There was no mistake--Alan was looking at a time tricycle, exactly the same in shape and model as the one he had obtained from Nadine. It occurred to him that it might, in fact, be the very same tricycle. The paint on this one was faded, scratched, and chipped, compared to the brand-new appearance of the one that he had hidden in his garage...but how could he be sure, with a device that was capable of time travel?

Beat walked up alongside him. "What is it, Alan?" she asked.

"Uh...it's just one of those new high-tech tricycles," Alan replied.

"New?" said Beat with surprise. "But it looks very old. And I could have sworn I saw it flying."

"I didn't see it flying," Alan lied.

"Oh." Beat started to walk toward the fallen boy again. "Well, maybe my imagination is running wild, then."

The blond elephant woman had finished dressing the gash on the boy's forehead as Alan and Beat once again stood over him to examine him. "He'll be all right," she said, "but he should see a doctor."

"I'll make sure he does," said Alan.

The woman picked up her medical kit and made her way back into her house. Beat, meanwhile, became intrigued by the strange boy's face.

"He looks a lot like you," she said to Alan.

"But he has your nose," Alan responded.

"No, I don't think so," said Beat, shaking her head. "His nose doesn't look like mine at all." She bent down to take a closer look at the boy's backpack, which was still strapped to his shoulders.

"I wouldn't know," said Alan. "Aardvark noses all look the same to me."

Beat didn't hear what he said, as she was fascinated with the fabric from which the backpack was crafted.

Suddenly the boy's eyes popped open, and he sat up, looking panicked. Beat quickly straightened herself. The boy glanced around, confused by his surroundings. Then he placed a hand over the bandage on his forehead, and groaned. "Oooohhh..."

As Alan and Beat watched with interest, the boy pulled his backpack off of his shoulders and placed it on his lap. The pack had no apparent compartments or zippers, but seemed a featureless, oval-shaped, light brown mass. The boy pulled on the top of the pack and an opening appeared, almost as if by magic. Reaching inside, he briefly pulled out something that looked to Alan like a small vial of fluid, then replaced it. He pushed down on the top of the pack and the opening disappeared, replaced by continuous, seamless fabric.

"How very peculiar," Beat remarked as she watched the boy strap on his pack. "A fabric that mends itself."

Upon hearing Beat's voice, the boy looked up at her, his eyes wide with alarm. After a few seconds he calmed down, then began to speak.

"My head hurts."

Beat held out a hand to the boy. He grasped it hesitantly, and she gently pulled him to his feet. "Thank you," he said weakly.

"I'll take him to my house and call a doctor," said Alan.

"No need." Beat reached into her blouse pocket and pulled out a cell phone. "I can call one from right here."

Alan gaped with surprise. "You have a cell phone?"

"Yes," said Beat, flipping it open. "One must keep up with the Joneses, you know. Or, in this case, the Crosswires."

Alan lifted his hand to stop her. "That won't be necessary, Beat. I'll take care of this."

"Are you certain?" asked Beat with a concerned look.

"I'm positive," said Alan. "Now go to the Sugar Bowl and have a good time. I'll catch up with you later."

Beat eyed him quizzically.

"GO!" cried Alan.

Beat turned and walked away from Alan, her expression one of confusion.

The boy watched her go curiously. "She's a half-and-half," he observed. "Like me."

Alan lifted the tricycle with one hand and rested it against his hip. "Follow me," he said to the boy. "You can walk, right?"

"Of course I can walk," said the boy incredulously.

Alan walked in the direction of his house, carrying the tricycle, while the boy followed, constantly glancing in all directions as if he had entered a fantastic new world.

A few minutes later the pair arrived at the front door of Alan's house. Alan opened the door, and he and the strange boy entered.

"Mom," called Alan, "I brought a friend over."

"Okay, Alan," came Mrs. Powers' voice from the laundry room.

Alan led the boy into his bedroom, where he laid down the tricycle and closed the door. He turned and faced the boy, a stern look on his face.

"Who are you?" he demanded. "Where are you from?"

"Before I answer any questions," said the boy, "do you mind if I lie down? My head really hurts."

Alan gestured toward his bed. The boy stepped toward it, laid a hand on the mattress as if to gauge its softness, and then slowly laid himself down.

Alan stood over him. "I'm waiting."

The boy fluffed up his pillow, laid down his head, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. "My name is Jason."

"Jason," Alan repeated to himself. "Where are you from? Or should I ask, when are you from?"

The boy didn't answer, but appeared to be asleep.

"I have a tricycle just like yours," said Alan, "and I know what it's capable of. I think you're from the future."

The boy slowly opened his eyes.

"Whatever you came here to tell me," said Alan firmly, "I don't want to hear it. It's extremely dangerous to tamper with the timeline."

The boy took another deep breath. "Which is precisely what I came here to tell you, Alan," he said slowly.

"You know my name," Alan observed with surprise.

"I should know your name," said Jason. "I'm your son."

(To be continued...)