january 22nd, 2016/april 16th, 1959, 6:12 p.m.

Her vision swam with yellow.

Iman's mind spun; she could hardly remember the moments immediately before now. She had been outside, she'd thought. Walking back to her apartment with a bag of groceries and her phone to her ear. Yet the brisk DC winter air was gone, replaced with cozy, stifling warmth, dried twigs replaced with blooming rose bushes.

Iman, startled, took a wavering step back, blinking her eyes. She was on someone's front stoop, she thought, one house out of a hundred others just like it down this residential street. She heard voices speaking in English, vintage-sounding car horns. The air smelled like sea salt, and more faintly of gasoline.

Heat licked at her skin; she was about to shuck off her jacket and look for shelter when a voice called from behind her: "Lost, little one?"

Iman jolted, whirling around. Standing on the threshold, the sunshine yellow door caught in his hand, was a dark-haired man, maybe in his twenties, maybe older. His face, angular at some points, soft at others, made it difficult to tell. Iman was overwhelmed by the pure essence of him—the suaveness, she wanted to call it, from his gently curling black hair to his charming, lopsided smile to the concerned way he blinked at her.

He seemed to gather that something was wrong, a quiet distress building in his eyes. Almost nervously, he adjusted the collar of his multicolored sweater and asked, "Are you—okay?"

There was a beat of hesitation in which words refused to come to Iman's mind. Finally, she managed, "What year is it?"

The man's eyebrow lifted, but he answered nonetheless. "1959."

Fuck, Iman wanted to say, but didn't. Instead, she said, "Okay. Wow. Thank you, um, I'm just gonna—"

"Wait," he said. "I'm getting a feeling."

"I'm sorry?"

"I'm getting a feeling you and I are in similar boats," said the man, and before Iman could ask what the hell that even meant, he gestured inside the house. "Are you hungry? I was just heating up a frozen pizza."

A part of Iman screamed at herself to leave; she would be safer, better off, on her own. The other part of Iman was her stomach, which growled at the thought of anything edible, even ancient frozen pizza.

He led her back to the kitchen, which, with its cerulean fridge, yellow countertops, and floral backsplash, made Iman want to throw up in her mouth. It was the 50s, she reminded herself. It was probably a very nice kitchen in the 50s. It was probably a very nice kitchen now, she corrected herself.

The 50s? The 50s? What was she doing here?

Placed on a small, iron oven rack in the center of the island was the aforementioned frozen pizza, dripping with melted cheese and crisp with pepperoni. The man laughed when he saw the look on her face, then reached behind him to retrieve a plate for her. Iman took it, gratefully.

"Julien," he said after a beat.

Iman, midway through retrieving a pizza slice, looked up at him quizzically.

"That's my name," he offered. "I'm Julien."

"Iman," she allowed, then gestured at him. "You're not going to eat?"

He tensed momentarily, but whatever unrest she read on his face was gone as soon as it was there. "I will later," he said. "So—Iman. How is it that you ended up on my doorstep, exactly?"

As Iman ate her pizza, she weighed her options. On one hand, her parents had always cautioned her that secrecy was in her best interest. If word of your...abilities were to get out, she remembered her mother telling her, there's no telling what would happen. On the other, what would it hurt? The people she ran into while traveling were only passing strangers. She would never see them again.

Usually Iman made these decisions based on her mood, and she was feeling rebellious that day.

"You want the truth?"

Julien clicked his teeth. "I'd prefer it, yes, but I don't expect it."

An interesting answer. She liked it. "I'm from the future," she rewarded him, saying it as flatly as possible.

Julien narrowed his eyes. "Why'd you ask if I wanted the truth if you weren't planning to give it to me? Theatrics?"

Iman shook her head, setting down her half-eaten pizza slice. She didn't know why she bothered; it didn't matter to her whether this guy believed her or not. "That is the truth. I'm a time traveler. I was born like this. Sometimes I go backwards in time a little and end up in God knows where, God knows when. Five minutes ago I was in 2016, walking home, and now I'm here. That's the truth."

She expected him to question her again, or maybe to write her off as psychotic and shove her out his front door again, back into the heat. What she did not expect this stranger to do was laugh.

He laughed: a gentle, flowing laugh, easy but genuine. "That explains a lot."

Iman could not stifle a sputter. "What?"

Julien scrubbed a hand down his face, blinking at her. "You're dressed...differently. Besides, you seemed so stunned when I told you what year it was. I was thinking you were strange before. This just completes the puzzle."

Iman did not tell many people about her time traveling abilities; the few people she did tell were passing strangers. Nevertheless, she had never gotten a reaction quite like Julien's.

She remembered what he'd said before he'd invited her inside: I'm getting a feeling you and I are in similar boats.

Iman's head tilted; she just watched him.

Julien noticed, a smile just slightly tinted with mirth playing at his lips. "Everything okay there?"

"How are you taking this so well?" Iman asked, bracing herself against the kitchen island, as if the sheer strangeness of the situation was enough to topple her over. "What do you...what do you know?"

"Nothing," said Julien. Something in his face turned grim, introspective, for a moment, but it was fleeting. "I don't really know anything. It's just that nothing really surprises me anymore."

Discomfort thrummed suddenly and violently within Iman's chest. She realized what a fool she was. She was in a foreign time, a foreign place, in a stranger's house. She'd gotten careless. The one thing she could never be.

Julien was closer now. Iman didn't remember him walking around the island. It was as if one moment he were leaning back against the sink, and the next he was in front of her, straddling a barstool and peering into her face.

"I think you and I could help each other," he said, his voice steady, too steady.

Iman swallowed. "Why is that?"

Julien grinned, and that was when she saw the fangs.

Iman jolted back, jumping from the stool with such haste that she nearly sent herself falling to the ground. Fangs? Fangs? It didn't make sense, any sort of sense at all, and yet she had just watched it happen. What other explanation was there?

"That's—" Iman sputtered. "You're—no. I'm—" She turned, sprinting for the door, but it was no use. By the time she reached the foyer, the vampire was already there.

The discomfort within her rose to blatant fear. Her heart raced within her chest.

Julien held up his hands as if surrendering. When he spoke, Iman was relieved to find that the fangs were no longer there. "Calm down; calm down. I'm not going to eat you. I don't—I don't really feed on humans anymore."

"Anymore?"

"It's complicated! Jesus, I thought we were getting somewhere. You shared your secret, I shared mine," Julien said, dropping his hands. She didn't know why she sensed an ounce of hurt in his voice. "I thought it was fair."

Iman's heart still raced, but slowly, surely, it began to steady itself. Because she recognized the look on his face, the frown at his mouth. She recognized it because she had seen it in the mirror before. This was what it looked like to be lonely.

The weightless sensation that meant she'd be leaving soon began to set in. Only this time, Iman wanted to stay.

She asked Julien, "I probably won't see you again."

Julien's eyes widened with realization. "That's not true. Maybe you will. Maybe a long time from now, you will."

Iman chuckled. "I wouldn't count on it."

The world was beginning to tilt a little. She didn't have much longer.

Julien told her, "Thanks."

Though it was all she wanted, she didn't get the chance to ask what for, because she was gone.