Chapter Three

When Jack opened the lodging house door, he couldn't have seen a more peculiar thing on the stoop.

He himself had been roused from the midst of the festivities that night, which were chiefly centered around Racetrack's lurid description of a scene that had taken place between himself and a whore he had met the previous night. Just as he had begun to go into detail, they all heard the sound of someone staggering heavily up the steps, and a frantic pounding at the door. Jack himself still had the faint curves of a half cocked grin lingering around his lips, and a spark of curiosity in his eye as he swung the door open. But both fell the moment he saw the girl.

He had never seen a girl like her before in his life. She was staring up at him with a gaze that could have sold a hundred papers, helpless and lost, her skin glazed with a thin layer of sweat, her chest rising and falling in exertion. Her lips were parted, and she was gasping for breath as though she had just come up from underwater, and her eyes were quite red. But it was the clothing that had made him take a second glance. For one, she was wearing slacks. And not just any slacks, but the rough, raw material that they used in the mines and factories, the stuff that lasted forever. Hers were torn and tailored in the most peculiar way, designed to fit snugly along her thighs and bell out at the calves. They were laughable, almost. But the shirt was what made his breath catch in his throat. He had never seen a shirt that fit the figure of a girl so snugly, the material thin enough to rip just by touching. It was sleeveless, held up by two thin straps that ran over her shoulders, one of which was nearly half over the arc of her shoulder, revealing a darker strap that disappeared into the shirt. If it could have been called a shirt.

Lee tore her eyes away from figure in the doorway and glanced down to the stoop where she had left the injured boy, tucking the jacket firmly around him and confirming that this was indeed the lodging house that he lived in. She was unsure of what to say, unsure of how to introduce what had happened to a stranger.

She turned back around, and couldn't help but notice how strong he seemed under the button down he was wearing, how broad his shoulders were and how firmly a bandana was knotted around his neck. He looked capable. Immovably and satisfyingly capable to take the boy off of her hands and find an answer to her question somehow. Help her...was there any way to help her? The journey to the lodging house hadn't been a peaceful one, the more corners she turned down, nearly dragging Swifty in her wake as he stumbled, forced to hop on one leg, the more she realized that wherever she was, it was not in her century. The corner store a few blocks away from her house was eerily gone, replaced by a dark looking building with glowing windows and a jagged fire escape slicing up the front. The cars lining the streets, the bill boards that jutted up among the buildings and glowed in the night, the graffiti mural that had been painted over and redone at least twenty times...all gone. It was dizzying, it was sickening, the most frightening thing she had ever known.

She felt a flush rise against her cheeks as she saw the way the tall boy was studying her body intently. His eyes were wide, and his cheeks were turning a slow pink, as though it was indecent for her to be dressed the way she was. And she realized, sickly, that he had probably never seen a girl dressed like this before in his life, if it was the time she thought it was.

Don't think about that, she thought frantically. Just...just think...She hesitated to catch her breath. Helping the injured boy back to the lodging house hadn't been an easy feat, and her whole body was trembling from exertion and panic.

"Swifty," she said, managing to choke out the word between her desperate gasps for breath. "Swifty's hurt."

She didn't know if the name would mean anything to the boy. It certainly didn't mean anything to her, but it was the only thing that the injured boy had given her. In the light of the healthy, sensible looking teenager standing in front of her, the name sounded even more ridiculous on her lips. She almost expected him to raise his eyebrows, and slam the door in her face. But to her surprise, his brows furrowed, and he glanced around the darkened street.

"Where is he?" He asked shortly.

Almost crying with relief, Lee pointed to her right, where she had left him leaning against the stoop. Jack leaned forwards slightly, still not leaving his post square in the center of the doorframe, and peered down through the shadows.

"Who's there, Jacky boy?" Someone called out from inside the house. Lee could smell the thick scent of cigarettes drift out through the hallway, and the warmth that seemed to vibrate from the building itself. It felt almost comforting against her cold skin, comforting in a city that wasn't her own.

"Is it Sarah?" Someone gave a loud cat call, and a chorus of laughter erupted. "Is it yer lady comin' to pay you a visit?"

But Jack wasn't laughing. He leaned back inside the doorway, tilting his head towards a group of people that were out of Lee's range of vision.

"Swifty's hoit," he said, his voice raised slightly, his facial expression intense. Already, he practically shone with leadership. Lee wanted just to fall forwards against him, hit his broad, warm looking chest and disappear. Let him take this burden off her shoulders. Let him lead her home.

"Swifty?" An outbreak of murmurs burst out, spreading through the lobby like wildfire, and there was a quick scuffling. Before Lee knew it, Jack had moved past her and vaulted over the small railing, landing squarely by Swifty and crouching down next to him, hands already moving to undo the buttons on the coat and check how much damage had been done to his room mate. Lee moved back, relieved, propping herself up against the railing and pressing a hand against her ribs, trying to massage the sharp stitch that had split open her sides. A few boys appeared, all of them looking as though they were actors in a silent film, dressed up like Charlie Chaplin and that boy in "The Tramp", all of them casting sidelong glances at her, the small figure leaning hard against the railing. And almost all of them looked back a second time.

Lee felt her face burn, and she crossed her thin arms across her chest, almost feeling as embarrassed as they looked. If this was some kind of dream, why couldn't she have dreamt up some suitable clothing so not every boy who passed would look at her as though she was in less than undergarments?

"Boots, tell Snipes to get some of that whiskey he's been hiding," Jack was saying abruptly, talking to each of the boys in turn. "We'll need it. Skits, go find those bandages that Kloppman bought last month. Hey Jake, send the kids upstairs. Tell 'um to get the hell to sleep. You three, c'mere, help me carry 'im..."

Swifty was thinking clearer than he had ever since he had hit the pavement. He could sense dark figures moving around in front of him, and for a few seconds, Jack's strong, dark face had appeared before him, focused and intent. He tried to move his lips to say something, but his mind was still moving faster than his body, and every inch of his flesh seemed to throb with pain and sweltering agony. Especially his right leg. He could feel the tears and jaggedness of his limb, and even though he had ample opportunity, he had not yet looked down at it. He didn't want to see what had happened to him. What the three of them had done to him.

"Swifty? You okay?" Jack was speaking softly to him. Darker shapes were assembling themselves around him, the girl's green jacket was being unbuttoned. Swifty managed to nod, the very gesture making his head ache sharply, and licked his dry lips. "Good," Jack said brusquely. "We're gonna carry you inside, a'right?"

"Jesus Christ..." he heard someone mutter. It sounded distinctly like Racetrack. "Jack, c'mere...look at his leg..."

Jack seemed to disappear into the far darkness. Swifty shut his eyes tight, unwilling to share the sight that all of them seemed to be exclaiming over. His leg was hurting even more than before, even more than when the pain had knocked him straight out. He could hear light, harsh breathing behind him, and thought once more of the girl, but the thought was out of his mind immediately as a sharper ache seemed to slice up his leg and through his body. His eyes tightened and he let out a moan of pain.

"Keep yer chin up, pal," Jack was saying in a tight voice. "We gotta get you inside. Your leg's broken." Swifty could feel the pair of hands that had slid underneath his right leg tighten slightly, lifting the limb off the ground. He tucked his bottom lip in between his teeth and bit hard, trying to silence the howls of pain that were breaking up and down his throat like waves.

"Ready?" Someone murmured. "One...two...three..."

Lee watched, biting her lip hard, as the four boys lifted Swifty off the ground and began to move him towards the doorway. His face had gone pale, paler than it was before, and he was biting his lip so hard, dark pools of blood were beginning to stain his teeth. Lee could see why. His leg was twitching, jagged and broken, and try as hard as they may, the boys could find no gentler way of transporting him to the lighter insides of the building. Lee stepped back to let them pass, wishing she could reach out and dream away the pain. It was a dream. It had to be some sort of dream. Couldn't she stop this? She watched as Jack let one of the other boys relieve him, taking Swifty's arm and leading him gently over the doorstep.

Hastily, she swept down and grabbed her jacket off the cold cobblestone, trying with all her might to ignore the dark bloodstains near the hem where Swifty's leg had rested. She folded it quickly and slung it over her arm, before jogging up the stairs and moving to step through the doorway with the rest of the boys. But she found that her way was being blocked.

"Thanks and all," she heard Jack say. "But women ain't allowed in the lodgin' house."

She found herself staring not at the warm insides of the building, but at the strong boy's chest right before her eyes. Blocking her way. She felt the world grind to a standstill at his words, felt her carefully constructed demeanor crumble at the refusal. She raised her stare to his, eyes wide with shock, only to meet his firm, resolute gaze, edged with a slight, sharp suspicion. Lee felt herself begin to panic.

"You...but...you have to let me in! I'm...I'm lost..."

"There's a shelter on Delancey that takes in kids under eighteen. You could pass." Jack said, before moving to close the door. She could see the boys ushering Swifty into the next room, moving him as carefully as possible. She caught a glimpse of his face, saw the way it was tight with pain, and felt an intense rush of protectiveness, of longing.

"I brought him here!" She protested loudly, letting her hand come out and press against the door, trying in vain to keep it open. "I dragged him four blocks! You gotta let me in!"

"I can't..." Jack returned, but a slight croak from the next room stopped him. Lee bit down the swells of panic rising in her chest and strained her ears.

"Let her come in, Cowboy," the voice murmured. It was Swifty. The boys had stopped moving, they were standing still and glancing back at Jack, waiting for orders. "It's dark out there, let her...let her come in..."

Jack glanced once from Swifty and back to Lee, his eyes scrunching slightly as he thought. He looked once more at the clothing she wore, and the way the skin of her torso was so shamefully exposed. Lee felt her insides harden slightly, and defiantly crossed her arms over her chest for a second time that night. Finally, with a sigh, Jack glanced up and down the street once more, before pulling the door open, letting the light pouring from the building cast her shadow back onto the street.

"It's the keepers day off," he told her brusquely. "You can come in. Butcha can't stay past midnight or nothin'."

Lee let out a thankful sigh. The sheer relief of not being cast out onto an unfamiliar, dirty street with only her jacket to protect her seemed to dull the eventual pain of finding somewhere to sleep for the night. But a lingering shock in her mind seemed certain that she wouldn't need to worry about the rest of the night. Surely she would be back in her own century by midnight...was this some kind of Cinderella affair?

Don't think about time, she told herself desperately, willing herself to resolve. Think about what's happening now. Don't panic.

She fought hard to keep the resolutions in her mind as she stepped into the lobby.

If she had been able to explain away the past abnormalities, able to dismiss them with desperate logic and forced calm, she now saw, with a sick feeling, that there was no way she could explain the lodging house away. No argument could possibly convince her that a building like this existed in New York City. Her New York City. The very room looked as though it came out of a movie set. The decor was dark, wooden and heavy, lit only by oil lamps that shone weakly from corners and desks. Although most of the furniture was destitute and ramshackle, it was the kind of furniture that she saw in antique shows and re-enactments of the turn of the century. The most magnificent grandfather clock stood in the corner, one that would probably fetch an astonishing sum one hundred years later. Her time. The future. Or was her time now the past? Her head was clouded with doubts and frightening fingers of certainty that seemed to clench at her thoughts and hold them still, freeze them.

Trying to keep herself fixed in reality, she focused only on Swifty, who was being shifted as gently as possible onto the narrow counter that surrounded what looked like an office. She allowed herself a moment of wonder, studying the tight, dense shelves that covered the wall, the papers stacked neatly in each one, the quaint looking oil lamp shining steadily nearby. There was an old, musty looking book lying on the desk, and much to her astonishment and dull fear, an inkpot and fountain pen. One that had to be filled.

One of the shorter boys with dark curly hair and an unlit cigar clenched tightly in his mouth grabbed the book and tried to slide it under Swifty's head, like a pillow, while a taller one with a rather beaky nose appeared in the doorway, his hands full of ragged, sad looking bandages. And not the band-aids and tenser bandages that Lee was familiar with, but long linen strips that didn't seem to have any sort of clips or fastenings. Ones that had to be tied. She watched as he crossed the room and piled them near Swifty's head, clearly at a loss for what to do. That must be Skittery, she remembered Jack's orders.

She could hear voices and pounding from upstairs. There was an awful lot of yelling going on, an awful lot of demands. She couldn't make out the words through the floor, but she had the feeling she knew what it was all about.

Jack seemed to have forgotten Lee entirely as he moved forwards towards the injured boy. Lee stood in the center of the lobby, letting it's soft warmth slowly bring her skin back to life, letting the antique, dusty atmosphere sink into her bones and make her heart thud sadly in her chest. She realized that the underside of her toque was sticky and hot. Hardly thinking about what she was doing, she pulled it off and began to mindlessly fluff at her hair, smoothing it back from her face. The shift of responsibility was so abrupt, she felt out of place.

"Whoa! Whoa!" The shorter boy with the cigar was shouting in a raspy voice, as Skittery tried to shift Swifty's injured leg, making the boy writhe with pain. "Watch it, watch it, you tryin' to murder him?"

"Oh, so we're just gonna let 'im bleed all over the counter? I'm tryin' to put the bandages on!"

"You can't just put bandages on you need a shint!"

"A splint?" Jack corrected absently as he rooted around in a drawer beneath the desk.

"Yeah, yeah, a splint," the boy's tone barely altered. "To keep the damn thing straight!"

Jack reappeared with a dark bottle in his hands, a square one with a precise, gold label. He swished it around for a second, checking how much liquid was inside, and with a brief nod pulled the cork out with his fingers and walked towards Swifty, who's eyes were clenched tightly, face shining with sweat. He seemed to be mouthing words at the ceiling, but whether they were English or not, Lee couldn't tell. She clenched at her arms hard, barely realizing how much pain she was causing herself, watching the way his face was contorting with agony.

"C'mon, buddy," Jack was saying in a voice that was surprisingly soothing for a boy so large. "Open up. Got something here for ya that'll make you feel a lot better."

"I don't want the whiskey," Swifty said harshly through his clenched teeth. "Just let me go up to bed...I'll sleep it off..."

Jack and Skittery exchanged a quick look, but dropped it the moment their eyes met. Jack turned back to his friend, shaking his head.

"'Fraid not, pal. C'mon, just a li'l. It'll take the edge off, see?"

"I don't want the damn whiskey." Swifty repeated bluntly. "Just leave me alone!"

Lee felt herself moving forwards, despite her uncertainty, despite her nakedness. The way his teeth were gnashing against one another made her own mouth ache, as though she was the one chewing on the howls of pain that she couldn't let escape. Gently, she reached out and touched his arm, which was dangling down the side of the counter, as though lifeless. Jack glanced up at her once, eyes dark and guarded, watching the expression on her face. His lips remained pressed together.

The two boys alongside him glanced at her as well, taking in her appearance, before quickly looking back to the leg. Neither said anything, and there was an awkward silence in which they fumbled with the bandages, rolling and rerolling them around their hands. Lee studied the bloodstains seeping ceaselessly through the corduroy of his slacks, and glanced back at his face, which was paler than china.

"He needs a doctor," she said, her voice crumbling on her lips, barely audible. "He needs more than bandages and a splint. He needs stitches."

"What, you got fifty bucks?" Jack asked bluntly, as he touched the lips of the bottle to Swifty's mouth, trying to entice him to open. Lee felt her stomach twitch in irritation, but forced the feeling down. She couldn't afford to get petty now.

"He'll bleed to death if we don't do anything," she persisted, reaching out, meaning to touch Jack's hand. But before she could so much as move, he glanced up at her once more, his gray eyes burning through hers with a disdain that almost made her freeze.

"I said, you got fifty bucks?" He asked. "Lissen, unless you can find us a doctor who's gonna be workin' for free, this kid ain't gettin' no stitches."

Lee felt her brows furrow as Swifty reluctantly parted his lips, and Jack tipped the bottle slightly, allowing some of the liquid to trickle into his mouth. Almost immediately, Swifty's body was wrenched by a violent choking as the burning liquid got into his lungs and seared it's way to his stomach.

"Race," Jack continued. "Check the alley, there's gotta be somethin' there we can use as a splint."

-0-

Swifty pushed the door open, smiling slightly as a warm, smoky smell drifted out from the inside of the lodging house, embracing his bare skin. Although the heat wasn't exactly a boasting point for the establishment, it was a vast improvement over the icy weather of the outdoors. He closed the door behind him.

It was Kloppman's night off, he demanded that he had at least one every month. Usually his cousin from Boston came in every so often to look out for the boys while he was away, but it was not the case that night. The cousin was sick. A cough, or something. Swifty unwound the scarf from his neck and went to go join the boys in the lobby.

It sounded as though Racetrack was nearing one of the ends of his infamous stories. The low rounds of laughter were certainly enough to prove that it was indeed Racetrack, he could have the whole house on it's ear with a few lines. Swifty entered the lobby, attracting little attention in his quiet, modest way. Racetrack was saying something about a whore on East 4th, or at least, that's what Swifty gathered. Most of Racetrack's stories ran the same lines, but the talent he had for adding small embellishments here and there and adding a different flair to every story made each one surprising and unique.

He moved towards the group and dropped down next to Jack, who was leaning back and smirking in his haughty way, trying not to show how amused he really was. Jack was guarded, that was for sure, never revealing his emotions until he had too. He turned as Swifty sat down, and smiled tightly, before patting him roughly on his right leg.

-0-

Jack took hold of Swifty's right leg and lifted it as gently off the counter as he could.

Swifty bit down hard against his lip, as Lee clenched his hand, trying to press comfort against him through the skin. She felt lost and close to tears, hanging onto this boys hand was doing as much for her as it was for him. As Racetrack slid a board beneath his leg and Jack laid it back down to rest crookedly upon the make-shift splint, he reciprocated her grip with a slight squeeze of his own fingers. Lee's heart warmed.

The sturdiest thing Racetrack was able to find was a roughly cut strip of wood, something that looked as though it would hardly be allowed into a hospital, let alone to be used as a splint for a boy's bleeding leg. But it was the best that he could do, he had explained. Lee stared at it with doubt in her gaze. It was crooked, rough to the touch and ill fitted, extending so it bit into the back of the boy's knee. Swifty had stopped murmuring under his breath since Jack had given him his third shot of whiskey, but she could see the discomfort wrinkled into the lines that covered his face each time he winced and bit at his lip. Feeling as though a heavy weight was pressed upon her shoulders, Lee pushed the sweaty hair back from his forehead, which was glowing in the dim light from the lantern, and worriedly touched his face.

"Easy does it, bud," Jack was saying, as he wrapped the bandages unevenly around both the leg and the splint. Lee could see it's jagged edges pressing up against the skin, and she had to suppress a shudder. "Easy does it…"

Swifty's face had smoothed slightly, as though he knew the worse of it was over. The hand that was still wrapped up tight in Lee's own began to squeeze back, and she was unsure of whether to laugh or cry. Wordlessly, she tightened her grip as gently as she could and continued to smooth the hair away from his face. What her responsibilities were to this boy, she did not know. But the one thing that she was positive of was that she could not leave him.

Jack had finished wrapping up the leg and to his credit, it looked fairly neat. The knots were tied tightly, so there would be no danger of them dangling loose, and he had taken his time to clean up the leg as best as he could before he had finished wrapping it up. Skittery had moved to the chair and was wiping at his forehead with the back of his hand, looking as though the wind had been taken straight out of him, and Racetrack was leaning against the counter, eyes downcast, still curiously chewing on his cigar, as though the gesture was so automatic he had forgotten about it.

"Is it bandaged up?" Swifty asked through clenched teeth, the first audible words he had spoken in a long while. "Is it all done up?"

"It's fine, Swifty," Jack said quietly. "Jus' fine."

"I can look now?" Swifty pressed.

"You ken look now, buddy," Jack told him. Swifty's eyes fluttered open, and Lee couldn't help but notice how they were shot red around the edges.

-0-

"Lee, I need that trunk moved during this life time, please?" Her mother told her retreating back.

Lee reluctantly hesitated at the doorway of the kitchen, glass of juice held lightly in her hand. She should have realized that the moment she appeared downstairs, her mother would have another chore for her to do. She glanced down at the round face of her watch, measuring the amount of time she had left.

"Ursula and Felix are going to be here any minute, mom," she protested, wishing that she had asked them over earlier. Her mom wouldn't dream of asking her to do chores when her friends were over. Lee had lead a fairly solitary life throughout elementary school, and now that her social life was developing by leaps and bounds in high school, her mother was desperate to keep her friends around as long as possible. As though by performing any sort of slight misdeed might make them drop Lee like a hot potato. "We're going to meet Amadeus at Delancy and go to that art exhibit."

"Well they're not here now, are they?" Her mom argued, trying not to sound as irritated as she was. "It will only take a moment, honey, it's not very heavy."

Lee rolled her eyes and mumbled an agreement before making her way towards the stairs.

The trunk her mother had been referring to was an old, dusty looking thing that had been sitting outside her bedroom for what seemed like ages. It's original habitation was at the back of her mother's closet, but Mrs. Tamagi had wanted that space cleared out, so a new set of shelves could be built in. Lee had volunteered to take it into her room, thinking at the time that she could drape a lace shawl over it and set out her candles on it, or something of the like, but as soon as the trunk was outside her doorway, she lost inspiration, and kept telling herself that she would do it later.

Why they even kept the trunk, she was unsure of. There was no way of opening it. Although it was old, it's lock was still as sturdy as ever, thick, greasy metal and sturdy looking bolts, with no key to be found. Her mother said that it dated back to the turn of the century, and Lee could easily imagine it in some Victorian looking parlor, or a run down, old fashioned apartment. It had a very romantic air to it. They had considered calling in some sort of specialist to cut off the lock so they could see what was inside, but it wasn't a very pressing priority for either of them, so their curiosity remained stagnant, their will to do anything about the matter rather unmotivated. Lee gave it a once over, studying the tarnished metal edges and the hardened, soft smelling wood.

Reconsidering the lace shawl idea, she set her juice down on the floor, grabbed at the trunk's lower corners, and began to pull it into her bedroom.

Her mother had been exaggerating when she had said that it was not very heavy. Lee felt her back muscles straining to pull it into her doorway, could hear the grating rumble of it against the floorboards. What was it that her relatives had kept in this thing? Bricks? It was enough to make a sweat break out on her forehead, to make the palms of her hands slippery and unstable. Her curiosity was subtly aroused, wondering if it was the trunk that was so heavy, or it's contents, but she did not have long to ponder the issue. For as she was rounding the corner with it, a surprising thing happened.

The trunk tilted at an angle as she began to nudge it through her doorway, and she could feel the subtle shift of weight on the inside throwing it off balance, making it wobble precariously on it's edges. She winced, trying to right it, but it was too heavy for her, and flipped onto it's side, making the house shake with a grating crash, making her jump back to avoid her fingers getting caught underneath it. She could hear a pause in the activity in the lower level of the house, and a few concerned footsteps in the direction of the stairs.

"Lee?" her mother called. "Was that you?"

Lee wiped the sweat from her forehead. "Yeah. I'm alright," she added, and after a moment, her mother retreated to the kitchen. Lee sighed and wiped her dusty, sweaty palms on her jeans, staring down at the trunk in distaste. Now she would have to right it and finish the job. She squatted down, ready to take the thing back into her hands again, when she noticed something.

The lock had been shaken loose.

She thought that this was rather an odd thing to consider, since both she and her mother had obstinately pulled at the lock, hammering and yanking at it until they themselves were more in danger of breaking than the metal. How could it be possible that a single tumble could loosen it? Her curiosity flared to life once more, and she wondered if maybe she should call her mother up, so they could open it together and see the treasures that may be inside? She thought of them bending over the chest and rifling through photographs, papers, old mementos perhaps?

Strangely enough, it was not a desirable image.

She silently righted the trunk and dragged it to the foot of her bed as quickly and calmly as she could, wondering why she suddenly had this strange desire to be the first to look in it since who knows how long? She felt a strange affinity with it, a feeling that was difficult to shake off, and didn't want to share it's secrets with anyone just yet.

Panting slightly from the excitement and effort, she straightened it against her bed, dropped to a cross legged position before it, took the lid in both hands, and pushed it open.

It was not as easy as it sounded. It opened with a musty sounding creak, and what seemed like centuries of dust seemed to slowly explode before her eyes, as the insides of the trunk were revealed. A musty, ancient fragrance wafted from it's interior, a smell that for some reason, brought to mind the image of lace curtains, old pianos, and old locks of hair that someone had once snipped from a sweetheart. Shaking the images away, she propped the lid up against her bed post and looked inside.

At first, it seemed as though there was not much that was inside that she had not expected in the first place. Stacks and stacks of disorganized legal papers, passports, and letters in shambles, criss crossing over one another in a messy manner. Judging the depth of the trunk, she reckoned that if she were to reach in and touch the bottom, she would find herself elbow deep in paperwork.

Finding herself slightly disappointed, she reached in and began to shuffle through the letters.

She found, as she dug deeper into the box, there was a trifle more things inside that were more interesting than paperwork. There were a few newspaper clippings that were yellow and crumbling, including one that nearly fell apart into her damp hands. She realized, after a moment, that the majority of them were obituaries. Names she did not recognize, names of people that had died one hundred years ago. To her awe, she also found a newspaper, fully intact and wonderfully thick, with a large, three letter headline that struck a chill in her heart that the people at the dawn of the century must have felt. WAR.

Too excited to take anything and study it in detail, she began digging deeper, finding old trinkets that were tarnished and greasy to the touch, a few sepia photographs of Asian men and women, the kind that were taken in a parlor with camera's that smoked and flashed.

It was then that she found the book.

Whatever color it may have been at one point in it's life time, it was definitely colorless now. It had faded to an old, crumbling black, and the bits of paper that stuck out from it's edges were frayed and near ready to fall to pieces to the touch. But for some reason, it caught her eye. She did not know what was inside, but whatever it might be, it would be a lot more coherent than mounds of letters and paper work. She reached out, wanting to take it into her hands and feel it's thickness. Feel it's weight. But the moment her fingers brushed the cover, she felt a startling numbness in the tips, and she yanked her hand back, eyes widening, gasping at the feeling. It was as though she had been touched with a red hot wire, and had not felt the pain, only the tingling, dark after effect of it's heat on her skin. Had she just been shocked? How could she possibly have been shocked by a leather bound book?

There was a knock at the door downstairs. She jumped, startled, awoken from her brief spell of shuffling through the trunk's contents. She sat still, in a bit of a daze, as she heard her mother hurrying towards the front door. She had not even heard the buzz of the outer door bell. After a moment, she heard the trills of her mother's voice, and a shrill shout upstairs.

"Lee! Your friends are here!"

She gave the book one last glance, before grabbing her olive green coat and rainbow hat, which were sitting on the bed, and ran out of her room, shutting the door firmly behind her.

-0-

When Swifty was with Elspeth, she made him feel as though he had both legs again.

They walked together now through the mild spring sunshine in the only bit of green that was left to them, Central Park. It was both their favorite time of year, just after the cold rains and snow of winter, but before the oppressive heat of the summer sun. He could hear the clicks of her shoes against the walkway, calm and pleasant, and for once, did not think of the way he limped along, leaning heavily on his crutch, his dragging gait off beat and grotesque. Elspeth did not mind. And for that, he loved her.

"I checked the papers today." Swifty was saying to her. "Apparently Britain's drainin' itself trynna build these ships. Dunno why."

He knew that her real name, of course, was not Elspeth. The name brought to mind a beautiful, thin, all American blonde with bright blue eyes and a stiff, American accent. Brought to mind the elegance of a Victorian home and the beauty of the land of the free and the home of the brave. Elspeth was not American. She did not have the same toned skin as the girls who lived in the city did, and her hair was long, straight, and shining, black as night. Her eyes were tilted up at the corners, just like his own, and her bones were thin, thin milky white that looked as though they would break if he were to touch them. But they never broke. She was stronger than he had imagined.

They did not talk much of their history, and accordingly did not talk much of their future. They talked of the present. Swifty worked for the World now. He was no reporter, he had never had much of an affinity with words, especially words that had to burn off the page and capture a reader's interest. He wrote the obituaries, creating small paragraphs about people who were dead, thousands of corpses passing through his fingers each month. If Elspeth was free afterwards, for sometimes she was busy with extra work she took home from the factory, they would meet, walk together, or go to a diner to eat. And they would talk about what was happening in the world.

"Their building San Francisco again," Swifty told her. "Bit by bit."

"So many dead," she replied quietly.

"The government is pitchin' in a lotta dough," Swifty volunteered. Before, he had worried about the way he had spoken to her. It was no secret that he sounded like a common street rat. But Elspeth did not mind. She let him speak, just as she let him limp, just as she let him be the way he was all the time.

Swifty wanted to reach out and take her hand, but the crutch prevented him from doing so.

Together, they walked through the park, hearts beating tremulously inside their chests, the oaths of irrevocable love underneath their casual words.

-0-

Alriiiiiiight, here's where the timeline becomes…untimely. And…not really a line any more.

So basically, this is the time when the timeline disappears.

Keza - Yes! I HAVE REVEALED MY LITERARY IGNORANCE! I'm just at the tip of the iceberg when it comes to classics. I just finished the Great Gatsby. BY GOD I LOVE THAT BOOK! I know how you feel about the leg thing, but look! He's happy now! He and Elspeth are hitting it off okay! Huh? Huh? -Kez settles down- Don't get too comfy. Bua ha ha. HA HA HA!