Miles Merry didn't remember passing out, he only remembered sitting beside the pretty Brit for a second, and the next thing he saw was the underside of a tent. Feeling both sick and heavy, he tried to sit up only for a man in unfamiliar clothing to push him back down. When he spoke it was in rushed, hurried Arabic that Miles would have needed another few minutes to puzzle out. He left and the tent fluttered again. He could hear goats and children and a rush of other voices.

"Miles?" The tent flap moved and in came Helen Moffit looking bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. She was also wearing Arabic clothes, "how do you feel?"

"Great and confused? We're not dead?"

"We almost died, we were heading deeper into the desert and they found us not long after you passed out."

"I don't remember passing out," he said, and tried to sit up. The girl frowned.

"You were already dehydrated and injured. Why didn't you say anything?" He opened his mouth to answer, but she steamrolled over him. " Well, at the moment we're guests of friends of my family."

"They gotta be friends with yours, they couldn't be friends with my family."

"Not necessarily, but you're right in a few respects. They're friends of...of my Great-grandfather and my grandfathers…"

"Uh….are you suggesting that we time-traveled?" Miles stared a few moments and then blinked rapidly. "Are you serious?"

"The sheik was discussing what to do with the German and Allies fighting."

"Holy shit, you really think we're in the middle of...world war two?"

"North Africa."

"The Desert Fox," Miles gaped, "My great-grandfather fought out in the desert. I still have his stupid litle hat in the display case."

"Well, watch your language and don't let anything out. You and I are old friends, so make it look good. They think that it is strange that I am travelling with a male on my own."

"Why? You're perfectly capable." He frowned when she directed a glare his direction. "Oh...right. Sexism. I'll be fine and totally cool."

"They said that they would send for help, but I'm not to whom."

"Huh...hopefully not someone who can ruin the timeline."

"Any ideas how we got here...or what we're doing here?" He tried to sit up again, and she helped him sip cautiously at water. He laid back down, feeling equal part exhausted and pained. It wasn't as if he'd been having a good day before being thrown back a few decades. He'd spent, as he knew it, the morning chopping up a fallen tree and moving the logs out of the orchard. It was backbreaking work, and everything hurt.

"No, on both counts." Producing her bag, she lifted a small weatherbeaten journal out of it. "This is my grandfather, and it...recounts his adventures in the desert. Some of them, and I...well...you're not going to believe this." Helen flipped it open, and revealed a sketch…of her. "I always thought it was of my mother or even my grandmother, but look," she flipped the page, and just beneath a paragraph of scribbled cursive...was Miles wearing the protective headgear of the desert...and the edge of the bandage peeking out of it.

"Oh, shit." He reached up to touch the bandage on his head, his body aching, and turned wide eyes to the archaeologist in front of him.

"Oh, shit indeed, Merry. So...I've had this journal for over ten years...and my grandfather insisted that I carry it with me. He said it was a matter of a guide."

"A guide."

"A guide, or an example to show how an adventurer keeps their records. I always thought he was being a pompous ass, but here." Flipping another page revealed the sketch of a Japanese man, and an impressive rendition of the kimono he was wearing. "The paragraph says that he met this man in the desert, and I thought it was fiction because there was no interaction of the Japanese Imperial forces in the desert."

"He's not even wearing an Imperial Japan uniform...that's a leisure kimono...and it looks old school."

"Which is very strange, but if we can't fall back then why can't someone fall forward?"

"True, and he's got to be confused as hell."

"Watch your language," Helen scolded, "it's not polite. I'm a lady."

"I?" He blinked a few times, "really?"

"I don't actually care, but you don't want to get into any bad habits. Sheik Ibrahim speaks English, and whoever does come will not be pleased to see an American man cursing at an English lady."

"Please," he rolled his eyes and felt dizzy. "If you see Hercule Poirot then smack him please."

"I shan't," Helen sighed, "I can't stay long, it will be suspicious."

"Ah, right. What's the story?" They both paused as the tent flap opened and in came a large man in ornate robes. Miles watched the two exchange words, and wondered what was about to happen. The man seemed more amused by Helen than anything and he gestured to the tent exit and laughed when she gave a sharp reply and reluctantly obeyed. She shot him a concerned glance, and he favored her with a shallow wave of his fingers as she vanished into the sun.

"Well, my friend!" Sheik Ibrahim's English was accented, and his tone was friendly. It hopefully boded well for the deeply confused American. "You were lucky to have been found and rescued!"

"Thank you for your hospitality," he said slowly, sounding out the words as a long-faded memory of his mother re-surfaced. "We're very grateful."

"I am pleased to host the young family of my friends," he said. "The crazy English." His eyes glittered with curiosity. "And you, my young friend, what brings you to this desert?"

"Ecological surveys," he answered, figuring it was close enough to the truth and if not...he could fake it. "Dirt and plants."

"A professor then?"

"I'm a student," he answered, mostly truthful. "My friend is the one with a doctorate." He surveyed the tent, "this is beautiful."

"Thank you. I am pleased to see that you are up, our medic was not sure you would recover so easily."

"Just a little exhaustion."

"Only exhaustion? My friend, you nearly died."

"Oh," finally understanding the situation he had narrowly escaped, the cold brush of Death's fingertips trailed down his spine and he had to shiver. "That's not good." He glanced from his hands, and then at the tent around him. "Did someone change me?"

"Your clothes were unsalvageable."

He had just bought those jeans too.

"Where are they?"

"I had them burned."

"All of them?" He gasped, and yelped as he tried to sit up. "Did you at least empty my pockets?" He had his chapstick, some gum, and a few quarters, not to mention his wallet and his phone !

"Be at peace, you doctor has your personal effects." The man stared at Miles, as if evaluating him, and Miles refused to squirm under the intensity of the stare. "And your shoes."

"Oh, thank god," he sagged against the blankets, feeling every bit of pain and almost relishing in it. It meant he was alive. "Good shoes are hard to replace."

"They are," he continued to stare at Miles, and he smiled again as if he'd reached a final conclusion. "I have sent for someone who will return you to your people."

"Thank you, is Ms. Moffitt alright?"

"She is doing well, and is not as injured as you have been." Again, another searching glance made him distinctly uncomfortable. "Rest and recover, and call if you need something."

"Right, uh, thank you." He swallowed faintly, "Erm...I'll just...rest."

"Yes, if you are well enough then join us for dinner!"

"I'll hope to feel better by then," his grin felt more like a grimace, and the man stood and strode out of his tent. Letting his head fall back against the pillow.

What was he doing in the past? Why was he here? Why was Helen here...what the hell could they do ?