RIDICULOUS.
IMPOSSIBLE.
But they were walking down a street called Main. With a curve just like the one in Hobson’s Corner. And cobblestones, like the ones that peeked through the worn-out blacktop back home.
But the blacktop was gone. The sidewalks were made of brick, not cement.
And the buildings were different.
Smith’s Eatery. A blacksmith shop.
The Pottery Shack. Now Central Apothecary.
Ben’s Hardware. Hobson’s Corner Dry Goods.
And just above Main Street, before it angled out of sight, were three brick houses. The ones Mom always dreamed of living in.
They were different, too.
Unpainted. Unlandscaped.
But the same.
The same as
The book.
That was it. The book in the attic. Nineteenth-century Hobson’s Corner: A Photo History.
Jake glanced back at the shops on Main Street. Squinted. Tried to frame the image. To imagine it in black-and-white. With specks of dust. Scratches.
Yes.
That was it.
The shape of the buildings. The texture of the street.
Just like the photos.
Main Street, Hobson’s Corner, in the 1860s.
But how?
How can I be here?
How can I be in
The
The
He rewound the last twenty-four hours in his mind. Back to the bike trip through the woods in the rain.
To the hut.
And the
Lightning.
I was hit by lightning.
My brain was scrambled. I’m imagining this.
Or worse.
Maybe I’m not here at all.
Maybe I’m
I’m
No.
Don’t even think of it.
Was this what it felt like to be dead?
He didn’t feel dead at all.
Just the opposite.
He felt reborn.
Alive.
Totally alive.
As if he were finally, for the first time in his life, home.
Okay. Okay. Calm down, Jake. Think.
They built a replica of the Titanic. They could have built Hobson’s Corner, too.
Silently. Without anyone finding out. A whole village built in total secrecy.
It was possible. Maybe.
But maybe not.
Platt was walking up the street now, poking open some doors, kicking open others.
“Where is everybody?” Jake asked.
“You should know,” Schroeder said acidly. “You live here.”
Cedarville. Remember your history, Branford.
Of course. The people in Hobson’s Corner were evacuated to Cedarville right before the battle, in case the Rebels attacked. Only a handful of people stayed behind. But where were they?
“I — I meant the ones who didn’t go to Cedarville,” Jake said.
“Nobody,” Platt called out. “Anywhere.”
“If they left, they would have told us,” said one of the men.
“Unless the Rebels came in and got ’em,” said another.
“From where?” Schroeder snapped. “Our camp is smack in the middle of their only access route. Are you suggesting the Rebels went two hundred extra miles, around the mountain, then doubled back? Because that’s what they’d have to do.”
“They would do it,” Platt said, “if they knew where we was. And jus’ maybe they’d send ahead a small, innocent-looking spy to our camp.”
The men fell silent.
And they all looked at Jake.
Jake gulped. “Whoa, guys, don’t jump to conclusions. I’m — ”
“ — in big trouble,” Schroeder said. “Colonel Weymouth is not kind to soldiers who break his trust. Platt, you and Williams check the Cedarville Road. Morris and Johnson, you check across Pine Street, down to the field — ”
“What about the boy?” Platt asked.
“I’ll go with him,” Samuelson volunteered.
“Find where he says he lives,” Schroeder said, rushing off. “And if he’s lying, take care of him.”
Samuelson pushed Jake toward School Street. The other men started off, grimly clutching their muskets.
“Wait!” Jake protested. “That’s unfair! You wouldn’t — ”
“Just show me your house,” Samuelson whispered.
“Okay, okay.” Jake tried to collect his whirling thoughts. “But I’ll tell you right now, my family’s not going to be there.”
Samuelson nodded grimly. “Of course not. They’re in Cedarville.”
“But — Schroeder said — ”
“Schroeder and Platt belong in a cage,” Samuelson grumbled. “I know you’re not a spy. The Rebels have been reading us for some time now. We all sense it. Sniper fire, stolen plans, strange noises at night — they’ve been going on for days. And if you ask me, Weymouth’s strategies leave us wide open. No, if there is a spy, he’s been among us — he wasn’t sent ahead only now. They need an outsider to blame. They’re grasping at straws. You came along at the wrong time, Jake.”
Samuelson fell silent. When he and Jake reached School Street, they turned left.
They passed a tiny wooden shack. Beyond it was a cornfield.
Where the middle school and football field should have been.
The road went straight … past Sycamore Street, Linden …
Spruce.
Jake shivered. The path felt so familiar under his feet. But the houses, the trees …
Home.
There it was.
Jake couldn’t breathe.
In front of the house was a huge scraggly yard. A shack where the garage should have been.
No screen door. No bay window.
The door hung open, swaying in the breeze.
“Want to look inside?” Samuelson asked softly.
Jake barely heard him. He was walking through the front door. Looking.
Plain dark-wood chairs sat stiffly in the living room. The floors were bare and wooden, covered only by old oval rag rugs. The kitchen was simple — cupboards, basin, counter.
Only the shape was the same. The frame. The dimensions …
It was his house. He knew it in his bones.
He walked from room to room, under the lintels he knew so well, the ceilings that were a little too short because the people were so much smaller then.
Not then.
Now.
A sudden boom snapped Jake out of his reverie.
Thunder?
Jake looked around for Samuelson.
He walked to the kitchen. He could see the sky through the window — clear, sunny —
A shout.
From the backyard.
CRRRRACK!
That wasn’t thunder.
He ran to the back door and threw it open.
Samuelson lay on the grass. Bleeding.
Just beyond him, in the woods, was a group of men.
Dozens of them.
Armed.
And dressed in gray.