The very first time I go back to a certain year, I’m still in my clothes from the present—a little shock to anyone who happens to see me. I’m forced to find clothes from that time, but when I travel back to my time—the present—I’m back in my jeans and short sleeves. But when and if I go back to that same time in the past, I’m instantly brought back in the clothes I found there—like I never left at all.
So these past few months in 1944, I appear like I never left. Boots cold and helmet on my head. If someone happens to look close enough, it’s probably like I flicker—faster than the blink of an eye. A second has passed for them, but days have passed for me. A soldier made a double take once. I had just gotten back and he was there looking at me like he wasn’t sure what he saw. Probably thought he was hallucinating but I wasn’t going to correct him.
So for the past six months, I’ve been going back to the same year. The same time.
I don’t feel any pain right now, but I’m not feeling much of anything. Still shocked from the blast and trying to breathe regularly. It’s not going to be pleasant when I go back. The blue sky stares down from above. Through the caved-in roof, the sun tries to warm my frozen skin, as it always does.
Still, I shiver. I lay there on my back, feeling the grass beneath me instead of the snow that had been there seconds earlier.
I push myself up, aware of any pain I could be feeling, but there is none. The blast knocked the air from my lungs and nothing more. I’m lucky this time. I may be dirty and cold, but I’m breathing. Not bleeding. That’s what counts most.
I take a few minutes to get my bearings. Wait for my head to stop spinning enough to stand up, and my heart to slow down once it realizes I’m really here. This is the only place I ever come back to. Like a rubber band snapping me back into place.
I leave the house with the sun high overhead, and start down the overgrown driveway through the field. It’s about a mile from here to the gas station. But it’s not like I’m in a hurry to get home. I stuff my hands deep in my pockets in an attempt to get them warm and follow the empty road toward town.
The cracked asphalt and gravel shoulder are too familiar.
I pass trees I’ve seen hundreds of times.
Pass mailboxes I know by heart. I’m still cold when I reach the main road and cross over to the Phillips 66.
A truck passes behind me, blaring its horn even though I’m already off the road. Besides the only car in the parking lot—owned by the person behind the counter—I’m alone.
I take one last glance around before walking around the building where the phone booth is. Names are scratched into the metal, others used a Sharpie as their graffiti tool.
L.B. <3s SARA.
Skool suckz.
Kirbylicious—whatever the hell that means.
Then of course the various profanity scrawled everywhere. Things I don’t even like looking at, much less reading.
But among the scrawls of past people, I look for the same initials. The two letters I can always count on to be here.
J.W.
Scrawled in black Sharpie at the top right corner behind the phone.
Two letters of someone’s name who I’ll never know. I take a long look at them before I dig the few coins from my pocket. The ones I keep stocked, never knowing when I’ll need them. I used to have a cellphone. But then I decided it wouldn’t be a good idea for someone in the past to see it. It’s not like I can afford to pay the bill anyway. Now it’s cold and dead under my bed.
The dial tone sounds in my ear and I punch in the numbers, half wondering why they aren’t worn off yet.
It rings so many times, I’m afraid he’s not there. The walk home is long when I can’t get hold of him, but I wait, still hoping.
Right before I think about hanging up, he answers. “Hello?”
“It’s me.”
There’s a moment before he speaks. I close my eyes and lean my head against the phone booth, feeling exhausted—the past few days are now catching up to me. The metal doesn’t feel any colder than I am.
“Are you all right?” he asks.
From the tone of his voice, I can tell he really wants to know. It’s something I don’t often hear.
“I’m fine.”
“I’ll be there in twenty.”
I slip into the bathroom without making eye contact with the man at the counter and wash my face. I don’t look in the mirror, knowing I won’t like what I see. On my way out of the store, the cigarettes behind the counter catch my eye, making me pause just long enough for the guy to look up. Without giving him a chance to say anything, I duck my head and make my escape out the door. Back outside, I settle down on the curb and stare at my shoes. My dog tags weigh heavily around my neck. A constant reminder of what I’ve become.
After a while, the truck pulls up. The brakes don’t squeak and the engine doesn’t complain.
Uncle Jasper sits behind the wheel, staring ahead even as I get in and close the door. He pulls away from the gas station without saying a word.
He’s good like that—not pushing for answers and not caring if he doesn’t get any. He asks questions that are easy to answer. About things I actually want to talk about.
I already feel calmer sitting next to him. My heart warms, slowly spreading to the rest of my body. But despite Uncle Jasper’s company and the summer heat, I still shiver.
“Do you want me to turn on the heat?” he asks.
“No, I’ll be all right.” I stare across the passing fields, trying to keep my thoughts away from home. I can’t help but ask, “It’s gone … isn’t it?”
There’s a moment of silence. A moment where I dread the answer.
“He took it to the dealer the day after you left,” Uncle Jasper says.
My finger taps against the seat like I need a cigarette, thinking about the ones back in the Phillips 66, ready for me to buy. But I don’t smoke here. I’ve never had to, but I’m not sure how much longer that will last.
“What did I miss while I was gone?”
“Royals won again last night,” he says.
“Oh really?”
Uncle Jasper nods, unable to hide his smile. “I think this will be their year. Last year was just a trial run. Going all the way this time.”
I laugh and shake my head then ask, “How’s Harper? Is she doing all right?”
“She will be,” he says. “I think she just needs some time.”
I turn away and watch the fields again, the golds and greens blending together as we pass by. The corn keeps growing as summer passes. A summer in which I wish I could spend more time with Harper.
I’ve lost dozens of friends in a war I wasn’t meant to be in. I know what it feels like to lose people who will never come back. The deaths I’ve seen weigh heavier on my heart than anything I’ve ever felt. Adams more than anyone. Every time I think of him, my hands shake and my throat goes tight.