Before starting to make his way toward Americana’s Boulder, a few miles away, Chris took a mental snapshot of the flat rock he had emerged from, the surrounding landscape, and any memorable features to ensure he could find his way back to the portal site later. 

       He descended the hill, navigating through a tangle of fallen branches, tall grass, and scattered rocks. At the bottom, he spotted a rack filled with recumbent trikes and other personal transporters. This appeared to be a modified version of the bike-sharing programs in his world. A corner of his mouth lifted. Could he commandeer one of these? It would certainly get him to town faster than on foot.

       His attempts to liberate some of the trikes were unsuccessful; they were all locked. No surprise there. Examining the rack more closely, he noticed a small glass square facing upward. What do we have here? He pressed his thumb against it. Nothing. He hovered his palm above the square. This triggered a momentary red glow, and he tried to pry out one of the vehicles. Still locked. Undeterred, he tried again, positioning his hand above the glass plate, then stopped when it finally dawned on him. It was a palm biometric scanner. And his vein pattern wasn’t in the system.

       This had not been a foregone conclusion, though.

Ronny and he had discussed the possibility of there being another Chris Walden in Americana and deemed it unlikely. The likelihood of two people coming together in the same way and creating an identical child was improbable. Well, it looked like they were right; there didn’t appear to be any other Chris in that universe, at least not one registered in the biometric system.

       Back to walking, then. But should he wait for daybreak?

       Earlier, their sighting of bison and elk herds hinted at the presence of predators. Chris had no desire to have close encounters with mountain lions, bears, or wolves in the darkness.        He pondered the situation for a moment. The potential run-ins with dangerous animals aside, he’d need to be on his A-game when navigating this unfamiliar world. Remaining awake all night seemed like a dubious move, especially after being too amped up to sleep the night before. He resolved to get some much-needed rest.

       After years in the field, Chris had no trouble lying on the bare ground amid large trees and sacking out.

       He awoke in the shade to the sound of bird chirps and the faint scent of pine. The sun, now high and tilting westward, prompted him to check his watch in disbelief. It was already past three o’clock. 

       Be that as it may, history could hold its horses for just a bit longer.

       After answering nature’s call, Chris rummaged through his backpack, pulled out a plain paper bag with nuts, and settled against a tree to snack comfortably.

       Everything he brought with him was meticulously selected. 

In a world of walking canes and self-driving vehicles, a bright synthetic backpack might or might not stick out like a sore thumb.        Chris had opted for a nondescript leather and canvas one instead. It might say “rustic,” but that was better than shouting, “I’m from another universe!” Similarly, he packed a change of clothes, a water canteen, and toiletries that were unremarkable and plain.

       With the empty paper bag now stowed away in his knapsack, Chris set out toward the distant town, trudging through carpets of wild grass and clusters of yellow flowers. He noticed a couple of prairie dog sentries perched on a nearby mound, the only ones keeping watch, as far as he could tell. It seemed like he was all alone out here.

       Chris pushed through the dense grass and cursed under his breath as he stumbled over a railroad rail all but hidden from view. He brushed himself off and noticed a narrow dirt path running alongside the tracks. He decided to follow the path. 

       It was quiet except for the occasional gust of wind and the chirping of birds from the cottonwoods and willows by the reservoir. Suddenly, a new sound intruded on his thoughts. He turned. A lone flatbed railcar was trundling down the track toward his position.

       First contact!

       For a brief moment, Chris stood still, unsure, a mix of anticipation and uncertainty coursing through him. He brought his arm out and gave a thumbs up—hoping that this universal gesture was not limited to his universe. Belatedly, he realized that there was no one steering the vehicle; the sole passenger sat toward the back. All the same, the train car was slowing down with a faint metallic squeal of brakes.

       As it drew closer, more details registered. He’d never seen anything like it. The carriage was entirely open. Four massive bamboo posts at each corner supported an arched roof that appeared to be a thick, distressed brass plate.

       The railcar came to a stop beside him. It could have been controlled remotely, but Chris doubted it. No, some onboard image recognition software had identified a person, understood his hand signal, and brought it to a stop—presumably to pick up a commuter.

       The glasses he wore had been Ronny’s brainchild. Chris had to admit it was a clever idea. They looked like ordinary corrective glasses, which they had noticed on people in Americana. However, these glasses were a pretender; they concealed a tiny video camera with an embedded microSD card capable of recording twenty-six hours of footage. Twenty-six hours that could change history and, on a crasser note, line their pockets with extra coin.

       This is it, he thought, feeling his heart race and adrenaline surge. He discreetly tapped the side of the frame, activating the hidden recording function. Stay calm. You got this, Chris told himself as he climbed into the open railway carriage and nodded to the lone female passenger. 

       She sat in a hammock chair: a stunning-looking, fair-skinned woman in her early twenties wearing a muted khaki-green pleated skirt and a matching tailored jacket.

       The carriage remained stationary, waiting for something. 

       She gazed at him, and he met her eyes. 

       Her long, dark hair cascaded down her back in loose waves. A sudden breeze sent it tumbling around her face, and she pushed it away with a flick of her wrist, revealing anew her intense green eyes, now sparkling with good-natured humor. “Hold your palm over the glass plate,” she called out. 

       Chris glanced around, finally understanding what she meant, and then realizing it was not going to work.

       The young woman got up, her black heels clicking softly on the gritty wooden floor as she approached. She stopped in front of him, standing closer than necessary. “Here,” she said, guiding his hand to a small square of glass he’d missed. The glass flashed red. She appeared puzzled and tried again. “Odd. Your palm vein pattern isn’t in the system.” With a shrug, she placed her own hand on the scanner, which flashed green.

       With a jolt, the railcar started moving. “It’s on me,” she said casually and turned back.

       “I appreciate it,” Chris mumbled, his throat dry. So those were to be the first words of an Earthling in this parallel universe. Not quite “That’s one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind,” but history would have to make do.

       A moment ago, the woman had tucked away her earpiece. She glanced over her shoulder. This was the man Homeland Security had flagged, the one she’d been asked to contact and learn about.

       The real-time tracking data the Department provided had been spot-on. She boarded the railcar at just the right moment to “coincidentally” meet her target. Why had her handler chosen to involve her in this? He’d told her this assignment was “uncritical,” and from his tone, she’d deduced he thought little of it. Border infiltrators wouldn’t have their biometrics in the database. Such individuals were rare but not unheard of. What set this man apart? 

       She smiled inside, thankful for the assignment all the same. The last one had been six months earlier and was not nearly as visually gratifying. With his broad shoulders, ruggedly handsome face, and earnest gray eyes—what was not to like? That is, what was not to lust? Her eyes traveled over his rough, pocket-laden trousers and slightly snug white T-shirt, admiring how the pants rode on his hips and how the shirt accentuated his muscular chest. His somewhat exotic clothes merely enhanced the faint air of mysterious allure about him.

       As she walked back to her seat, she steadied herself with the straps dangling from the ceiling. “First time on a train?” she asked him, glancing over her shoulder.

       Chris gagged. “You call that a train?” The railroad car lurched, and he grabbed onto one of the hanging straps to steady himself. 

       She laughed heartily, sat down, and gestured. “Care to join me?”

       “Sure.” He made his way to the suspended hammock chair next to hers and settled in. “Chris Walden,” he said by way of introduction.

       With a charming, well-bred smile, she extended her hand. “How do you do? I am Miss Sandra Allen,” she said with a clear, modulated voice. As they shook, Chris felt a wave of relief. Her accent was comfortably familiar, mirroring that of his own America. This meant he would have an easier time blending in. Still, her speech had a distinct quality, a graceful cadence reminiscent of old black and white films. Chris resolved to listen closely and match her intonation.

       Anchored with ropes to rings bolted to the floor, the hanging hammock chairs could be pivoted effortlessly. With their feet down, the two comfortably turned to face one another.

       He gazed at the young woman. Her green eyes, reminiscent of sunlight filtering through leaves, and the mahogany highlights in her hair, illuminated by stray sunbeams, held him captive. A balmy gust of wind jolted him back to the present. He glanced around, taking in their surroundings. “It’s fun to ride this way,” he commented, trying to regain his composure. As Chris spoke, he realized he was still holding her hand, and his face flushed with embarrassment. He withdrew his hand as inconspicuously as he could. “But maybe not so much when it rains?” he suggested.

       Sandra smiled, revealing even white teeth. “This is an open model,” she said, “suitable for when rain is unlikely. Naturally, there are enclosed models for colder or rainy days.”

       That didn’t sound quite right. “How can anyone know if it’s going to rain? Especially in a place like Colorado.”

       “By performing the rain dance,” she said, leaning in—and then gave him a mischievous grin. “It’s just a twenty-minute shuttle ride from Lafayette to Boulder,” she explained. “The transport system is continually fed weather data. Basic computer programming, I would imagine.”

       Chris returned her smile, nodding in acknowledgment, though his gaze lingered on the dainty parasol by her feet, struggling to reconcile it with “computer programming.” In fact, everything about this encounter felt disconcerting. The parasol seemed to be from the early 1900s, her attire from the 1940s, the autonomous vehicles from the present, and the railway wagon’s design—well, it was completely alien. He reminded himself that none of it was likely out of place in this parallel universe. Americana was undoubtedly as coherent to its inhabitants as America was to its own people.

       Hell, for all he knew, a visitor from a third parallel universe might see his United States as an eclectic mix: 18th-century pennies alongside mid-20th-century personal checks and present-day cryptocurrency. Or for that matter, the QWERTY keyboard layout, optimized for mechanical typewriters, was still in use alongside sleek computer tablets. While customs like cap-and-gown graduations and school summer break were holdovers of earlier eras.

       There was a measure of formality in the girl’s speech that went along with her dress. Yet there was also forthrightness he hadn’t expected. Keep it cool, he said to himself. The video camera embedded in his eyeglasses was on. This was one for the history books—even if the young woman across from him was not aware of the magnitude of the moment.

       She was still explaining, “During the morning rush hour, trains with multiple cars are dispatched frequently. The numbers taper down in the middle of the day or in the dead of the night. The adaptive control continuously adjusts and responds to patterns of passenger demand, accounting for days of the week, weather—” She stopped abruptly, her cheeks flushing a delicate pink. “My apologies, sometimes I forget I’m not in front of a class.”

       “Ah, a teacher.”

       Sandra nodded. “Literature.” 

       She studied him openly then tossed her hair back. “And you? Hiking, Mr. Walden?” 

       “Exploring around. First time in the area.”

       Their legs brushed against each other as she crossed her legs, and the fabric of her skirt slid up her thigh. Their eyes met once more, lingering.

       The carriage slowed down again, and Sandra broke eye contact and looked out, shifting a bit in her seat. Up ahead, by the side of the track, two young boys stood with arms outstretched.

       “Good afternoon, Miss Allen,” they dutifully chimed as they jumped on, hauling aboard the kick scooters they carried. The boys held up their hands over the small glass plate, and the railcar started again.

       “Roy, Wayne,” the woman acknowledged. She folded her hands in her lap. “How’s your day going?”

       “Oh, just swell, Miss Allen,” one of them said. 

       “Golly, Miss Allen, you should see all the bluegill fish we’ve caught,” the other said and pushed the bucket closer for her to inspect.

       Chris eyed them curiously. Barefoot, they wore straw hats and denim overall shorts. Brothers by the look of it. And on the summer vacation, by all appearances.

       “I predict you’ll have a great dinner tonight,” Sandra pronounced.

       “You bet!” one of them agreed.

       Moments later, the boys lay down and dangled themselves on an overhanging lattice of ropes, gazing at the wild grass a couple feet below as it whizzed by.

       Chris observed them with a touch of apprehension; the children had no harness, no safety net, nothing to secure them. “Is there no danger of them falling over?”

       “Well, one can never tell,” Sandra said with a twinkle in her eye. She turned to the boys. “What’s one more bruise or a twisted ankle? Right, Wayne?”

       “I did not fall off that time, Miss Allen,” Wayne said. “I jumped.”

       “At some section of the track, the train goes right to the edge of the lake,” Sandra intimated to Chris in a stage whisper. “He missed it and landed in the dirt instead.” She laughed softly at the memory.

       Chris was taken aback. He’d heard of free-range chickens before, but free-range kids? Evidently, parents in this universe believed in a “school of hard knocks” approach to child rearing.

       The vehicle slowed down as up ahead a number of deer were crossing the track, then picked up speed again.

       Chris gestured at the boys. “Are they your neighbors, Miss?”

       She shook her head. “Students in Whittier School, where I teach.” She flashed him a dazzling smile, and the sun seemed suddenly brighter. “And what do you do, Mr. Walden?”

       “I’ve been out of the country,” Chris said, his eyes holding a distant look. “Iraq, to be exact. Just got back.” He’d rehearsed this line in the looking glass until it emerged naturally and convincingly. He smiled apologetically. “Taking a little break before I figure out what’s next.”

       She nodded in return, uncertainty in her eyes.

       Had she accepted his explanation? What did she make of it? He could only hope that it served as an adequate cover. Chris had no way of gauging yet how different, how truly different, was this world from his. With any luck, claiming to have returned to the States after many years in Iraq might account for his inevitable quirks and displays of unfamiliarity.

       The railcar was nearing the end of its journey. Sandra had to think fast. “Mr. Walden, any plans for the day?” He shook his head. “It’s Friday,” she went on in a bright voice, “may I invite you to our neighborhood picnic?”

       “I’d love to,” he said, and tried to hide his elation. He could not have wished for a better opportunity.

       “Wonderful,” she said with a warm note in her voice. She squeezed his arm and then got up as the carriage slowed down, drawing to a stop. “Shall we?” Sandra asked him.