The chute dropped vertically, then smoothed to a long curve. It took Millie slithering downward on her backside and shoulders. She was rolled right, then left over smooth earth. She kept her elbows in and her eyes closed. After thirty seconds of falling, she landed in a sitting position on soft sand.
There was a rushing noise above her head and something heavy dropped like a stone. It slammed down behind her, brutally heavy, and it barred her retreat. She managed to turn her head and saw that it was a rough kind of portcullis. Someone had lashed together timbers, cruelly spiked so they dug into the sand. Perhaps they’d meant to impale her. She heard the same sound again. Another portcullis, another great mesh of timbers! This one crashed into the sand less than a single step in front of her. The spikes dug deep, and Millie saw she was a prisoner in a cage and that all her running had been for nothing. All that effort to survive, to be caught like a rat in a trap.
She sat and peered through the bars. A little flicker of self-pity rose up and she closed her eyes: did she really deserve to die like this? Yes, she thought. She probably did.
“Are you Millie?” said a voice.
Millie didn’t have any words left.
“You are, aren’t you?”
She did not recognize the voice of her captor. When she opened her eyes though, she could see him—he’d come close. She’d fallen through time, for it was a caveman kneeling there. Or, more accurately, some kind of caveboy—a caveman’s ragged little son. Long hair, tied back from the eyes. A necklace of little stones. He was holding a candle. He was wearing a gray shirt. A hand came through the bars, clean and small, rather delicate in fact. It took hold of her arm and the thumb stroked her. It moved up her shoulder and gently touched her face, where there was a trickle of blood.
“What’s your name?” he said.
“Millie Roads.”
“You know my friend,” said the boy. “You know Sanchez.”
“No.”
“No?”
“I mean, yes. Yes.”
“Ruskin? Henry? All my friends.”
“Who are you?”
The face came nearer and she could see that the hair was tied back by a black-and-gold tie. The eyes were soft and the skin was clean and clear. She was looking at someone no more than twelve or thirteen years old.
“I’m Tomaz,” said the boy.
Millie simply stared.
“I couldn’t get home.” The boy laughed softly. “I found you in the freezer, yes? I showed you the way! Remember? I brought you the food.”
“Tomaz?”
“I saved your life.”