Something wet hit my face. Again, again, again. I batted at it--or tried to.

That simple movement sent pain jolting through me, a pain that had a locus inside my head.

Groaning, I went to probe the source and found myself touching cold, wet mud.

And rain splattered in my face.

Memory began to flicker sporadically, and I swallowed the nausea burning in my throat. Slowly, I sat up, staring around. Flickers of lightning lit up the house in front of me. I rolled onto my hands and knees. A flash of lightning spilled over the gold of the necklace. I grabbed it, looking around for the diary.

I remembered.

I'd found the diary and was coming down the steps.

I fell.

I didn't see the diary anywhere.

Panic flooded my throat and I fumbled my phone out of my pocket and turned on the flashlight. No diary. Lurching upward, I stumbled back toward Mrs. B's little house. Every movement caused pain to hurtle and spin through me, but I sucked it up and pushed through it.

The diary. I'd dropped it. It had to be here.

I'd come through the door and dropped...

I froze.

The door.

It had been broken.

Now it stood in front of me whole and untouched—solid.

Slowly, I reached for the doorknob. It didn't open. And it felt a lot more solid than it was before. Not daring to believe what I suspected had happened, I backed up and stared at the house in the flickers of lightning.

No graffiti.

Another look out around the yard showed the roses were cared for, and gardens tended.

I could see the looming dark shadow of the house.

The small shelter of the porch allowed a degree of protection, and I stood there, staring at the house as lightning flickered, giving small bursts of illumination.

The lawn had been cut and there was water in the pool.

"I'm back."

Without even taking a moment to think it through, I took off running.

* * *

The elation I felt died, turning so quickly to dismay.

The house was empty.

Not just empty, but...abandoned, it seemed.

At first, I'd tried to go inside but the doors had been locked—all of them. I couldn't remember a single time when the back door had been locked.

But then again, I couldn't remember a time when Mrs. B hadn't been here.

That wasn't what really bothered me though.

The rooms were vacant. I'd walked around, feeling like a stalker as I peeked in windows. No furniture in most of the rooms. Finally, near the back, I found one room that had large pieces, all covered with dust cloths.

Vacant.

How could he have given up on me after just a few weeks?

I had no idea where to look for him, but I had to find him.

And if I wanted to do that, I’d have to find a phone.

After taking a few minutes to breathe, I set off the from the porch and began to walk.

* * *

It took far too long to find a place that had a phone. The shoes that had been such a detriment earlier were now coming in handy. Tennis shoes and jeans made it easier to trek for well over an hour. Glenn had preferred his privacy and I had understood his reasons, but now I wished he'd had more neighbors. The man who lived across the street must have moved because the gates were boarded up, the little building used by security vacant.

I was turned away by a grouchy security guard at the next house, nearly a mile down the road.

Finally, I found somebody who let me use the phone—and she offered me a glass of lemonade as well. Grateful, I accepted and after she poured a glass, she left me alone in a bright, pretty kitchen.

My hands shook as I lifted the glass to my lips. "Calm down, Maya. Calm down."

The walk had given me plenty of time to think about my next step so after another drink, I picked up the phone and went to dial.

But just as the rotary phone made its slow way back around, something caught my eye.

The paper.

It lay just to the left of where I sat, along with a glass of lemonade.

I must have interrupted her when I knocked.

The paper lay open so the reader could see the front page.

But it wasn’t the picture or the by-line that caught my eye.

It was the date.

The phone fell from my numb hands.

My fingers shook.

It took three tries to finally pick the paper up and stare at the small, precise lettering.

The date.

It was all wrong.

“How is this possible?” I whispered.

The date read 1965.

I’d been gone for three years.