by Wendy Devore
“An almanac?” I suggested, handing him the monstrous volume. I shook out my stiff arm while he hoisted the almanac onto a nearby table and began poring through the index. He rapidly flipped pages, ran his finger down a table of numbers, and looked up with a triumphant grin.
“Atmospheric CO2 concentration is over one hundred parts per million lower,” he reported, stabbing the book with his finger. “I think this slice will do nicely.”
I released a huge, involuntary sigh of relief. When my shoulders relaxed, I realized I’d spent the last hour as tense as if I was reliving my Breckinridge Fellowship interview. It was a relief to know that we’d be here for the next couple of days. Perhaps there would be a respite for my conflicted emotions. And maybe the nasty welt on my left hand would finally have time to heal.
“We should take this opportunity to learn a little more about where we are,” Andrew suggested. He flipped more pages of the almanac.
“I noticed that the population of California for last year was about a third of what I expected.”
“That’s odd…” Andrew replied absentmindedly as he continued his search. He paused for a moment and regarded the spine of the volume. “The Dewey decimal system seems alive and well here. We could pore through periodicals, but that could take hours. It might be faster if you find some recent American history. Try looking in nonfiction 970.”
“Uh, how do you know that?”
“I know things,” he replied, returning to the depths of the volume.
“What’s the call number for astronomy?”
“520,” Andrew replied immediately, without looking up.
“North American poetry?”
“811.”
“Fairy tales?”
“398.2.”
“How on earth do you do that?” I sputtered, a little too loudly for a library.
“Eidetic imagery,” he replied, turning another page.
I rolled my eyes. “You have a photographic memory. Of course you do.”
“It’s not so rare. Look it up—153.1,” he suggested. “On your way to 970 for American history.”
“Infuriating,” I mumbled as I set off for the history section.
I curled up in a comfortable, well-worn leather chair and opened up a burgundy leather-bound copy of America Shall Endure: A History of the United States. I had just finished the chapter on very familiar-sounding tensions prior to World War I when someone dropped into the adjacent seat.
“Solved the mystery yet?” Andrew inquired.
In response, my stomach let out a loud and embarrassing groan.
“Why am I hungry? Don’t I have some sort of nose tube feeding me back at home?”
“You do. You can think of this version of yourself as an instance—a copy made at the time of slicing. So your copy here needs to eat, sleep—all the bodily essentials. And I’m starving, too. Time to find lunch—and someplace to lay low.”
“But I haven’t learned anything interesting yet.”
“Not to worry,” Andrew replied. “Just tuck the book in your backpack and we’ll be on our way.”
“But I don’t have a backpack…” I insisted.
Andrew nudged a greenish-gray canvas bag with his foot. My eyes grew wide, and I looked nervously around, but no other students were in sight.
“Come on. No time to waste!” He snatched the book, unfastened the pack, and shoved it inside.
“We’re stealing a library book? Using someone else’s stolen backpack?”
“You’d better get comfortable with justifiable appropriation,” he suggested, rising and shouldering the pack. “In case you haven’t noticed, we’re hungry, improperly dressed, and eventually in need of a place to sleep. Unless you want to pass yourself off as a homeless Norwegian panhandler?”
“Not really,” I sighed. “I suppose next you’re going to tell me you’re going to hot-wire a car?”
He shook his head. “Too risky—broad daylight, no tools… And you’ve seen the cars here. Not even close to what we’d find at home. It could take hours.”
“I was kidding! Can we please just walk?”
We headed down Palm Drive under the sparse shade of familiar palm trees. Crossing busy El Camino Real was a snap; there was still an overpass, but instead of spanning six lanes of traffic, the artery was just a sleepy two-lane road. As we approached the lower end of downtown, I drew in a sharp breath. Despite the fact that it was lunchtime, the sidewalk wasn’t completely overrun with people. Gone were the lines of traffic inching down the street searching for parking. Pedestrians strolled leisurely along the wide sidewalks, the men in linen suits in varying shades of grays and browns, the women in dresses or skirts. I noticed that all the women all wore thick headbands similar to the one worn by the librarian, all in different iridescent hues. Most men wore hats, but those who didn’t also sported the same bands. Interesting style choice, I thought. Somewhere nearby, a restaurant was grilling some kind of meat. My stomach rumbled again.
“We’re too obvious here,” Andrew decided, grabbing my arm and making a sharp left on Emerson Street. The skin where his hand lay felt oddly warm and tingly, and I was relieved when he broke his grasp. I tried to shake off the sensation.
“We need to find a home that’s unoccupied,” Andrew suggested as we took a left turn on Everett. “It looks like today is trash pickup, so we’ll look for a place without trash cans out front. No car in the driveway. Backed up mail or newspapers. Maybe even an unmowed lawn.”
He scanned the homes with a critical and practiced eye. Tired and increasingly hungry, I trudged along in his wake.
The streets were quiet, without pedestrians and with only the occasional appearance of one of the gleaming futuristic cars. I followed Andrew as he meandered, turning corners and considering house after house. I noticed that all of the homes were topped with unfamiliar semi-glossy, purple-black roofing tiles. Solar? I wondered how that was economically feasible.
“This one,” Andrew suddenly declared, cutting down a narrow driveway that flanked a modest sky-blue Queen Anne Victorian. I noticed four rolled newspapers in a messy pile on the front porch as we headed toward a tidy redwood gate. Andrew pulled the piece of twine dangling from the gate, and it unlatched easily. I followed him through and closed it quietly behind me. He extended his arm, and we both froze, but after a moment, he relaxed.
“No dog,” he noted.
“No, but there is a cat.” I pointed to a bored-looking furry orange face peering through a nearby window.
Andrew frowned. “Not ideal. There will be someone feeding it.” He shrugged and advanced toward the back door.
It took Andrew and his Norwegian ID less than a minute to defeat the lock on the door. Once inside, I looked about the sunny yellow kitchen. The apron sink and curved white lines of the fridge reminded me of pictures of my grandmother’s childhood home from the forties. The fluffy orange cat jumped down from the window and began weaving around my legs and purring. I reached down to pet her, and she rubbed her face on my hand, gazing up at me with half-closed eyes.
“There’s plenty of kibble in the cat’s bowl,” Andrew observed. “We have a little time.” He strode to the fridge, pulled open its single large door, and began rummaging around.
“Orange juice,” he reported, placing a glass bottle on the counter. It was quickly joined by a hunk of cheese and two rosy apples. My stomach growled again. I gave the cat a final pat and rummaged through the tidy white cabinets. I added a pair of juice glasses, a sleeve of crackers, and a can of tuna to the meager lunch stash.
Andrew sighed as he moved the items to a small white breakfast table near the sunny bay window. He shifted the canvas pack from his shoulder and placed it on the extra chair. “It’s not exactly gourmet, but it’ll do.”
I was ravenous, and the tuna on crackers with cheese tasted fantastic. The cat hopped into my lap and meowed pleadingly, so I fed her a morsel of tuna. She butted her head against my chest and curled up on my lap in a renewed tor
rent of purrs. Andrew pulled the history book from the pack and began where I left off. In between bites, he turned pages quickly, and I watched his eyes dart about as he skimmed.
In no time the “lunch” was reduced to nothing more than crumbs. Andrew slapped the book shut, startling the cat. He shoved the book volume into the pack as he rose and started for the doorway toward the living room.
“Time to dress like a native,” Andrew suggested. “You’ll need several changes of clothes. Don’t forget toiletries. And see if you can find any of those headbands we’ve seen everyone wearing.”
I could hear him thudding up the stairs. I cleared away the crumbs and the empty containers and found my way to the second story. My new little feline friend followed at my heels.
The staircase, with its curving bannister and carved balustrades, led to a landing with a short hallway flanked by four doors. The one closest to me was a bathroom, old-fashioned with rose-pink tile work and a white pedestal sink. I darted inside and riffled through the shelves and cabinets, gathering items I’d need. At the end of the hall was a double-doored linen closet.
I peeked into the first of the bedroom doors and spied the open closet, unfamiliar clothes strewn on the bed, and Andrew, stripped down to his skivvies. I quickly averted my eyes and took a step back.
“I’ll just check these other rooms,” I called loudly, hurrying to the second room. It appeared to belong to a young boy who was really into model airplanes.
The third bedroom held more promise. The cat skidded in around the jamb and across the gleaming hardwood floor as I closed the door behind me. The room was tidy and neat, the twin bed dressed in a white eyelet coverlet.
On the white dresser sat a framed photo that showed a pretty girl of perhaps seventeen, sitting on a park bench and holding the hand of a young man. They sat far apart and seemed charmingly shy. I picked up the frame to examine her outfit more closely and was shocked that the perspective changed as I tilted it. I poked the surface of the image and realized that it wasn’t paper after all, but its glossy surface was some kind of electronic film. I accidentally swiped my thumb across the bottom and the picture flipped to a close-up of the marmalade cat. I quickly restored the correct image and replaced the photo where I’d found it.
I dug guiltily through the girl’s closet until I found the clothes that she was wearing in the photo: a knee-length rose-pink swing skirt with deep pleats and the cream-colored, short-sleeve button-up blouse with the Peter Pan collar. The skirt was a bit on the snug side, but I wiggled in as best as I could.
Embarrassment flushed my cheeks when the first drawer I opened revealed her unmentionables. A tidy bin on the far left contained neat rolls of stockings. I pulled out a pair and was taken aback at their decadent feel. I rubbed one against my cheek.
“What is this fabric? It’s even smoother than silk,” I murmured to the cat. He sat patently on the floor and watched me with interest. I pulled on the first stocking, past the hem of my skirt and up to my thigh, and then realized that there was no way it was going to stay there.
“You’ll need a garter for that,” Andrew suggested as he peered in through a four-inch gap in the door that I was certain I had not left ajar.
I nearly jumped out of my skin, belting out a shriek that sent the cat skittering under the bed. I clutched the remaining stocking uselessly to my chest. “Have you no boundaries? A little privacy, please!” I felt my cheeks go crimson. I wondered if his encyclopedic knowledge of obscure women’s underwear had anything to do with his eidetic memory. He rolled his eyes but shut the door.
“Hurry up,” was his muffled reply. “We can’t stay here long.”
I ditched the stockings and found a pair of cute brown leather pumps in Mystery Teen’s closet that fit well enough. The shoes had a disconcerting heel but were nevertheless surprisingly comfortable. I found a container of hair elastics and wrapped my unruly tresses into a bun. I gathered several more skirts and blouses from the closet and folded them neatly into a pile.
Though I checked every nook and cranny of the room, I was unable to find the ubiquitous headband.
With a shrug, I bid the cowering cat farewell, rolled my old clothes into a ball, and tucked my supplies under my arm, leaving the room as tidy as I’d found it.
A neat pile of currency and a silvery key fob with an unfamiliar logo embossed into the metal rested on the kitchen table next to the backpack. With Andrew nowhere in sight, I decided to take a quick tour of the rest of the house.
The living room was more accurately a sitting room, as there was nothing resembling a television anywhere in sight. The fireplace looked classic Victorian—a tile face surrounded by rich, brown wood carved with floral panels and beadwork. I ran my finger along the heavy cast-iron fireplace doors. They were solid and cold to the touch. The furniture in the room was all art deco—smooth lines and trim brown leather.
Double pocket doors led from the main room into a library and study. Bookshelves lined all four walls and were packed with volumes. All the books were hardbound, which seemed unusual; there wasn’t a paperback to be found in the entire room. I vaguely recalled a story my librarian great-aunt told about how paperbacks disrupted the publishing industry in the early 1940s with their low cost and lurid cover printing. Perhaps that never occurred here. I looked over the books and selected a few that looked interesting—one titled Renewable in bold green letters, one called A Compendium of Aviation History. I also grabbed Defying Discovery: Milestones in Medicine. A handsome desk sat in the center of the room. I ran my hand along its polished wood and noticed its smooth, uniform surface. No cables or keyboard trays were evident.
The only corner left unexplored was a small room off the kitchen. It contained a half bath and laundry. As far as I could tell, there wasn’t a screen to be found in the entire place. No television, no computers, no tablet devices. Nothing.
The garage was cramped, and boxes were stacked high on shelves on each side, but I managed to squeeze in. I edged past the open vehicle door, which hinged at the back rather than at the front and gave the car the appearance of wings.
Andrew was rummaging around in the small, open hatch at the back of the compact vehicle. I chuckled at his olive-green trousers and ivory aloha shirt patterned in huge green monstera leaves accented with cheery pink hibiscus flowers. Definitely a new look.
He glanced my way with a raised eyebrow. “Decided against the garter?”
“Nice shirt. And quit trying to provoke me. What’s the plan?”
Andrew glanced down at the shirt and frowned. “Definitely not my first choice.”
He crammed another large, bulky sack into the already bulging cargo area of the car.
“We need someplace inconspicuous to lay low while we do some research. How do you feel about wide-open spaces, starlit skies, and the warm crackle of a fire?”
“It would be great if I were in the Girl Scouts…and I was nine.”
He ignored my lack of enthusiasm.
“I’m finished here. Bring the items on the table from the kitchen. And while you’re at it, you might as well gather your s’mores supplies,” Andrew said, pressing the trunk down firmly and compressing the items within. “Because we are going camping.”
We didn’t need to have a conversation about which of us was going to drive. The notable thing about the car that we were about to appropriate is that it had no driver’s side, because it had no steering wheel. We finally found this slice’s technology, and it was on full display in the automotive sector.
I pulled the door closed behind me as I sank into the comfortable tawny leather seat. I fastened the safety belt and handed Andrew the key fob, which attached magnetically to a fob-shaped indentation in the center console. The vehicle’s flat-screen display sprang to life. Andrew quickly swiped and tapped, moving through colorful menus.
I rubbed my fingers through the soft pleats of my skirt and kept my eyes trained out the window, in case the pet sitter appeared. My eyes grew wide as it
occurred to me that a car this fancy might not be without security features. “Do you think this thing is going to call the cops on us?”
Andrew swiped through more menus. “Not if I can help it. I’ve been through all of the setting menus and have disabled every security feature I can find.” At last, he leaned back into his own seat.
The car slowly but effortlessly navigated itself out of the garage and past the open gate, closing its own garage door. We paused at the end of the driveway, and then the car took a left. I glanced around nervously. I’ll admit I was pretty freaked out to be riding in a fully autonomous automobile, but we were moving smoothly with traffic.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“Ever been to Big Sur?”
“Starving student, remember? I don’t go anywhere. What’s Big Sur?” I asked, feeling my body tense as the car slowed at the stop sign, then made another left.
“It’s the stretch of coastal California south of Carmel. Think seaside cliffs and misty coastline, It’s wild, rugged, and even better—virtually unpopulated.”
Andrew reached behind my seat and extracted a couple of books. He handed me the American history volume we’d stolen from the library while he cracked open Renewable. He nonchalantly flipped pages, ignoring the traffic as it zipped by.
I was unable to stop staring. Not a single passenger in any of the autos was actually driving their car. People napped, read, and held animated conversations. I blushed and turned away from a car containing a couple old enough to be my parents that were unabashedly making out.
“Shouldn’t we be doing…something? Something to avert the storm?” I asked.
Andrew didn’t bother to look up. “We are doing something. We are staying here unobtrusively so that maybe some of this reality’s ecological goodness can leak into ours. This drive is going to take hours. In the meantime, make yourself useful. Read.”
I opened America Shall Endure, thankful that I’d never suffered from carsickness.