Page 6 of Time for You
“Correct.” That was encouraging, at least. “And what year is it?”
He looked at her strangely again. His dark hair was mussed, and there was just a tint of red to it, being picked out by the sunlight. He was handsome, she noted irrelevantly, and then he spoke, and she forgot his looks entirely. “Miss, if you don’t know what year it is, perhapsyouneed to see a doctor.”
“And why is that?”
“Because it’s 1885.”
Chapter Four
“I’m sorry, did you say 1985?”
He looked at her like she had grown an extra head. “Nineteeneighty-five? No, I saideighteeneighty-five.”
Surprise made Daphne temporarily forget her Doctorsona. “Like, olden times?”
That extra head of hers was still there, judging by how he stared back. “Whatever does that mean? Are you quite all right, miss?”
“I told you, I’m fine. It means, um—” She stopped, not sure whether she should embrace whatever delusion the TBI was causing. “Just to be clear, to you it’s 1885?”
“Is itnot?”
Okay then. Back to the hospital it is,Daphne thought. Out loud, she put on her brightest voice. “If you can stand up on your own, I can help you to the hospital.” She grabbed her bike—the wheel was bent, and it would need a tune-up, but it could be salvaged.
He frowned and stood, no apparent injuries other than a small scrape on the edge of his jaw, and picked up his hat. Another glance around at the buildings had him looking even more puzzled, and then he put the damn hat on and looked both puzzledandweird. “Is this truly what America is like?” he asked.
“Uh, yes? Don’t you have, um, buildings in Edinburgh?”
He sent her an unmistakably annoyed look. “Yes, we have buildings. But not—like this.”
Since Daphne had no idea what the city skyline of Edinburgh looked like, she couldn’t exactly refute that. “Are you visiting?” she asked, deciding to try and suss out just how deep his confusion went, even though thatwomen aren’t doctorsthing still bothered her, concussion or no. Hitting one’s head didn’t tend to turn a person into a misogynist—that tended to be there all along. Then again, he also claimed to be from the 1800s, so maybe the problem was a lot bigger than a bonk on the head.
“Don’t be ridiculous. How could I be visiting?”
“So you live here?”
He sighed. “As I said, miss—”
“Doctor. Dr. Daphne Griffin,” she corrected, but he skipped right over her interruption.
“I live in Edinburgh. However I got to wherever we are, I couldn’t say.” He spun around on his heel. “Did you bring me here?”
“Bringyou? I’ve never met you. How could I have brought you here?”
Clearly, he didn’t believe her. “Miss, I insist. Undo it.”
“Undo hitting you with my bike? I’d love to, but that’s not possible.”
“Then explain how I could be in Edinburgh one minute, and inAmericathe next.”
“You hit your head. You’ve probably got a concussion.” Although she couldn’t remember ever seeing or hearing of a case where a concussion made someone think they were from a different century. Usually that sort of delusion meant there was serious mental illness, brain trauma—like, the type you could see—or a tumor.Oh god, he’s got a tumor.Hitting a man with her bike and immediately telling him he had brain cancer would be areallyshit way to end the day. Worse for him, obviously, but still, not great for Daphne, either.
“Nevertheless, I must return home. My mother and sisters will be waiting for me.”
“Please, um, sir,” she said, deciding that if she went along with his way of speaking, maybe he’d listen to her. “The hospital is this way. We can locate your family once you’re there.” She motioned for himto follow her, and he did, albeit hesitantly. She walked her bike, the spokes ticking softly.
He kept stealing glances at her, his face turning a little bit redder each time.
The third time he looked at her and then immediately looked away, she snapped. “What’s the matter? Is there something wrong with me?”
