Cover

Dedication

To all the heroes throughout history who have struggled to

make their tomorrow better than their today. And for

the kids who read this who will do the same.

Chapter One

Regan

April 14, 1865. Gosh, I was sick of that date, and it wasn’t just because that is when our sixteenth president was assassinated. Nope. I was sick of April 14, 1865, because I kept getting sent back to it for training purposes. Although training purposes was just code for, You screwed up again, Regan; get it right this time.

I materialized in the back row of Ford’s Theatre for the fifth time this year just as the play, Our American Cousin, began. I always materialized into seat 10B when I did this particular practice simulation. It was supposed to contain Mrs. Margaret O’Hana, but she’d gotten sick with the measles and hadn’t been able to make it to the performance that night. Her change of plans had left a convenient place for time travelers, or Glitchers, as we’re called now, to slip in and out of history on the infamous night Abraham Lincoln was shot by John Wilkes Booth.

I’d see Booth momentarily, but I wasn’t here to fix him. He would be allowed to murder our president without any interference from a Glitcher like myself. Interfering with him is against the law. Interfering with him was why I was here on a training mission in the first place.

I opened my eyes and looked around. Because I’d been here countless times before, I barely noticed the immaculate and stately Ford’s Theatre, the theatergoers around me wearing their best dresses and suits, or the smell of a generation who handled body odors by covering them up with heavy colognes and perfumes. Even though I’d done this a lot, I still couldn’t stop my eyes from automatically going up to the balcony where Mr. and Mrs. Abraham Lincoln would be taking their seats any minute. They would arrive late to the theater tonight and would be safe until the intermission, when their bodyguard would decide he’d rather go sit at a saloon and have a drink instead of protecting the president. There wasn’t such a thing as the Secret Service yet. Although, in a weird ironic twist, Abraham Lincoln would sign the document that would create the Secret Service right before he left for the theater tonight. With some reluctance, I tore my eyes away from the balcony. I had less than ten minutes to find the Butterfly and complete the mission. It was time to get to work.

The last time I’d done this training mission, I’d immediately stood up and made my way to the lobby of the theater, sure that the Butterfly would be in wait there to waylay Booth. Unfortunately, I’d thought wrong.