6:23 p.m.

He was making her anxious, and considering the crazy thing she was about to do, she could not afford to be anxious. Or at least any more anxious than she was already.

Beck was at her kitchen table, sitting, fidgety, with a burlap sack in front of him. "We don't know how long you'll be, so you should take food—an apple, maybe? Cheese? And water, definitely water, you can't drink the water in Mexico, you know—"

"Beck."

"You should be armed, too. I don't have a gun, but I borrowed Ronnie's taser. Do you want a taser?"

"Beck?"

"Don't forget a coat, either. You're going back to February, right? It's cold then. Probably cold-ish, at least. If only Wi-Fi existed then, then you could bring your phone for Google translate, too—"

"Beck," said Iman, hopping from her perch on the kitchen island. With one hand, she slid the burlap sack down the table, out of Beck's hands. He looked up at her, wide-eyed, mouth half-open. She was right; he was anxious. She could see it in the infinitesimal twitch of his fingers, the way he kept pulling at his earlobe—the one with the piercing he never bothered using. (It was a mistake, apparently: "I got really drunk one night, junior year of high school. Got a totally illegal piercing and my dad didn't let me go out again for weeks.")

The street below was loud with rush hour traffic, car engines revving and tires squealing and people shouting. As Iman touched Beck's cheek with her knuckle however, his skin baby soft underneath her finger, she had the sudden sensation that they were alone in this world, and it was just the two of them.

She saw herself reflected in Beck's dark, dark eyes, and she realized she was scared. What if she never came back to him? Or to Julien, or to her sisters and her parents or anyone?

What if this was the worst mistake of her life?

But she steeled herself. She had to do this, if not for her own curiosity, to save Julien's sanity. He couldn't go on much longer like this, she knew: a ghost in his own body.

"Im," said Beck, furling a hand around her wrist. His fingers were rough, calloused by years of old paper cuts. The very smell of him was of ink and paper. "I know I said...I was okay with this, you know. The whole time traveling thing? But each time you go, I can't help wishing you didn't have to."

She nudged his glasses up on his forehead, stooping, leaning her nose against his. "You know I'd take you with me if I could."

He took in a stuttering breath, his mouth so close to hers that Iman could feel the air thin slightly as he did. "Why can't you?"

She shook her head. "There are some rules you just can't break."

She kissed him, or perhaps he kissed her, but more likely it didn't matter. It was gentle, more lip than tongue or teeth, so soft and yet so passionate that it could have been a fever dream. It was hands in hair and pressed against chests and cupped over ears; it was many things, but Iman couldn't shake the unsettling feeling that it was also a goodbye.

She backed away, grabbing the burlap sack. "I'm going."

Beck swallowed, but said nothing.

Iman sat in the middle of the floor, the kitchen island towering above her like a retaining wall from this position. She clutched the burlap to her chest, her heart hammering underneath her skin. For Julien, she told herself, and again and again, until her pulse calmed.

She closed her eyes, pictured the date on the screen. Was this how she had done it before? She thought so; she didn't know. Was this good enough? She thought so; she didn't know.

February

A hitch in her breath.

February 20th—

The strange feeling of her organs floating within her, as if all her blood were air, or something lighter.

February 20th, 1836—

But where? Where, where, where? A house, maybe a mansion?

Jacinto, she thought.

Take me to Jacinto.

The world sputtered out for a moment, and when she opened her eyes, it was sunny.