Running Out of Time by Margaret Peterson Haddix Page A

really 1840, did she know who she was? Could she go back to Clifton after this and live as she always had?
    Jessie swallowed a bite of bread and it stuck in her throat. She bent over and cupped her hands in the creek, preparing to take a drink.
    Then she heard yelling.
    â€œStop! Stop it!”

FOURTEEN
    W hen Jessie dared to turn around, she saw a man bounding toward her. He had a grizzly gray beard and snapping eyes. He was also the fattest man Jessie had ever seen. Jessie thought she could outrun him if she had to, but it scared her that she hadn’t known he was behind her. What if he were from Clifton?
    â€œStop!” he yelled again.
    Panting, the man leaned on the fence right behind Jessie. Jessie braced to run if he climbed the fence. She was not going to let someone fatter than Mr. Seward catch her.
    â€œI don’t mind you trespassing on my land,” the man said, “as long as you don’t leave a mess. But I can’t believe you’d be stupid enough to drink that water. Don’t you know how many pesticides and herbicides flow into that creek every spring?”
    Jessie wanted to act like a normal 1996 teenager, but she didn’t know if she was supposed to say yes or no. So she said nothing.
    Glaring, the man said, “You really don’t, do you? I mean, it’s poison! Stupid city kid.”
    Jessie let the water spill through her fingers. Poison? It didn’t look any different from the well water at home. No one drank out of Crooked Creek in Clifton, but Jessie had thought that was just because everyone had wells.
    â€œI’m sorry,” she said. “Where can I get a drink that isn’t, uh, poison?”
    She looked down at the water again. It sparkled in the sunlight filtered through the bushes. Poison? The man was probably crazy.
    â€œThere’s a million gas stations with stores on 37,” the man said. “For all the Clifton Village tourists. People have to get their last fix of the twentieth century before they risk seeing the past.”
    The man’s voice was sarcastic. Jessie wondered if she dared ask what a gas station was. And what did people fix in the stores?
    â€œSo they would have water at the … gas stations?” she finally asked, hoping it wasn’t a giveaway question.
    â€œSure, water, pop, juice, beer, you name it. They’ll sell you anything. It’s a capitalist age we live in, my dear.” Jessie decided to ask the more important question.
    â€œWould they have a phone?”
    â€œSure,” the man said. He paused. “Oh, just come on up to my house and I’ll get you a glass of water. Free. You can use the phone, too, as long as it’s a local call. It won’t be the firsttime my afternoon walk’s interrupted. It’s not like I care that much about losing weight. It’s for my wife. She keeps asking, ‘Isn’t there something hypocritical about being a fat environmentalist? Using up all the world’s resources?’ “
    The man gestured for Jessie to climb the fence and follow him.
    Jessie hesitated. The man didn’t sound like he worked for Miles Clifton. He seemed a little crazy, but not dangerous. He’d called himself an environmentalist, which was a word Ma had used. Maybe it was all right to go with him. Yet Ma had warned Jessie to be wary of all strangers, not just Clifton’s guards.
    â€œThat was one reason Pa and I wanted to raise you children in Clifton,” Ma had said. “We didn’t want to terrify you into staying away from strangers. It’s odd—all the time, you were in danger here. And now all of you are too trusting. People in the outside world …”
    Ma hadn’t finished the thought, which scared Jessie plenty.
    â€œNo, that’s all right. I’ll go to the, um, gas station,” Jessie told the man now.
    The man looked at her curiously.
    â€œYou’re a little young to be out on your own,