Page 72 of Across Time

A new fear arises. What if I have not made it back to my own time? What if I'm held captive in some strange middle era between 1938 and 1987 until my ability to leave is gone completely? I'm too weak to jump anywhere at the moment. This I know for certain.

"Let me go!" I demand. My wrists shake against the restraints and go nowhere. My breath comes too fast. I know I should be calm and reasonable right now, but the onset of panic is making it impossible. “Laissez-moi partir!”

"Mademoiselle, you need to calm yourself," he says, completely unmoved. He looks bored.

Rage and adrenaline—they entwine together and I gasp with the effort of reining them in. I'm not strong enough to jump so they can do whatever they want to me, but it’s his ambivalence that upsets me most—a reminder of what I really lose by refusing to time travel anymore. It just takes one person—an angry cop, a pissed-off ex-boyfriend, a suspicious doctor without a shred of empathy—to strip you of your freedom entirely.

“Why am I restrained?" I demand.

"It's standard protocol for patients who come in high," he replies crisply.

"I'm not high!" I scream, losing any semblance of calm. "Get me out of these things!" My heart begins to thud loudly in my chest.

The doctor asks the nurse to hand him a syringe. They’re going to sedate me, and then I won’t have a chance of escape. I won’t even be able to talk my way out of this. "No," I beg. "Please. Don't."

"You need to calm down," he repeats. The nurse hands it to him, and as the needle presses into my bicep I start to scream, closing my eyes to jump out of this bed, out of this skin.

The cool liquid is seeping into my blood when a man comes to the room. He’s black, so large he seems to take up most of the door.

“S’arretez-vous!” he orders. He grabs the doctor but it’s too late. I can already feel my eyes growing heavy. She is the granddaughter of Cecelia Boudon, he announces, and if you’ve hurt a hair on her head, you will be very sorry.

I’m relieved to have someone, anyone, intervening. But I have no idea who Cecelia Boudon is. And I’m definitely not her granddaughter.

* * *

When I wake, I'm in a sunlit room, one that does not smell or look like a hospital. General Hospital is playing on the TV across from me, overdubbed in French. The windowsill and nightstand hold a wealth of flowers.

A nurse stands beside me. It's just a blood pressure check, she says testily. At first I assume she's talking to me, but then there's a low grunt from the corner of the room: D'accord, someone says.

It’s the man from earlier. His jacket has fallen open just enough to reveal the holstered gun at his side. No wonder she sounds so defensive.

Just once I’d like to land in a version of France where I’m not greeted with guns.

"Who are you?" I ask. My voice is hoarse.

He startles a bit at the sound of my voice. "I’m surprised you’re awake. They gave you enough sedative to fell a horse for a week,” he says. “My name is Philippe. I'm one of your grandmother's bodyguards.”

I glance at him warily. I know for a fact that both of my grandmothers are dead, and that neither of them were French, or had bodyguards. Sooner or later, he’s going to realize I’m not who he thinks I am. I'm still not strong enough to jump, so my only chance to escape is now, before this Cecelia Boudon, whoever she really is, arrives to rat me out.

"When...when is my grandmother coming?" I ask. The nurse is leaving and I'm no longer restrained. Surely there will be a moment when this large man has to step out of the room.

"I'm calling her now," he replies, picking up the phone.

I sit, pulling the blood pressure cuff from my arm, swinging my legs over the edge of the bed and he rises. "I'm just going to—" I begin.

He cuts me off with a low laugh and a wide smile that makes him seem slightly less dangerous. "Slow down, Mademoiselle Besson."

I gasp. "What did you call me?" That’s when it occurs to me to lift my wrist.

Amelie Besson, the hospital bracelet says. DOB: 5-8-1966.

My made-up French name. My actual date of birth.

He hangs up the phone. “Madame Boudon has asked me to reassure you she is a friend of the Durand family.”

A friend. Does that mean Henri and Marie-Therese asked her to look out for me? But how could they, when they had no idea where and when I’d be arriving? Does it mean they’re alive?

Maybe she is Henri’s daughter, or his wife.