He picks up what looks like the same stethoscope he used before, or in the future (see how confusing this is?) and presses it to the watch, listening, like it might have a heartbeat.
Of course it does.
“It didn’t work when I first got it and then…” I brought it to you. Yes, I nearly say that, but I yank the words back because then I’d really sound nuts.
Besides, it has occurred to me, slowly, that something has happened to his wife over the past twenty-plus years, and I don’t want to be trapped into having to expound how we know each other. He might start asking questions.
I might start having to lie.
But I feel for him. If I lost Eve I’d end up stripped of life, gaunt, hollowed out. So I finish with, “…suddenly, yesterday, it started working.”
“How?” He puts down the stethoscope.
“I was…” I’m searching my brain to catalog the exact events. “In my study. And I was looking over my old cold cases—one of these being the bombing from yesterday, and today…” And tomorrow. I debate that and skip over it. “And suddenly the watch started working.”
“You wound it, right?”
I frown. Then. “Yes.”
“Then, of course, it started working.”
“What do you mean, of course it started working? It wasn’t working before. At all. Then…it just started ticking.”
He lifts a shoulder. “That’s how it’s supposed to work. It’s a timepiece. It ticks off time.” He hands the watch back to me. “It looks like it’s working exactly how it’s intended.”
I stare at him. Because, well, you know, that’s what he said before. Or will say.
Oh brother.
“What do you mean?”
“I think you know what I mean,” he says and stands up.
I have no idea what he’s talking about. “It’s…did you hear me? I think I…” I close my eyes, wincing even as I say it. “I think I traveled in time.”
Silence, and I open my eyes. He stares at me, one eyebrow raised.
I can’t stop myself, the words rushing out, a catharsis. “By twenty-four years. One minute it’s 2021 the next…” I shake my head. “The next I’m watching the past repeat itself. I’m watching people die, again. And today…well, I thought it was a dream at first, but…” I press my hand to my forehead because my head is pounding.
He considers me, arms crossed over his chest long enough for me to think maybe I’m losing my mind. Behind him, the sun’s rays filter through the window, tiny particles dancing on the streams, and the room is turning woozy and hot.
Maybe, really, maybe this is a dream, the variety that involves me being hospitalized. Maybe I was hit by a car and I’m in a coma—
“Be Stalwart,” he says quietly.
I look up at him.
“It means be dependable.”
“I know what it means.”
“Loyal.”
“Mmmhmm.”
“Faithful, devoted, unwavering—”
“I know what i