him down. I’ll tackle him to the ground, and then he’ll miss the bullet that was meant for him. He’s close. And my eye flashes to a glint of red a few feet away. A soldier takes aim at Carr. I scream and rear back to launch myself forward.
But then I’m on the ground as a shot rings out. A few feet away, Patrick Carr goes down, and only then does he make a sound. His mouth opens, and an anguished moan bursts from his lips. I scream, too, as Zeta pins my arms to the ground, not letting me move. Blood seeps out of Carr’s hip, and I cry. I don’t care who sees me. I cry. I think of my dad, dying somewhere, and now I will forever have the image of a fatal rifle shot to the side entrenched in my mind. This will be how my dad dies in my dreams.
Zeta yanks me up. Carr writhes on the ground, and I kick at Zeta. I have to help Carr. Maybe if I can stop the bleeding, he’ll live. But Zeta pulls me away, down the street. We step over a bloody, still Christopher Monk on the ground and round a corner, away from the crowd. It’s only then that Zeta drops his hands and pushes me backward. I trip over my feet.
“Godammit, what the hell is the matter with you?” he roars. “What were you thinking?”
The tears are still falling down my face. “I was saving him! I was enhancing the past to save him.”
Zeta’s eyebrows shoot up. “Enhancing? You think that’s what I mean when I say enhancing? Do you have any idea what you could have done? Patrick Carr was not the mission.”
“I could have given his little boy a father to watch him grow up!”
Zeta’s bright-blue eyes grow wide as the moon and fire erupt behind them. “Whatever happened to you in the past is in the past. This is your job now, and you do not let emotion take over. Let me tell you a little something about Patrick Carr. He’s going to die nine days from now—a slow, painful, agonizing death—but he single-handedly is going to change the course of American history. What did you see back there?”
“I saw a bunch of people die,” I say as the realization sinks in. I saw people die. Die . In front of me. It’s a first. I’ve seen photos of dead bodies and have watched plenty of violent movies, but I’ve never seen the real thing. It’s awful. This whole scene is awful. No amount of training could’ve prepared me for the screams of anguish, the fallen bodies, the finality of death lingering in their open eyes.
“Why did they die?” he asks me.
Do I tell the truth? What I really think? I have to.
“Because they provoked the British soldiers, and the soldiers shot at them in self-defense.”
Zeta nods. “A little different from the history they taught you in school, right? And the truth could be buried forever if not for the heroics of Patrick Carr. He’s going to out the truth on his deathbed. He’s going to tell his doctor that the soldiers were greatly abused by the crowd, that the soldiers would have been hurt or killed had they not fired. He’s going to confirm that it was self-defense. And because of the bravery and honesty of Patrick Carr, those soldiers are going to be acquitted at trial.
“Had Carr not been honest, those soldiers would have been martyred, the British would have retaliated, and the American Revolution could have started five years before we were ready to fight it. We could have lost the Revolution had you tackled Patrick Carr to the ground like you were about to.”
Zeta pauses, and I let his words sink in. America could have lost its fight for independence because of me. Because of me.
“Enhancement, not alteration,” he repeats. “You were about to alter history in a pretty big way.”
“I don’t understand what the difference is,” I say.
“Clearly.”
I bristle. And I can’t help but feel this isn’t my fault completely. “Well, maybe you should have explained it a little better before you just plunked me down in the middle of the Boston Massacre.”
I probably shouldn’t have said that.
But then I’m on the ground as a shot rings out. A few feet away, Patrick Carr goes down, and only then does he make a sound. His mouth opens, and an anguished moan bursts from his lips. I scream, too, as Zeta pins my arms to the ground, not letting me move. Blood seeps out of Carr’s hip, and I cry. I don’t care who sees me. I cry. I think of my dad, dying somewhere, and now I will forever have the image of a fatal rifle shot to the side entrenched in my mind. This will be how my dad dies in my dreams.
Zeta yanks me up. Carr writhes on the ground, and I kick at Zeta. I have to help Carr. Maybe if I can stop the bleeding, he’ll live. But Zeta pulls me away, down the street. We step over a bloody, still Christopher Monk on the ground and round a corner, away from the crowd. It’s only then that Zeta drops his hands and pushes me backward. I trip over my feet.
“Godammit, what the hell is the matter with you?” he roars. “What were you thinking?”
The tears are still falling down my face. “I was saving him! I was enhancing the past to save him.”
Zeta’s eyebrows shoot up. “Enhancing? You think that’s what I mean when I say enhancing? Do you have any idea what you could have done? Patrick Carr was not the mission.”
“I could have given his little boy a father to watch him grow up!”
Zeta’s bright-blue eyes grow wide as the moon and fire erupt behind them. “Whatever happened to you in the past is in the past. This is your job now, and you do not let emotion take over. Let me tell you a little something about Patrick Carr. He’s going to die nine days from now—a slow, painful, agonizing death—but he single-handedly is going to change the course of American history. What did you see back there?”
“I saw a bunch of people die,” I say as the realization sinks in. I saw people die. Die . In front of me. It’s a first. I’ve seen photos of dead bodies and have watched plenty of violent movies, but I’ve never seen the real thing. It’s awful. This whole scene is awful. No amount of training could’ve prepared me for the screams of anguish, the fallen bodies, the finality of death lingering in their open eyes.
“Why did they die?” he asks me.
Do I tell the truth? What I really think? I have to.
“Because they provoked the British soldiers, and the soldiers shot at them in self-defense.”
Zeta nods. “A little different from the history they taught you in school, right? And the truth could be buried forever if not for the heroics of Patrick Carr. He’s going to out the truth on his deathbed. He’s going to tell his doctor that the soldiers were greatly abused by the crowd, that the soldiers would have been hurt or killed had they not fired. He’s going to confirm that it was self-defense. And because of the bravery and honesty of Patrick Carr, those soldiers are going to be acquitted at trial.
“Had Carr not been honest, those soldiers would have been martyred, the British would have retaliated, and the American Revolution could have started five years before we were ready to fight it. We could have lost the Revolution had you tackled Patrick Carr to the ground like you were about to.”
Zeta pauses, and I let his words sink in. America could have lost its fight for independence because of me. Because of me.
“Enhancement, not alteration,” he repeats. “You were about to alter history in a pretty big way.”
“I don’t understand what the difference is,” I say.
“Clearly.”
I bristle. And I can’t help but feel this isn’t my fault completely. “Well, maybe you should have explained it a little better before you just plunked me down in the middle of the Boston Massacre.”
I probably shouldn’t have said that.
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