Then, like when a random song lyric from years ago suddenly pops into your head, memories from viewing old photos during middle school history class flood my brain. Black-and-white photos, and photos with poor color quality of Boston. The old Boston. Boston in the 1950s and 1960s.

With aboveground trains.

“When is it?” I suddenly ask. “Still summer?”

He nods, but slower this time, his eyes studying me. “June, actually.”

“June fourteenth?”

“Right on the money.”

“And what year is it? Two thousand twenty-one, right?”

A beat passes, and it’s the longest beat of my life.

“Right?”

He looks concerned, very concerned, but he answers. Not the answer I want to hear, though. Not the answer anyone wants to hear.

“Nineteen sixty-nine.”

The words echo and bounce around my brain for what feels like hours before they finally lodge themselves into my psyche.

I’m back on my ass before I even realize it, my legs buckling under me.

He moves forward and, ignoring the wetness of the grass, falls to his knees beside me. He presses the back of his hand against my forehead.

“You’re warm. Are you sick or something? Confused?”

“I’m okay.” I bat his hand away. “I just need…some…”

“You need some water. You’re coming with me.”

He counts to three before hoisting me up, slinging my left arm over his shoulder.

“I can walk.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t tell anybody.” He winks, walking across the lawn to the front steps. “Stand here for a sec,” he says, fishing out his keys. He keeps me close, even though I’m perfectly capable of standing on my own.

I’m not sure I mind it.

He turns the key and uses his shoulder and a little extra effort to push the door open, stumbles when it gives, and gives me a boyish smile.

“Always gets stuck…”

“When it rains,” I finish the sentence for him. I remember that when my parents bought the house, they complained about it. The doors were one of the first things we changed… But sometimes they still get stuck.

He looks puzzled but shrugs it off and walks into his house.

My house.

Fifty-two years in the past.

Three

My parents bought this house after it had been abandoned for more than fifteen years.

I was six when we moved in. My mom taught me how to remember where we lived with a little memory trick.

“We’re next to the Forest Hills T stop, and Forrest is your middle name, but with two rs.”