Revealed by Margaret Peterson Haddix Page B

Parisians who have been waiting for him are supposed to be storming the runway, and . . . and . . . he’s supposed to have survived!
    Jonah turned his head toward kid JB, ready to say, Is this our fault? Did we kill Charles Lindbergh?
    But just then a cheer went up. It was like everyone in the crowd was speaking with a single voice, everyone screaming together, “There he is!”
    Jonah looked up and saw a real plane overhead. It truly was the plane Charles Lindbergh had piloted across the Atlantic. He’d made it to Paris—even with the little distraction of three time travelers surprising him in the midst of his trip.
    But Jonah had no time to say or do anything, not even to cry, “There he is!” along with everyone else. Because instantly the crowd was pressing against him even tighter. The people behind him were rushing forward, and the people in front of him had nowhere to go because of all the people in front of them.
    â€œHold on! Just wait a minute!” Jonah tried to scream at the people behind them.
    But maybe he accidently yelled in English rather than French—or maybe they couldn’t hear him—because the people from behind just kept pressing forward.
    Jonah still wasn’t sure that his legs were working very well yet, but it almost didn’t seem to matter. The pressure of the crowd carried him along.
    â€œJonah! JB! We’ve got to stay together!” kid Angela screamed.
    Jonah reached out his arm and grabbed for Angela’s hand or arm or something. He caught her by the sleeve and the material ripped away in his hands. But then Angela wrapped her hand around his wrist, and he was able towrap his hand around hers. He couldn’t actually see the rest of her because of the crowd, but he was so glad she had darker skin than the other people around them. At least he knew he was holding on to the right person.
    Jonah reached out his other hand and somehow managed to grab on to kid JB’s arm.
    â€œGet us out of here!” Angela was screaming. “Get us out of here!”
    Nothing changed. The crowd just kept surging around them.
    So . . . the Elucidator doesn’t really believe our lives are in danger? Jonah wondered.
    Maybe this should have made him feel better, but it didn’t.
    Still a little numb from the timesickness, Jonah let himself be carried forward with the rest of the crowd. Back in 1600 he’d had a moment of almost drowning, and this was the same sensation: He couldn’t control which way the crowd carried him any more than he could have controlled the storm-tossed waves off Roanoke Island.
    â€œTry . . . looking . . . around . . . ,” JB said, which was ridiculous, because Jonah wasn’t even sure he could control the direction his head was pointed. He caught glimpses of the sky, the ground, the elbow of the man in front of him, someone’s cap lying on the ground . . .
    The next time Jonah got his head turned toward the place where he’d seen Lindbergh’s plane before, it was much lower in the sky, and Jonah could actually read the words “Spirit of St. Louis” on the side. Lindbergh was leaning out the window and yelling. Jonah couldn’t tell what he was saying, but the pilot didn’t look happy at the sight of all the people welcoming him to Paris. He waved his arm, and it wasn’t a Hey! Good to see you! Glad to be here! type of wave. It looked more like he was trying to tell the crowd, Get out of the way!
    Oh, um . . . are there so many people down here that there’s nowhere for Lindbergh to land? Jonah wondered.
    Lindbergh’s plane came closer and closer.
    Does he maybe not even have enough fuel left that he could go somewhere else to land? Jonah thought.
    Some in the crowd apparently understood what Lindbergh’s wave meant—or maybe they heard what he’d yelled—because they began