He needed his own boy with him now. His time was running out. He didn’t believe in dreams. Hysterical women with too-tight corsets were the ones who had morbid dreams, fretting over the melodrama. But he believed in this dream. The next century didn’t belong to him. He wanted to do things right from now on, not make any more mistakes. He wanted to hand things over to his boy in good order, but he was afraid the order was coming apart. Gettysburg didn’t matter anymore. Whether Pickett did or didn’t charge. In the next war, it would just be machines anyway.

Why hadn’t he made that shot at Fort Stevens? Of all the shots of his life—the turkeys he had won, the deer he had dropped, the pickets and artillery spotters he had picked off—why had he missed that single shot?

The most famous shot of his life—a miss.

But it wasn’t a miss, not exactly. His heart hadn’t been in the shot. President Lincoln was unarmed. He wore no uniform. His stovepipe hat stuck up above the parapet, an unmistakable target. He stood still as a post, staring straight toward the Confederate position. The man next to him squinted over the sights of a musket, and Kenan’s shot killed him. He had felt the arc of his bullet flying into the soldier’s face as if it were on a string. The president had never even ducked.

If only Lincoln had borrowed a rifle, taken a sporting potshot at the advancing skirmishers.

There was a lot to remember about those days, a lot to keep track of. Memories accumulated weight with the years. Things kept adding on. A man had to be careful to keep his center, remember what he stood for. He had missed, but he had not dishonored himself. Leave that to assassins like John Wilkes Booth. A man should face his enemy, take his chances.

Kenan didn’t want to be alone tonight. What if the dream came back? If Jenks could stay awhile, they could have another cigar.

“Got to be going, Captain,” Sam said. “It’s been a pleasure.”

Kenan nodded and shuffled toward the door. When he opened it to let Sam out, the night rushed in cool and full of sound. Things were happening out there, he knew. Men were meddling with the order. His boy was in Mexico building a dam. In the barn behind the armory, the gun was waiting, cool and silent, the ugliest open secret in town.

He poured himself another whiskey and sat up till the windows went light, listening to the clamor of the empty house, waiting for his wife to come home. At dawn, he slept and dreamed of Mexico, a chatter of voices in Spanish, an ocean breeze, horses cantering in the surf, the tropical sun warm on his weary face.