long-lost best friend. Long lost because school was a lifetime ago. He knew he wouldn't see Leon again.
"Wel , perhaps I meant a young lady friend," his mother said, adding a little smile. "It's been a while since we've seen you with anyone."
Henry's cheeks pinked up. He'd been pretty popular with the girls at school, never been at a loss when it came to finding a date to the dances. The girls at school, though, had seemed too preoccupied with dreaming up their future lives together. The last girl he'd liked—Margaret Hil man—had fil ed pages of her science notebook writing "Mrs. Henry Briggs" over and over, but hadn't been much fun to talk with. Henry didn't miss the companionship of those girls. He hadn't thought about them in ages.
But Amy was a different matter. What he wouldn't give to see her again.
"She seemed like a nice girl," Mother continued. "You should bring her round again. Maybe she's just the girl for you."
Henry smoothed the napkin on the table and was tempted to refold it. "Mother, I'm afraid that's not possible."
"You never know," she replied, taking a sip of tea.
"No offense, Mother, but this time I do know. She's not for me," he said. "She's from far, far away."
His mother's blue eyes fil ed with concern. "You must real y be sweet on her," she said after a moment. "You've never been bashful about bringing a gal around the farm before."
"Yes, I do like her," Henry said, "but she won't be back to see us."
Mother set down her teacup. "Why on earth not?"
"Half the town's gone to war or down in the shipyards. The mil 's running at ful capacity. No one's coming around visiting, Mother."
"She was here. Don't tel me no one's coming round."
Henry felt a tingling feeling in his bones, as if this were the moment when Mother would final y understand what they were living. The moment when she'd grasp the situation and he wouldn't be alone with the truth anymore. "She's not supposed to be here, Mother. She's from the future."
Mother nodded, her face drawn. "Yes, of course, how foolish of me not to notice," she said in a tired voice.
"I am tel ing you the truth. Why won't you believe me?" Exasperation seized Henry. He spoke very slowly. Deliberately. "Every day is summer. Every day, Mother. Haven't you noticed? Aren't you awake? Can't you see what's going on here? Don't you miss the fal —or winter? We haven't seen rain or snow in ages."
"I see you've been reading those science fiction comic books again."
Henry knew it was pointless to keep going, but the frustration in him wel ed beyond control. "That girl you saw doesn't exist yet. I told you—
she is living in the future. That is why she can't come to dinner with us, because if she does, maybe al of this would col apse!"
Mother's mouth was set in a hard line, her eyes fil ing with tears. "Henry, I've never known you to tel me such rubbish. What has got into you?
Why would you say these strange things to me?"
Henry's stomach felt queasy. He steadied himself against the chair. "Yes, Mother. I know it sounds crazy." He paused, letting the wave of emotion leave him. He saw the confusion and hurt on his mother's face, her hunched posture worsened by the fight, her resolve weakened. Her pale light dimming ever so slightly. "Forgive me," he murmured.
"What the devil is going on here?" his grandfather said, coming into the room, the smel of pipe smoke fol owing him. "Why are you raising your voice, Henry?"
"I was only..." he began. "I'm sorry. Please forget what I said, Mother." Silently he added, You will, anyway.
His mother stood up from the table, stacking the teacups and dessert dishes. "I accept your apology, however graceless."
"What was this al about?" Grandpa asked.
"A friend of Henry's stopped by to visit the farm a few days ago," Mother said, wiping her brow with the back of her hand. "I simply thought perhaps Henry would like to invite the young lady over for supper sometime."
"Wel , that explains al the lunacy," said Grandpa. He
"Wel , perhaps I meant a young lady friend," his mother said, adding a little smile. "It's been a while since we've seen you with anyone."
Henry's cheeks pinked up. He'd been pretty popular with the girls at school, never been at a loss when it came to finding a date to the dances. The girls at school, though, had seemed too preoccupied with dreaming up their future lives together. The last girl he'd liked—Margaret Hil man—had fil ed pages of her science notebook writing "Mrs. Henry Briggs" over and over, but hadn't been much fun to talk with. Henry didn't miss the companionship of those girls. He hadn't thought about them in ages.
But Amy was a different matter. What he wouldn't give to see her again.
"She seemed like a nice girl," Mother continued. "You should bring her round again. Maybe she's just the girl for you."
Henry smoothed the napkin on the table and was tempted to refold it. "Mother, I'm afraid that's not possible."
"You never know," she replied, taking a sip of tea.
"No offense, Mother, but this time I do know. She's not for me," he said. "She's from far, far away."
His mother's blue eyes fil ed with concern. "You must real y be sweet on her," she said after a moment. "You've never been bashful about bringing a gal around the farm before."
"Yes, I do like her," Henry said, "but she won't be back to see us."
Mother set down her teacup. "Why on earth not?"
"Half the town's gone to war or down in the shipyards. The mil 's running at ful capacity. No one's coming around visiting, Mother."
"She was here. Don't tel me no one's coming round."
Henry felt a tingling feeling in his bones, as if this were the moment when Mother would final y understand what they were living. The moment when she'd grasp the situation and he wouldn't be alone with the truth anymore. "She's not supposed to be here, Mother. She's from the future."
Mother nodded, her face drawn. "Yes, of course, how foolish of me not to notice," she said in a tired voice.
"I am tel ing you the truth. Why won't you believe me?" Exasperation seized Henry. He spoke very slowly. Deliberately. "Every day is summer. Every day, Mother. Haven't you noticed? Aren't you awake? Can't you see what's going on here? Don't you miss the fal —or winter? We haven't seen rain or snow in ages."
"I see you've been reading those science fiction comic books again."
Henry knew it was pointless to keep going, but the frustration in him wel ed beyond control. "That girl you saw doesn't exist yet. I told you—
she is living in the future. That is why she can't come to dinner with us, because if she does, maybe al of this would col apse!"
Mother's mouth was set in a hard line, her eyes fil ing with tears. "Henry, I've never known you to tel me such rubbish. What has got into you?
Why would you say these strange things to me?"
Henry's stomach felt queasy. He steadied himself against the chair. "Yes, Mother. I know it sounds crazy." He paused, letting the wave of emotion leave him. He saw the confusion and hurt on his mother's face, her hunched posture worsened by the fight, her resolve weakened. Her pale light dimming ever so slightly. "Forgive me," he murmured.
"What the devil is going on here?" his grandfather said, coming into the room, the smel of pipe smoke fol owing him. "Why are you raising your voice, Henry?"
"I was only..." he began. "I'm sorry. Please forget what I said, Mother." Silently he added, You will, anyway.
His mother stood up from the table, stacking the teacups and dessert dishes. "I accept your apology, however graceless."
"What was this al about?" Grandpa asked.
"A friend of Henry's stopped by to visit the farm a few days ago," Mother said, wiping her brow with the back of her hand. "I simply thought perhaps Henry would like to invite the young lady over for supper sometime."
"Wel , that explains al the lunacy," said Grandpa. He
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