He’d asked her to go with him. He’d seen what she’d become and, still, somehow, he’d wanted her.

Why hadn’t she gone with him?

She closed her eyes and, though her head was full of Ash, he wasn’t what her mind lingered on just now. Instead, she thought of his time machine, the Second Star. She thought of Zora and Willis and Chandra, and the feeling she’d had when she was sitting among them.

Belonging. Never in her life had she felt that, not before and not since. She’d thought she’d found a place there, with Ash and his friends. She’d been so sure that she’d finally found a home.

But even as her mind lingered on Ash and the Second Star, other, fresher memories rushed in:

The people crowded inside of the Fairmont’s ballroom, cheering for her.

Roman’s voice, strong and sure, as he told them of their plan to save the city.

The feeling of power she got when the things she’d read about in history books became real.

Tomorrow, she was going to change the world. Why did Ash want her now? When it was too late?

Dazed, Dorothy opened the door.

Roman stood in the hallway, elegant in his black tuxedo and white tie. It was the same tuxedo Clark Gable had worn in the 1936 film Cain and Mabel, Dorothy knew. Roman had stolen it out of the actor’s dressing room once the film finished shooting.

For a brief moment she remembered the boy he’d been just a year ago—thin and hungry, with darting eyes and a wispy beard—and felt a jolt of pride. A year ago, he would’ve looked ridiculous in a tux but, now, he looked dashing. This Roman was someone the people of New Seattle would follow.

Unfortunately, the moment of pride was fleeting. Roman wasn’t alone. Mac Murphy stood beside him, short and squat as ever. He wore an ill-fitting suit with a fat tie, an unlit cigarette behind one ear. He had crutches wedged beneath each of his arms, and a thick bandage wrapped around his upper thigh. A spot of blood had already begun to seep through the gauze, staining the bandage brown.

Dorothy had to bite back a smile at the sight of it. From the look of the bloodstain, that was a bullet wound. She had imagined shooting Mac many times, herself, and she would’ve loved to know who’d been lucky enough to pull the trigger.

“Mac,” Dorothy said, swallowing her glee. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Mac hobbled forward, and now he was too close, invading her personal space. Dorothy wanted to back away, but she thought he might take it as a cue to enter, and she could think of nothing she wanted less than to have Mac Murphy crowded inside of the tiny hotel bathroom with her.

And so she stayed where she was, close enough to Mac that they were nearly touching. She could smell the cheap cologne on his skin. When she didn’t move aside, he clumsily grasped her hand and brushed his thick, chapped lips against her knuckles. Beside him, Roman grimaced.