She opens the book, which I realize is actually a photo album. The page she turns to is filled with four or five photos. One of them stands out. It’s of the Crispus Attucks Monument designed by Robert Kraus. But in this picture, it’s only half finished. I used to love that monument when I was little. Mom took me to it hundreds of times. I did over a dozen projects on Crispus Attucks, the first American, a Black man, killed at the start of the American Revolution. I know his story like the back of my hand.

I also know that the monument was erected in 1888. There is a woman in the picture, standing off to the side, a woman who looks exactly like Claire McIntyre.

I bring the photo close to my face, as if examining the grainy and slightly blurry photograph with crinkly, yellowed edges will help me make sense of what I’m seeing. The album is filled with photographs—some labeled Statue of Liberty, 1895 and others, The Battle of South Mountain, 1862 and Live Aid Concert, 1985.

And Claire is clearly there in all of them.

I close the heavy book with a loud thump, pushing it back toward her like it’s some sort of cursed tome. She takes it carefully, holding the book preciously close to her chest before putting it by her side.

“Questions?”

“Many.” A beat passes. “These could be photoshopped.”

Claire shrugs. “They could be. Do you think they are?”

I can’t say that I do, and I think that’s what scares me.

“That’s typical, you know. All the questions you have—logical solutions trying their best to make themselves known, to make sense of what’s happening. At least, I assume that’s typical. Most time travelers come from families who can perform the act. They just inherently know that this is real because it’s part of their reality. It’s rare for someone to just”—she snaps—“start doing it without some warning signs beforehand. It’s a genetic gift, you know, and you’ve been lucky enough to have received it.”

“I’d argue it’s a curse.”

For the first time since I arrived, it’s her turn to look off-balance.

“And why would you say that?”

“Secrets make you lonely. They isolate you. And a secret like this, if it’s actually true? That’s something you can’t ever afford to let loose. That’s a sad way to live. Especially when you have the power to play God but, I’m assuming, can’t.”

“Assuming that time travel is real, of course.”

“Of course.”

“You’re smart, Andre.”

“I know.”

“But in this case, you’re wrong. To not be anchored to a specific time? To see the world in a way that no one else can? That’s a gift that few people can experience. And you, Andre, are lucky enough now to be able to experience it.”