Annie had a moment of regret. Other times were so much more exciting and romantic. Neither word could ever be used to describe the suburbs of New York City. She had bought the adventure outfit not to travel into New York, but to travel into 1899. And now she wouldn't get to go.

A yelling knot of boys jostled them, and then an elbowing cluster of girls. Their teacher raised her voice and loudly proclaimed her views of ancient Egyptian art. The class scattered in all directions.

The boy Strat was paying more attention to the photograph than to Annie. Finally he said to Annie, “I think you're right.” He smiled in a friendly bland way, only half looking at her. A shock wave went through Annie Lockwood.

He did not know her. She was going to have to introduce herself to a boy whose smile and hair and kiss she remembered so well. “What am I right about?” she said weakly. “I don't see Strat in the picture.”

“Stratton was the photographer, remember, so he isn't in any of the pictures. But I'm curious. How do you know about Stratton?”

Annie never thought of him as Stratton. To her, he had always been Strat. To a boy who did not remember her, however, she could hardly say, “I used to date you, a hundred years ago.” So she said, “I read that Strat left his home in America and went to Egypt.”

“Where did you read that?” asked the boy excitedly. “Because our family has tried to find out more about him. You see, Stratton was my great-grandmother's brother. His full name was Hiram Stratton, Jr.”

That's what you think, thought Annie Lockwood. You are Hiram Stratton, Jr.

Then his words sank in. This boy's greatgrandmother was the sister of Strat. That would be Devonny. So he wasn't Annie's Strat at all. He had not come through Time. He was nothing but the descendant of a sister. Some distant cousin killing time in a museum. Oh, surely not! Time wouldn't do that to her.

“We have other photos that Stratton took, also in Egypt,” said the boy, “but he didn't leave many trails for us to follow. We don't know what happened to him later. What book did you read it in?”

She hadn't read it anywhere. She'd been there. “What is your name again?” she asked.

“They call me Strat. But my real name is Lockwood Stratton.”

Annie Lockwood nearly fell over. He possessed her last name as his first name? That could not be coincidence.

Eighth-grade boys swarmed like hornets around the gold Sekhmet, bumping into Strat's knees and Annie's back.

“We can't concentrate on the exhibition until this class has moved on,” said Annie. “Want to go to the museum cafeteria and have a dessert with me? I'd love to hear about your family. You see”—she considered a reasonable lie—“I think we have a photograph of Strat's too.”