dripping wet, stood still at the edge of the creek as Matthew sloshed up behind her. She had suddenly forgotten how cold she was; a new chill was settling over her body.

Something's not right.

Annalee's heart began to throb.

That light always comes on at night. Always.

And then, also intruding on her thoughts, there was the path they'd taken to get here—a path she was unfamiliar with, yet which seemed to follow the same route as the dirt road she knew quite well.

In blast of white-hot panic, the only logical answer, outrageous as it seemed, came to her:

I'm in 1864.

No, that was impossible. Matthew was the only time traveler here. The Rutledge barn, which they had left earlier tonight, existed in 2013—not 1864.

Unless...

Unless, by the same still-unknown means that Annalee had used to bring Matthew into 2013, he had now brought her into 1864.

No. No!

"Annalee," Matthew began quietly, "are you all right?"

But she did not hear him. Instead she croaked, "I have to go," and dashed up the bank.

"Wait!" the boy called from behind her. "Where are you going, Annalee?"

Again, his words failed to register with her. There was only one thought on Annalee's mind right now—one question, really:

"How do I get back?"

***

A moment later, Annalee stood in front of the barn, panting. It was still here, thank goodness, or better yet, it had been built by the time of her arrival. That had to mean she was in 2013. But Annalee had already suspected as much. At the very moment she began her mad rush to find out if she hadn't inadvertently traveled back in time, she'd found the familiar dirt road again. It was a good sign.

But what about...?

"Annalee!" Matthew hollered, racing up beside her.

Too busy pondering her situation, Annalee did not respond, did not even acknowledge his presence. Incensed, Matthew spun around, gripped her arms. She yelped with pain, tried to get away, but could not. He shook her hard, demanding, "What's wrong with you?"

"Let me go," she pleaded.

"Don't you ever run off like that again!" he shouted at her. "Ever, do you hear?"

"Matthew, you're hurting me." Shocked and frightened by his roughness toward her, she began to weep. "Stop, please stop."

Matthew, perhaps aghast at his behavior as well, released her then, stepped back as she rubbed her arms in a futile attempt to erase the pain he'd caused her, although in truth his suddenly-aggressive demeanor had been the more hurtful thing.

"Forgive me," he said.

But Annalee just began to cry.

"I would never harm you, Annalee. Please forgive me." He reached out to touch her, only to have her slap down his hand.

"Stay away, Matthew!" she screamed at him. "Stay away!"

"All right," Matthew said, moving back. "Annalee..."

"I was just scared," she sobbed. "I thought I'd be trapped. Don't you see? That's why I ran. You didn't have to grab me like you did."

"Annalee, I'm truly sorry—"

"No, I don't want to hear it." She started for her house. Hearing his footfalls behind her, she snapped, "And don't follow me!"

The footfalls stopped.

8

Most of the time Annalee found that whenever something bad happened to her—or whenever somebody did something bad to her—the best strategy was to wait for a little daylight to pass and then, later, try to size up the incident, to determine if it was really all that bad. The amount of such daylight might be measured in hours or in weeks, but generally time had a way of taking the sharp edges off of events that, when they occurred, seemed borderline catastrophic but, in retrospect, really weren't so terrible.

It was moonlight rather than daylight that was passing right now, but same difference: it would work just as well, Annalee figured, to give her the clarity she needed to have about the situation. About half-an-hour ago, she had crept back into the house. Following a brief, hot shower, she'd put on dry clothes and gotten into bed, exhausted. During her shower, she had pored over her bare arms for signs of bruising where Matthew had grabbed her, but seen nothing. So maybe it was the shock, after all, that had made his actions so painful—but, at the moment, Annalee was no less angry at him because of it.

Still, though, what next? What to do?

Lying in bed, observing the near-silent spinning of the ceiling fan, Annalee pondered all that had happened so far.

In a dream, I met him. I told him to hide in my barn.

She mouthed these words, silently, to the fan.

Right now it's the year 2013. I know it is. I feel it. But, not all that long ago, I was with Matthew in the year 1864. I felt that too.

She closed her eyes.

The barn is the juncture. The barn is the bridge between 2013 and 1864. But when I went with him tonight, I went back to 1864. How did that happen?

Her eyes opened.

He invited me.

The germ of an idea was occurring to her.

He invited me into 1864 the same way I invited him in 2013.

Annalee's heart beat faster.

That's the secret. That's the answer.

All along it had been right there in front of her: the way she could save him.

As long as we're together, we can go anywhere—which means I can bring him here too...for good.

It was the last thought she had before dreamless sleep enveloped her.

***

Dawn: the barn.

Matthew met a backpack-wearing Annalee at the door; she assumed he had been watching for her. She handed him a plate of scrambled eggs and bacon, covered by plastic wrap, before he could say anything.

"I brought your breakfast," she said flatly.

"Do you forgive me?" Matthew asked as she brushed past him.

"Eat the eggs first." Annalee took off her backpack, unzipped it, and dumped his original, now-clean clothes next to the blankets she'd given him on his first night here. "They're not good when they're cold."

"You're still bringing me food," Matthew said, sauntering up behind her. "That must mean you forgive me. Doesn't it?"

He put his hand on her shoulder, but she shook away. "Don't touch me," she said, not looking at him.

Matthew did not respond at first, just stood motionless. Then, in a huff, he spun round with the plate still in his hand and went back to the door. He leaned outside, slung the eggs, bacon, and plastic wrap off the plate into the barnyard. Afterward, glowering at Annalee, he said, "Food for the animals," and dropped the plate on the ground.

"Nice," Annalee responded, shaking her head.

I'm going to save you even if you are a jerk sometimes, Matthew. In fact, that actually makes it easier for me to say what I need to say to you.

Matthew cocked his head toward the pile by his blankets. "Those are all my clothes?"

"All of them," she said.

"Good." He folded his arms across his chest. "I'll need to change, then, from these odd garments you gave me to wear. Thank you again for your hospitality, Miss Rutledge. Perhaps you'll allow me to visit you after we win this war. But I'll need some privacy now to get dressed, so if you don't mind, please leave."

"Oh, stop it, Matthew."

"No, really, it's all right, Annalee." He stalked over to his clothes—this time it was his turn to brush past her—and crouched down, began rummaging through them, as if he was taking inventory to make sure she hadn't forgotten anything. "I stayed here too long, that's all. Bad things were bound to happen, and I'd prefer just to be on my way. Please say goodbye to Chef Boyardee and Little Debbie for me. I hope to meet them whenever I return."

Here goes.

"Matthew," Annalee began. "There's something I have to tell you."

The boy did not look up. "I shudder to think what it is," he mumbled.

You ought to be shuddering, because it's really going to hurt. I'm a little scared to say it too, because I don't know what it's going to do to you.

Annalee took a deep breath. "Matthew, the South loses this war."

"We haven't lost," he said tiredly, pulling out his shirt and trousers. "Stop talking like that."

"You don't understand. It hasn't lost yet, but it will. And lots of people on both sides are going to die."

"Plenty have already died."

"Well, you're going to die too—if you go back."

Matthew stood now, his face darkening with anger. "Stop trying to make me into a coward. I'm not afraid of dying. I'll take my chances."

"It's not a chance, though, Matthew. It's what happens," Annalee insisted. "And I know it for a fact because I've seen it."

"What are you telling me, silly girl, that you can foresee things? Because I don't believe in conjuring, and if you want me to stay on the basis of some absurd vision you've had, I won't even—"

Annalee interrupted him. "You die, Matthew." The words, while still painful to say, were nevertheless coming easier. "You die on December 13, 1864, in Savannah. I looked up the date. It's the date of the Second Battle of Fort McAllister. That's where it'll end for you, Matthew, if you leave this barn."

"How can you know something that hasn't even happened yet?"

"Because it has happened, Matthew," she replied. "Your future is my past. I'm telling you that you won't survive this war, and I can prove it to you."

"Foolishness," the youth spat, but Annalee did not respond, just reached into her pocket and took out her smartphone—as she had planned to do since early this morning.

Studying the small black rectangle in her hand, with its glass screen and protective cover, Matthew scoffed, "That contraption again?"

"It's my phone. Like it?" Annalee tapped the Home Button; the menu screen shone brightly in the morning pall. Matthew took a step back, eying the device warily.

"I told you my father invented it, but that was...well, it was a lie. This is something lots of people have. Mine's not even the most modern version anymore," Annalee informed him. "And it's not the only kind you can buy. Some people have the iPhone; some people have the Galaxy; other people have the Droid. All I'm saying is that in 2013 there are lots of smartphones around."

"What do you mean...2013?"

"It's the year, Matthew, my year: two-thousand and thirteen."

"Oh, nonsense, that's plainly just a child's toy," he said suddenly—and with great self-satisfaction over having solved the mystery, at least in his own mind. "Yes, that's what it is: something made in England or Europe or someplace like that. I'm certain of it. And maybe there's a bit of kerosene or something in it that makes it light up that way."

"Could kerosene make it do this?" Earlier today, Annalee had uploaded the theme from Gone with the Wind. She played it for him now, and the music, though faint, left Matthew dumbstruck.

He licked his dry lips. "How...?"

"Hey, don't ask me. Even I don't know how it works. I just know that this is one of a million different things it can do."

"I don't—" he stammered.

Annalee continued, "You never told me your birthday, Matthew, but I know what it is. It's January 27, 1850. Want to know how I know that? I saw it on your headstone, in the cemetery where you're going to be buried."

Matthew's face had grown dark again: perhaps there was still anger at the root of it, but this time bewilderment seemed the most powerful of his emotions. "This is all a lie," he blurted out, and took a step forward, but then held back as if frightened of Annalee. Perhaps he was.

"And I know that if you leave here, Matthew Hawkins," she went on, "you're going to die on December 13, 1864, because it's on that same headstone. Or it was, anyway, until you I brought you here."

"Be quiet, Annalee," Matthew commanded, turning away from her—but his ultimatum rang hollow; he neither frightened nor offended her. Indeed, he was almost pitiable, given the way her smartphone, or, rather, what it potentially represented, had so unnerved him.

With great caution, Annalee came up behind him, stopping just a few paces short. "Last night," she said softly, "you brought me back into 1864 with you, the same way I brought you into 2013 a few days ago. I'm asking you to stay here, now, in 2013. Walk out of this barn and I'll show you a whole new world. It's totally different from the one you knew, but...it's not too bad, Matthew. It's really not—if you just give it a chance."

"What you hold in your hand," he said in a shaky voice, still not looking at her, "is just some ridiculous invention you're trying to use to trick me."

Annalee let a short moment of silence pass between them; then she offered, "Let me show you something else, if you don't believe me yet."

"I don't want to see anything else."

"What are you so afraid of?"

Now Matthew faced her. "I'm not afraid of anything!" he declared.

"Then come with me."

***

"Where are we going?" Matthew demanded as Annalee led him through the maritime forest. "What's the meaning of all this?"

"Just wait," she answered him. "It'll be worth it. I promise."

For a few moments they made their way among the trees; soon, between the trunks of those trees—which counted water oaks, cabbage palms, and pine trees among their number—she saw it gleaming. Matthew saw it as well.

"What is that up ahead?" he asked her, very quietly.

"It's a road," she replied.

But it was a road, Annalee knew, unlike any Matthew Hawkins had seen before: a road paved with asphalt, with clearly delineated lanes for traffic heading north or south.

And you just hold on, Matthew, until you see what that traffic looks like in 2013. A little different, I'll bet, from the way it looked in 1864.

This particular road was not traveled much; few people had homes here on the rural, still largely undeveloped north end of Greene Island. Several minutes would likely pass before they saw an automobile, but that was all right. One car would be easy for him to assimilate, she reasoned, than a whole stream of them.

At last they reached the edge of the road. Annalee took Matthew's wrist as he studied the strange substance—well, strange to him—that comprised the road's surface.

"Some kind of crushed stone...?" he mused. "Is that how they make it so smooth?

"Don't worry about that," Annalee said. "Wait. We ought to see one pretty soon."

"See one what?"

"Hang on..." She gave his wrist a gentle squeeze.

In the distance, coming from the south, she heard the faint whirring of an engine.

"Here it comes," she warned. "Don't be scared, though. Just think of it is a horse-drawn carriage, but without a horse."

"I..."

Around the bend it glided, sleek and sparkling white.

She heard Matthew give a short gasp.

"Get back!" he cried. He broke free of her grip, yanked her away from the road.

"Matthew! Matthew, it's okay," Annalee insisted, even as he wrenched her backward.

The small sedan buzzed past them, disappeared around another bend.

"What...what was that?" he cried, breathing hard.

"It was a car, Matthew," Annalee explained. "Lots of people have them nowadays, you know, in 2013." She grinned up at him, adding, "The one we saw just now was a Hyundai."

Still panting from the shock, Matthew looked down at Annalee.

I think that did it. I think I've convinced him. He knows he's not in 1864 now.

His breathing began to slow.

That's right, dude. Just calm down, take it all in. Don't let it overwhelm you.

She reached out, meaning to take his hands.

"I know it's kind of scary," Annalee said, "but I think if you'll just—"

Matthew bolted. He shot off into the woods like a bullet fired from a gun. He was so quick she didn't even see him turn. He was just there, in front of her—and then he was gone, running back into the woods.

"Matthew!" Annalee cried. "Matthew, wait! Stop!"

She hurried after him.

***

Annalee found him in the barn, a few moments later, much to her relief. Chasing after him was impossible; the boy could move. She had not thought it possible for a human being to make his way through such thick forest at the speed Matthew had done. He was like a deer, leaping over brush, rounding tree trunks, bounding toward safety. She had feared he might run all the way back down the path that would return him to 1864 but no, he had come here, to the barn, just as she had hoped he would.

Matthew was sitting in a darkened corner when she arrived. His knees were drawn up; he rested his head on them and she could not see his face. With his hands he clasped his forearms tightly—so tightly, in fact, that she could see the whites of his knuckles. He was rocking slowly.

What did I do to him? Did I cause him to have some kind of breakdown? Oh, Matthew, I'm so sorry...

With utmost caution, she made her way toward him—just as she had the first time they'd met, when he had passed out in front of her. She knelt in front of the boy.

"Matthew," she began.

He lifted his head at the sound of her voice. His face was so very pale.

"2013," he whispered, voice quavering.

"Yes."

"And you say...we were defeated?"

"There's no Confederate States of America in 2013," she said. "It's just called the South, and it's a little different, maybe, from other parts of the country in some ways, but it's still the same country."

She noted that his eyes were brimming with tears now, but she continued on, "The states that seceded were brought back into the union, so it's all one nation again: the United States. That's it. I'm sorry."

She wished she could tell him more, but that was all.

And now Matthew's cheeks flushed red with anger. He clenched his teeth. "But we fought so hard!" he screamed, and in a gesture that frightened Annalee he made a fist with his right hand and slammed it into the wall beside him with such force that she could feel strands of her hair jump from the swift chopping of the air.

"We fought so hard," he said again, only this time in a much quieter voice, and rested his head on his kneecaps again.

Overcoming her nervousness about his emotional state, Annalee moved closer to him.

He's crying.

She placed her hands on his shoulders, felt his sobs through her palms.

"What do I do now?" he demanded, looking at her again, tears running down his face. "What do I do, when I find out it was all for nothing?"

"It wasn't for nothing, Matthew," she told him softly. "It was a war. One side wins, the other side loses, just like in every other war. You guys fought and you lost—but it doesn't mean you can't live a good life now that it's over."

"No," he said.

"No, what?" she asked him, worried by his response.

"I don't want to live now." He averted his gaze from her.

"Don't say that," Annalee snapped, taking him by the chin, forcing him to face her. "Don't ever say that."

"But I had nothing else. Don't you see?"

"No, Matthew, that's not true. You've got a second chance now. I don't know how or why, but you do. Please don't throw it away." She intertwined her fingers around his, pulled them away from his legs, and placed his hands in hers. "And don't throw me away either. Okay?"

With his forearm he wiped his eyes; he seemed to be coming around. "I just...can't believe it," he said. "I can't believe I'm...here."

"That's okay," Annalee told him, stroking his hair. "I can't believe it either."

***

Annalee had asked Matthew to wait for her in the barn while she rushed home and told her newly awakened parents that she was meeting some friends down at the south end of the island and expected to be gone the whole day. Because Mr. and Mrs. Rutledge were still groggy at this early hour, they didn't give her too much static. Afterward, she came back to the barn to collect Matthew. She was looking forward to playing her role as premier marketer of the year 2013. But before they plunged into the modern world beyond the barn, beyond these woods, there was something else Matthew wanted to see. And though Annalee protested at first, she understood his desire, and gave in quickly.

***

The cemetery at Prince of Peace Episcopal Church was close to the Rutledge land, and, just as they would travel everywhere today, Matthew and Annalee went there on foot. The boy said little, even when Annalee grasped his hand as they walked down the side of the road together; but this time, at least, he returned her grasp.

He's coming around, Annalee told herself. I can feel it. He just needs time.

Still, though, she was honoring a request she wished Matthew had not made. If the sight of an automobile had terrified him, what would be the effect of seeing his own grave?

She supposed she was about to get an answer.

***

To her great relief, Annalee found there was no need to have worried. After she had walked Matthew to what was supposed to be his burial site, he had gone in front of the headstone and squatted down to study it. The boy's expression was blank as he did so. For a moment Annalee lingered a short distance back, curious to see if he would remain calm or suddenly panic and run off as he had before. But soon after she sensed that he was genuinely calm, and so came around and joined him.

"There's no date of death," Matthew observed, touching the headstone just above his name.

"There used to be," Annalee replied. "But there's not one anymore."

He stood. "Are there any other members of my family here? Do you know?"

"I think you're the only one."

"So you're unaware of what became of them."

"We can find out."

"No, no—perhaps it's better if I don't know." He rubbed his right temple. "Not yet, I should say."

"I understand."

There was a short pause. Then Annalee asked him "Are you all right?" and immediately felt ridiculous, for she could guess already at what his answer would be.

"No."

That's kind of what I thought.

"I'm sorry. I can't imagine what this is like for you."

The boy sighed, went back to staring at the gravesite. "So this is where I'm buried."

"It's where you were going to be buried, Matthew. And who knows? Maybe it will be someday—but a long, long time from now. Maybe, like, in 2100 or something."

"So if I stay here, and live as long as you think I will, then my headstone will read 1850 to 2100." Matthew seemed amused by the thought, and why not?

"You'll be the oldest person in this cemetery," Annalee offered, unsure of what else to say.

"I think I already am."

"No, you're not. Well, sort of—but not really, because, the way I see it, in reality you're fourteen, like me, and...and next year you're going to be fifteen, just like me. Now, don't get me wrong. There are some things we're going to have to do first...like we'll have to figure out some way to make it so you can have everything other fifteen year olds have, you know, stuff like a learner's permit." Annalee's tongue was getting away from her again, making her say things she would not have said had she exercised a little forethought; she hated when this happened, but couldn't stop herself. "A learner's permit is what you get before your driver's license," she burbled.

"My driver's...?"

"It's the thing that lets you drive a car."

"You mean, as long as they're old enough, anybody can drive one of those...machines?"

"Well, sure. They just have to pass a test."

"So you'll be able to drive one someday?" Here Matthew chortled.

"What's so funny?"

"The thought of you steering a vehicle like that," he mused. "A girl..."

"Excuse me," Annalee harrumphed.

"I don't mean to laugh, I just—it's hard for me to imagine." His expression turned serious again. "I meant no offense."

"I know you didn't. You're just backward, that's all," Annalee said, and before Matthew could offer a retort, she followed up with, "Look, let's get out of this graveyard, okay? There are just dead people here. And you're not dead, and neither am I. So let's go."

"Yes—yes, all right."

Hand in hand they left the cemetery, destined for the realm of the living, with Annalee taking the lead.

She had so much to show him...

9

Annalee was gentle as she led Matthew into the Greene Island of 2013. It was a long walk to the south end of the island, where development was clustered, and took quite some time. But that was perfect, she felt, despite the stress it put on her feet. Annalee wanted Matthew to have an easy, gradual introduction to the modern world. That was a tall order, of course. The first few times Matthew saw a car coming he eyed it as if it were some wild beast, and jumped when it zoomed past. The closest analog in his own time had been trains, and he had not seen one of those, he admitted rather sheepishly, until he was twelve, the age he'd been when he first left the island on a short trip to the mainland. Annalee, aware there was little she could do to make the experience less jarring, nevertheless spoke softly, reassuringly, to him as their trek began in earnest. She could tell he was unnerved by the noise of the automobiles, by the replacement of fields and forest with homes and suburban streets; for that reason, she slowly parsed out what pieces of information she wanted him to have about the present.

Still, watching Matthew take in the transformation of Greene Island that had occurred over the past century-and-a-half, she felt great optimism. He did not try to hide his astonishment; maybe he was incapable of doing so. Whichever, she found herself imagining the way this new world must have looked through his eyes—and it was glorious.

"So much," he marveled as they walked down the bike path that traced the route of the island's main thoroughfare, "so much."

How many people lived here in your time, Matthew—a few hundred, maybe a thousand? And now look at the place: twelve thousand.

To know what he was feeling, Annalee needed only to watch him, for he could not hide his emotions; she doubted anyone could have, under similar circumstances. At the sight of the many new homes—ranch style, Colonial style, English Tudor, brick, stucco, wood, one-storied, two-storied, three-storied—that now covered lands once part of great plantations, his eyes reflected astonishment. He was fascinated by the buzzing of a plane overhead, startled by some bicyclists who went whizzing past them, unnerved by power lines when Annalee told him that there was electricity coursing through those wires, a form of power no different really from the lightning that played in the sky during thunderstorms. And yet, underlying all Matthew's reactions, she sensed him in the joy of discovery, of awakening; and she prayed that such joy, if nothing else, would be enough to induce in him a desire to make this world his own.

While they walked, Annalee asked herself the question she would have liked to ask Matthew, but could not, for the answer was unknown to him and likely to human being:

Why?

She hoped that, as the years slowly went by, he would grow more comfortable with the present. She wanted so much for him to be at peace here. It would not be easy for him initially, they would have to work at it, but yes, she felt sure if he tried, and if she was supportive and nurturing of him, Matthew Nehemiah Hawkins of 1864 could find a new home in 2013...and in the decades beyond.

Tell me why.

She was pleased when, after a few more minutes of strolling along, he began to ask questions, to engage in a give-and-take with her, rather than just listening impassively as she spoke to him.

I've given up trying to figure out how you got here. Some way or another your time has bled over into mine. That's it. That's what's happened. So, the how is meaningless.

Annalee kept her answers simple. Often she had little choice, since Matthew wanted detailed explanations she could not provide, such as how the plane he had seen earlier was able to fly through the air even though it had weight. What began as a few technical queries about automobiles and airplanes eventually became a flood of them. But that was all right. She welcomed his curiosity. It meant he was interested. And if he was interested, well, didn't that mean he wanted to stay?

Some things, she wanted to tell him as his interrogation of her on modern technology continued, just are. And it's the same thing with you, Matthew Hawkins.

His hand was warm around hers.

You just are.

It was in a contrast to the air surrounding them, which was cool, fast-moving, and vigorous.

All I want to know is why.

He smiled at her now, truly smiled at her, for the first time since she had told him the truth about where he was and the future he faced if he went back from whence he came.

I want to know why you chose to enter the life of Annalee Rutledge, because it wasn't random. It wasn't an accident. I know that much—and you know it too. I can tell. It came too fast, the way we were able to communicate with one another, to share with one another. It was like all these years there was a door between us, but then, one night, the door opened, and you stepped through, and suddenly everything was perfect.

She blinked back tears.

Oh, Matthew, tell me that's the answer.

He stopped now, pulled her slightly off the bike path.

Tell me it's still what you said it was.

His arms closed around her body.

Providence.

For whose comfort did Matthew embrace her? Was it his or hers? It didn't matter. What mattered was that here, in the waning hours of the morning, quiet peace enveloped them: the peace of understanding.

Yes, thought Annalee. It has to be Providence.

***

Down near the island's fishing pier, in a small, crowded sweet shop providing a bay window view of the Atlantic, Annalee broke into her stash of babysitting money—snatched up earlier this morning—to offer Matthew his first taste of frozen yogurt. His selection was Chocolate; hers, strawberry.

"Now just remember," she warned him as they sat down at a table for two, "if we see anyone I know, you're a friend of mine visiting from Atlanta and you can't talk because you just had surgery on your tongue."

"Yes." Still overwhelmed by his surroundings, Matthew had proven to be refreshingly compliant with her orders; he seemed to have no will to argue.

Annalee watched him take his first, cautious bite of the yogurt. "How is it?" she asked, softening a bit.

"It's very good."

"I'm glad." She paused for a moment, letting him have a few more bites, then she said, "Pretty nice, huh? I'm talking about 2013. It's pretty nice, right? You like it, don't you?"

"Yes—I like it."

"Good! Good, I mean, that's great. I was worried you might..."

Her voice trailed off as the boy went back to eating his frozen yogurt.

You're not giving me much to go on here, dude. Am I going to have to drag it out of you? Fine, I will.

"So," Annalee began, "are you going to stay?"

Matthew took a deep breath and then answered, "I just don't feel I belong here, Annalee."

That's so not what I wanted to hear.

She was appalled he could even consider going back, after she had told him what the consequences would be of returning. Did he not believe her, or did he think he might somehow find a way to cheat death? But, no, she did not want to debate, at least not at this point. She had him hooked, she thought, but had not yet reeled him in. There was, Annalee decided, a better way: showing him that she sympathized with how he felt...because, in a fundamental sense, she identified with it.

"Sometimes I feel like I don't belong here, either," Annalee said quietly.

"What do you mean?"

"Just...sometimes that's the way I feel, like I don't belong here—or anywhere really. But I always figured I was stuck here, so what difference did it make? I'd just have to learn to get by."

"But I would expect you to have so many friends."

"Hah! Sure. I mean, there are a couple of girls I hang out with, and then there are some more who are kind of like my friends, I guess. But a lot of the time I'm by myself. And that's fine with me."

"It is?"

Annalee had not anticipated that question from him, and it wounded her.

No. No, it's not fine. I just say it is and I hope that if I say it enough times, I'll believe it.

Her face reddened, and Matthew immediately took her hands across the table.

"I've hurt you somehow," he said.

"No. No, you didn't."

"Forgive me, please."

"It's okay," Annalee said, withdrawing her hands from his. "I guess I just feel alone a lot. I mean, honestly, sometimes I like it. But there are other times I feel like I have to like it, because if I don't, I'll be even more miserable than I already am."

"You're miserable, Annalee?"

"I was," she said, reconsidering her words. "I'm not now, though, not with you around."

She hoped he would be pleased by this confession, but his eyes only showed concern. She wondered what he was thinking.

"Look, you don't have to stay with me if you don't want to," she said finally. "Just stay here."

"Annalee," he began, "if I were to stay here, I would only want to be with you."

"Seriously...?"

"Seriously."

***

There was much she did not explain to him that day, some of which she purposely omitted because of their complexity, like the World Wars, and others, like the current political setup of the United States, she refrained from telling him when he asked them but promised to reply when there was more time, mainly because she did not know how Matthew would react to certain features of modern society. He was fundamentally decent, she knew, but he had a lot to learn about the way things had changed since 1864, and lot to which he would have to become accustomed quickly. Today, Annalee decided, was not the day to undertake such mammoth tasks.

In order to assuage any suspicions her parents might have had, she elected to take Matthew back to the barn and request that he remain there for the remainder of the afternoon while she went home, did chores, made conversation with her parents, basically played the role of dutiful daughter. Around her parents, though, it was all she could do to contain her giddiness. She felt as if some storybook enchantment had been placed over the world, or at least her little corner of that world, complete with a storybook prince to go with it...

***

Around eleven o'clock, after the elder Rutledges had retired for the night, Annalee went back to the barn, flashlight in hand. She opened the door and found Matthew sitting there, in the dark, his back to the opposite wall.

"You okay?" she asked him.

"Yes, I'm all right." His voice was low, pained.

Annalee shined the light in Matthew's general direction. "Are you sure?" she asked, and came over to take a seat beside him.

"I'm sure."

"You'd tell me if you weren't, right? You wouldn't lie to me, would you?"

"No."

"Okay, good."

There was a brief period of silence between them. Then Matthew said, "Thank you for all you showed me today, Annalee."

"Hey, this is nothing. I'm just getting started. I didn't even tell you about the moon landing yet. I can't believe I forgot that."

"Moon landing?"

"Yeah. We sent guys to the moon, back in the late 1960s. I think maybe it was 1969. I looked it up because I thought you'd be interested."

"Men on the moon," the boy mused, exhibiting a flicker of interest. "What was it like on the moon? Does it have forests, rivers, marshes...?"

"No, it's actually more like a desert. And you can't breathe there either. You have to wear a suit that covers you from head to toe. But, yeah, we've sent people to another planet. Well, the moon's not really a planet, but you know what I mean. That's pretty amazing, right?"

"Yes." He turned dour again.

You're not as impressed as I hoped you'd be, but...whatever. I'll think of something else.

Matthew bowed his head, was silent.

"What are you thinking about, Matthew?"

"I think..." He bit his lower lip. "I think I need to be alone for the night."

"You want me to go?"

"I just need time to make sense of all of this. I'm sorry. I don't mean to send you away, but..."

"No, no, that's all right," insisted Annalee, though she was a bit offended. "If you need to be alone for the rest of the night, fine."

She jumped to her feet; Matthew got up as well. "Don't be angry," he pleaded.

"I'm not angry. It's a lot to handle. You're probably doing a lot better at it than I would."

"Then you understand?"

"Absolutely. No problem."

For a moment they only observed one another.

Then Matthew took Annalee into his arms, enveloping her with such speed and grace that she was caught entirely off-guard.

"I love you," he whispered.

"I love you too, Matthew," she said in a whisper as well, though only because he was squeezing her with such ardor she couldn't manage anything louder.

When at last Matthew released her, Annalee took a step back from him and, through the moonlight, saw sadness in his face.

"Will you be all right by yourself tonight?" she asked, concerned.

Matthew nodded.

"Promise?"

He nodded again. She noted that his eyes were glistening.

He'll stay, Annalee assured herself. I know he will. It's hard for him, though, and I can understand why. The poor kid—he'll never see his family again. He'll have to start all over in a world that's nothing like the one he knew. But I've convinced him. I've shown him that this is for the best. And I'll help him find a way to deal with this. I'll do that for him. I'll do anything for him.

"Okay," said Annalee. "So I guess I'll see you in the morning...right?"

"Yes. Goodnight, Annalee."

"Goodnight."

Standing on her tiptoes she kissed him one last time, briefly, on the lips and then started for home. She sensed a quickening in the air as she paced through the dark hallways of the forest. A night breeze, she noted, was rising in the south.

***

Of course Annalee could not sleep when she finally crept into bed, at least not initially. Her mind was bright with visions of the future. She had a lot of plans to make: a plausible origin story for Matthew, introducing him to her parents, finding a way to account for how she had met him, means for obtaining identification...

We'll figure it all out. For now, get some sleep.

She noted the time on her alarm clock: 12:17 a.m.

The last thing she remembered before dozing off was that the breeze she'd encountered on her way back to the house had grown stronger, was shaking the trees outside—

***

—and now that wind was roaring, and it was 3:33 a.m., and suddenly Annalee was jolted awake, wide awake...and she was scared.

Something's happened.

Something really, really bad has happened.

She could not explain why she thought this. She just knew that she'd been thrust back into the conscious world by some event, somewhere, and would not be going back to sleep tonight. A strange emptiness pervaded her being, as if her bones and guts had suddenly vanished, or been sucked out of her, leaving only a dark, wintry void. Her heart thrashed about inside her chest; her breathing was rapid and shallow.

In horror, and for no reason she could identify except that she did not see how it could be anything else, Annalee put a name to what she felt right now: loss, profound loss.

And to the source of that feeling:

Matthew.

Annalee hurled herself out of the bed, pulled on her jeans and T-shirt.

It's you, isn't it, Matthew?

Once dressed, Annalee bounded down the stairs and raced out of the house—for once, with little regard to whether she woke her parents.

Oh, Matthew, what have you done? What have you done?

***

Moments later, in the barn, using her smartphone as a flashlight, Annalee read the letter Matthew had left for her. At some point in the last few hours he had found a tiny note pad and an old pencil tucked away in one of the barn's two near-empty storage closets, and scribbled a short message. The piece of paper on which he had written it had been tucked in the side door of the barn—the very door she'd used to bring him his meals over the past several days.

"Dearest Annalee," the message began. "One day I hope you will find it in your heart to forgive me for leaving you in such an abrupt and deceitful manner; yet I feel I have no choice but to venture back to the age in which I was born and, once there, accept my fate. I beg you to understand that I am returning to 1864 not so I can attempt to singlehandedly alter the course of this war, for I realize now the Confederacy is doomed; instead I go back because I fear that, if I remain here, another man will die in my place on December 13, 1864, and even the possibility of such an event is something I cannot allow. Know that in our short time together I came to love you with all of my heart, sweet Annalee, my angel on this Earth; and know also that, whatever may happen to me on the battlefield, this same love will reach you across Heaven and Time. Farewell, Beloved. Matthew N. Hawkins."

It's not too late, Annalee assured herself, dropping the note on the ground. I can still find him, still stop him.

She hurried from the barn, toward the path that led to the tidal creek. Around her the wind screamed.

I'll stop him just before he hits 1864.

"Matthew!" she called into the woods as she was buffeted about by low hanging tree branches and thorny vines. "Matthew, where are you?"

I know I will because that's the way it always happens in the movies. You save the person in...what do they call it again? Oh, right—the nick of time.

"Matthew, please don't go! Please!"

But there was no path to be found, only a crude dirt road cleared by a fifteen-year-old tractor; and when she reached the tidal creek, she found that, gazing down the length of it, the light atop her cousin's dock was shining brilliantly. Mockingly.

How could this have happened? When I said I'll see you in the morning, he said 'yes,' didn't he? Didn't he?

Annalee returned to her house, lacerated from the underbrush, sweating, terrified. Matthew Hawkins had clearly departed from 2013, but maybe, just maybe, he'd listened to her warning. Maybe he would choose to stay out of the fight after all, despite the claim to the contrary he had made in his letter to her. And if he could not come back to her after tonight, at least he could live out a long life back in the nineteenth century.

There was only way to know for sure, though.

Annalee hopped onto her bicycle, pedaled into the night. Her destination: the lovely garden-cemetery at Prince of Peace Episcopal Church, in which an answer was waiting for her.

10

Annalee Rutledge enjoyed a standing invitation from Mamie and her two great-aunts to attend Church with them on any Sunday of her choosing. Since the ladies went every week, it made no difference to them which one she requested. On this third Sunday of April, Annalee finally accepted their invitation. Her decision to do so was not spontaneous. Mamie had personally called and asked her to come along. Because Annalee could think of no excuse not to go—or at least no excuse she could expect other people to understand—she had agreed.

So here they were, four Rutledge women filed into a single pew. Annalee maintained her composure almost until the end of the service; but then, after Holy Communion, the congregation sang "Come, Thou Fount of Every Blessing" and not even midway through the hymn's first line she started to come apart. Annalee considered this particular hymn to be one of the most beautiful pieces of sacred music, or any kind of music, on Earth, and because the beauty of the music reminded her of the beauty of several days last month, and the memory of those days so wounded her now, she suddenly could not bear to remain in the Church any longer. With one hand to her face to catch the tears, and the other hand to grasp the pew in front for support, she sidled past her bewildered grandmother and great-aunts and made her escape, ducking out the back door of the Church. As quickly as the uncomfortable flats she wore allowed her, Annalee rushed into the cemetery, with the music of the hymn following her. Azalea blooms bowed at her passage; Spanish moss, lifted gently by a cool springtime breeze, waved down at her as she hurried under the brown arms of the oaks from which it hung; birds sang in a honeycombed rooftop of leaves, and squirrels barked from high up on thick tree trunks, and yellow butterflies danced in the air around her. But Annalee took no notice of any of it.

Too soon, she thought, plunging deeper into the cemetery, it's too soon.

But there would never have been a right moment.

Today marked not only the first time Annalee had entered the cemetery of Prince of Peace Episcopal Church since last month, but also the first time she had entered the Church itself, or set foot on its grounds. She knew well why her grandmother had called her this past week. Everyone was worried about Annalee lately—everyone in her family, in her extended family, in her circle of friends. These days they all had the same question:

What's wrong with that girl?

And Annalee Rutledge could not tell them, would never be able to tell them, why it was that over the last couple of weeks she had started taking long walks alone in the evening; why she didn't smile much lately, and never laughed; why she sometimes burst into tears—as she had just now—without the slightest warning or provocation.

At last she came to the headstone belonging to Matthew Hawkins, and recalled yet again the horrific night she had found his letter, after which she'd immediately bicycled out here; how she'd pedaled as hard and as fast as she ever had in her life, exerting such effort she thought her heart might burst, only to find that once again the inscription on the headstone read:

Matthew Nehemiah Hawkins

January 27, 1850 – December 13, 1864

And there, in the cold howling darkness, Annalee Rutledge had sunk to her knees, wrapping her arms around herself either in an attempt to replicate Matthew's embrace, or to keep her body from breaking into pieces as she felt it was about to do, or to hold back the sobs that pounded their way out of her—which was impossible—or perhaps some combination of all three. Her tears had mixed with the black earth as she bore witness to the awful, and surely inevitable, victory of Time.

On this day, however, Annalee did a better job of keeping it together. She stood before his burial place—her short dress did not lend itself to crouching anyway—and was relieved to find that after wiping away a few more tears no new ones replaced them. Still, in a fierce whisper and just as she had done every day and every night since, she demanded of Matthew Hawkins, "Why? Why did you have to go? Why couldn't you have stayed?"

In reply: the silence of the grave.

She expected nothing else, of course. It was over. The boy was dead. He had been dead for many, many years now. The broken gear in the machinery of the universe that had allowed the two of them to spend a few days together had been repaired, and the celestial clockworks, restored to good order, once again hummed along merrily. The price of its continued functioning was only one life lost and one heart broken. A fair trade, many would say, and Annalee might even have agreed with them, had that life not belonged to someone she loved and the broken heart not been her own.

***

The following Wednesday Annalee was out on another one of her long evening walks. At certain moments the sadness would still paralyze her these days, but on fewer occasions now than before, and not for as long. From time to time, her parents still asked her—with a delicacy that bordered on condescension—if she might want to "talk to somebody." Because she had no interest in seeing a therapist or a psychiatrist or whoever it was her mother and father had in mind for her to see, Annalee strove to conceal her deep heartache. When melancholy she pretended to be happy; when despairing she pretended to be only melancholy. These were tough acts to maintain and sometimes the facades she'd erected came crashing down all too easily. Melissa and Kara, as well as her other girlfriends, called her on a regular basis, exhorting her to tell them what was wrong, not believing her when she insisted that she was okay. She appreciated the concern all of these girls were showing for her, and dared to think that maybe they loved her after all. It was the one nice thing to come out of what was shaping up to be the most difficult period so far of her young life. She was going to be all right, she believed, but she did not doubt the road ahead would be hard. She would need time on her own—quiet, peaceful time in which to heal and regroup, the sort of time she got whenever she went for a lengthy, solitary walk. On occasion, during such walks, she strained her ears to listen for the sound of children from a vanished era laughing in what little wilderness remained here at the southern portion of the island. The children were gone, of course, but Annalee wanted to believe that in the rough bark of the live oaks slivers of their laughter were still embedded, and could be heard if one only listened closely enough. Sometimes she almost thought she could hear them; but in the end decided it was just her imagination. The last parcels of wooded land on this part of the island were only waiting for the next well-heeled developer to come in and clear them, so that a way could be made for some new shopping center, condominium complex, or fashionable neighborhood.

Annalee had not planned to stroll past the skate park tonight. She'd made a point of avoiding this place since the trouble she'd had after Jonathan's fall and the subsequent misinterpretation of her ill-timed "Yay." It was dark now, and she did not expect to see anyone here. Yet, as Annalee came parallel the park, she heard a distant clattering noise among its ramps.

Keep going, she told herself, but stopped anyway.

She stopped because even in the murkiness of late evening she could make out the form of Jonathan Ross. He was all alone tonight, and Annalee watched him for a moment, trying to figure out her next move. She had never followed through on her promise—the promise she'd made to herself—to explain what she'd really meant the day of his accident, and to attempt to make up for any ill feelings that lingered by being extra nice to him afterward. She'd harbored every intention of doing so, but the tragedy of Matthew Hawkins had overwhelmed her, and right now she rarely thought of anything else. She hoped it was not too late to make amends with Jonathan.

Only one way to find out, she reckoned.

Annalee started down the path toward the skate park.

Well, here we go.

Coming closer, she picked up on an unusual ferocity to the way Jonathan was skating tonight. His movements under the blaze of the lamplights were sharp, angry, and his normally relaxed face was fixed in a scowl. What was wrong? Annalee was tempted not to bother him if he was in a bad mood. Still, she continued her approach, and as soon as the boy stopped to catch his breath for a moment she called out, "Hey, Jonathan."

He spun round, clearly startled. "Oh, hey, Annalee—I didn't see you there." His tone was not as friendly as it had been in the past. It was not necessarily unfriendly, just flat and unemotional.

Maybe I should leave.

But then Jonathan asked her, "What are you doing out here so late?"

"I was just walking. I didn't realize what time it was. What about you?"

"Sheryl and Dave were getting on my nerves."

"Sheryl and Dave...?"

"My parents. Well, my mom and stepfather."

"Oh."

"I just needed to get out of the house for a little bit."

"I see."

There was a pause. Then, taking a deep breath, Annalee said, "Jonathan, listen. I'm really sorry about what happened a while back. I think it came across like I was making fun of you when you—well, you know, when you had your accident out here."

"Okay," he said.

"And I just wanted you to know that I wasn't making fun of you at all. I was really worried about you, actually. I guess I just tried to be funny and it didn't sound the way I meant for it to. So I'm sorry, okay? I hope you don't hate me."

"Come on, Annalee. I could never hate you."

"Really?"

"Really. I actually think you're pretty cool."

"I don't know about that," Annalee said, feeling heat rise on the back of her neck.

"You are," he assured her. "Hey, what time is it? I sort of left my house in a hurry and forgot my phone."

Annalee checked the time on her own phone. "It's almost nine."

"Nine, huh? How far are you from home?"

"About thirty minutes."

"I'll walk you back."

"But you live closer to here than I do."

"That's no big deal." He picked up his skateboard, began heading toward her. "I'll walk you home. It's pretty late."

"I'll bet my mom would drive you back afterwards. I'll ask her."

"No, that's okay," he said, arriving in front of Annalee.

"I really think you should let her give you a ride. It'll be another hour before you get home if you walk. Come on."

"I don't know. Maybe."

"Sheryl and Dave might get worried."

"I doubt it."

In Jonathan's voice Annalee sensed an undercurrent of deep injury. What had happened at his house earlier tonight? An argument of some kind, but about what—and how great had been the damage? She wanted to know, not out of some voyeur's curiosity, but because she cared. Annalee truly cared about this boy she recognized now was not quite as un-serious as he pretended to be...and if he was hurting somehow, she wanted to lessen that hurt. She'd become well acquainted with sadness lately. Perhaps there were things she could teach him; at the very least she could listen.

In the immediate term, though, Annalee just wanted Jonathan to stop being so stubborn, and to agree to let her mother give him a ride home. The world, especially at night, could be just as dangerous for a boy as it was for a girl, regardless of what boys liked to think.

"Okay, then I'll be worried about you. Will you do it for me?"

A look of surprise passed over the Jonathan's face; then his expression softened.

"I'll do it for you, Annalee." He said her name differently this time; it harkened back to the way Matthew said it, slowly, but with an affection that was distinctive to Jonathan. "I'll do it because you asked me to."

"Good," she said. "Thanks."

They started in the direction of her home. The trees and underbrush on both sides of the road sparkled with the commerce of fireflies, and the bicycle path was ablaze in the silvery moonlight.

"Pretty night, huh?" Jonathan said as they made their way through the dark.

"Yeah," Annalee said, "it really is."

Dive into him, she urged herself. I think he wants you to. I think he needs you to. There's just a part of him that's afraid to let you, or anyone else, actually do it. Show him there's no need to be scared. Talk to him. And then—when he's ready—dive.

***

On the first Saturday in May, Annalee again visited the grave of Matthew Hawkins. She went there armed with cleaning agents, a sponge, a bucket, a small parcel, and, most importantly, a great deal to say. Peering around from time to time to ensure that no one was eavesdropping, Annalee proceeded to tell Matthew, while she cleaned his headstone, about a new friend she had made. His name was Jonathan, and, yes, he was a boy—but they were only friends right now and she did not expect that to change to anytime soon. Still, she hoped that if one day it did change, Matthew would not mind. She assured him she loved and missed him, and promised that—no matter who she met in the future—she would never forget the brave young soldier she'd hidden in her barn for a few days in the spring of 2013.

She went on to tell Matthew how she understood now, or thought she understood, why her grandmother and her great-aunts so regularly came out to the cemetery to do for their loved ones' graves what she was presently doing for his. It was a gesture of love, yes, and perhaps an act of tribute too, but Annalee believed there was another, subtler reason: the basic desire of a living person to spend a little time with someone he or she had loved and lost; to come as close to that individual as one could get without crossing over oneself. For Annalee, a visit to the gravesite of Matthew Hawkins—cleaning his headstone, cutting away aggressive shrubbery, getting rid of dead vegetation—was like placing her hands atop prints made by his bare feet, and finding, to her delight, that the soil beneath was still warm from his earlier passage.

Finished cleaning, Annalee opened her parcel—really just some tightly wrapped wax paper—inside which were two red Rose blossoms, freshly cut from one of the bushes at her house. Annalee hadn't gotten her parents' permission first, she admitted to Matthew, but didn't think their absence would be noticed. After all, she'd only removed two of them.

One of these flowers, Annalee explained, was going here, atop his grave; the other she would take later to the tidal creek in which they'd swum on that one magical night. There she would drop the bloom into the water, and let the tides carry it where they would—all the way out to sea, she liked to imagine.

And now, in blessed silence, she reached out and gently touched the letters of Matthew's name.

The headstone was clean; her work for the afternoon was done.

But don't worry.

I'll come see you again.

It was not even summer yet, and already Annalee Rutledge felt beautiful, not because she herself had changed in any particular way, but because she had learned to recognize the extraordinary graces an infinite and unfathomable cosmos could bestow on those who inhabited it. She had learned as well the joy of practicing grace in her own life, and believed that—in some small way, at least—she was doing so this afternoon. Neither Annalee nor anyone else could give Matthew Hawkins the things she wished he could have had during his brief time on Earth. She was unable to provide him with more years of life, or the companionship of a loving spouse, or the children he should have gone on to father. But here in the springtime—when the world tilted ever so slightly on its axis and sighs of anticipation rode on breezes turning warmer one day to the next and each ray of sunlight was inlaid with bright threads of magic and chance and possibility—she could offer him roses, and she did.

