LITMIR.BIZ

      The sheets smelled of sun. The man who’d made me kill poor innocent Wilbur stood looking out the window, his back to me. I coughed and he turned around.

      “You’re awake,” he said.

      Joseph, that was his name. He was about six feet tall, with dark hair and eerie light blue eyes. His face was tanned and a bit weathered; he was middle-aged, probably in his forties, but he was in good shape. He bristled with vitality.

      “What happened?” I asked.

      “You fainted.”

      “I did?”

      “You don’t remember?”

      “I remember feeling dizzy.”

      “And how do you feel now?”

      I took stock. No headache, no dizziness—I was hungry, however. “Starving.”

      “When did you eat last?”

      “Around seven last night. A couple of spoonfuls of Jif.”

      He made a funny face and I was embarrassed, as well as intimidated. He had a posh English accent.

      The room was furnished impeccably in nineteenth-century farmhouse décor; not a detail had been overlooked. There was a washstand with a basin and pitcher. A rag rug. A lantern hung on the wall. The floor was hardwood, studded with black nails. The mattress rustled beneath me. Horsehair.

      Why was the house outfitted like this? And why was this man dressed like Pa from Little House on the Prairie? Was this a movie set? Was he an actor? My mind kept scrabbling for purchase. The only thing that made sense was that they were in the middle of filming a scene when I arrived. But why didn’t they stop acting when I’d barged onto the set? And why did the pig die when I entered the fog? That wasn’t a special effect. The pig had really died; I’d felt its limbs go slack.

      My heart started to pound. I put my hand on my chest to try and slow it down.

      “Rest,” he said. “I’ll go get you something to eat.”

      The thought of being left alone panicked me. I grabbed ahold of his arm. “No, please don’t leave.”

      He stared down at my hand, seemingly taken aback that I’d touched him, and I forced myself to loosen my grasp.

      “I’m only going downstairs. I’ll be back in a few moments,” he said.

      I looked at him wild-eyed.

      “I promise, Lux.”

      He had a deep, resonant voice that immediately comforted me. It told me this was a man who did what he said he was going to do. Still, I didn’t want to be left alone.

      “I’m coming with you.”

      “You should stay.”

      “Nope, I’m coming.” I slid my legs over the side of the bed.

      When he saw that it was useless to try to stop me, he helped me to my feet and led me out of the room and toward the stairs. He pointed out the landing window. “That’s Martha, my wife.”

      A woman knelt in the garden, her back to us. She tossed a pile of weeds in a basket.

      “You live here? You and your wife?”

      “Yes.”

      “For real? All the time?”

      “It appears so,” he said wearily.

      “Dressed this way? Sleeping on horsehair mattresses on purpose?”

      He stuck his head through the open window. “Martha!” he shouted.

      She swiveled around. It was the woman who’d asked me what was wrong just before I’d fainted.

      “For God’s sake, she’s awake, come inside!”

      Martha got to her feet, wiping her hands on her apron. She, too, was attired head-to-toe in period garb. An ankle-length skirt, a long-sleeved blouse, and button-up boots.

      “You’re not an actor? This is not a movie set?”

      “No,” he confirmed.

      “I don’t understand. Why would you choose to live like you’re in the nineteenth century? Are you a religious sect? Is this some sort of a commune?”

      I didn’t really think they were a religious sect, but I hadn’t yet landed on any other plausible explanation. Oddly, he seemed as confused as I felt. His pupils enlarged as he took in my jeans and hiking boots; my appearance was just as shocking to him as his was to me.

      “Come down!” Martha called up from the bottom of the stairs. “I’ll make you a sandwich.”

      Martha brought a bowl of plums to the table. She was a petite woman, so small that from a distance she looked like a child. Her blond hair was parted in the middle and pulled back severely, but she had a kind face.

      “Are you still hungry?” she asked. “Have some fruit.”

      I’d already devoured my sandwich. “No, thanks, I’m good.”

      We were making small talk but the atmosphere was dense. Questions were gathering like storm clouds. I had questions, too, but they could wait. Their need to know seemed more urgent.

      “We are not actors. We are not a religious sect. This is not a commune,” said Joseph.

      “I didn’t mean to insult you. I was just trying to understand what was going on. Where I was,” I said.

      “You’re at Greengage Farm,” said Martha. “In the Valley of the Moon. You’ve heard of Greengage?” she asked.

      “No.”

      Martha turned to Joseph, her eyebrows knit together in worry, no longer able to hide her emotions. “But we’ve been here for seventeen years. Everybody knows who we are.”

      I shrugged. “I’m sorry. I live in San Francisco. That’s probably why I’ve never heard of you.”

      Joseph picked up Martha’s hand and squeezed it.

      “It’s 1975?” he asked me.

      “Yes,” I said, baffled.

      He gave me a grave look.

      “What is the problem?” I asked.

      He hesitated. “It’s 1906 here.”

      Joseph told me their story. It was simple enough. The earthquake. The fog. Stuck here for four months. Then I arrived.

      What wasn’t simple—believing it.

      “You can’t expect me to buy this,” I said.

      “It’s the truth,” said Joseph.

      “Well, if it’s the truth, I need proof.”

      “Where’s your proof you’re from 1975?” he asked.

      “Look at me,” I said, pointing to my shirt.

      “Look at us. That’s your proof as well,” said Joseph.

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