Chapter Thirty-Five

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My body is stuck in a hospital bed. But my heart? It was left with Ewar, in that untamable paradise I call home.

All I have to do is get the rest of me there.

There's so much to do in the meantime, so many i's to dot and t's to cross before I can return to where I belong. The dark depression I once suffered is currently only a lingering annoyance in the back of my mind. Hopefully, that is where it will stay. I can't afford to give into it. I have to focus on healing so I can get out of this hospital (and this timeline) that much sooner.

Back when I was shutting out the world to wallow in grief, I didn't care to know anything about was going on around me. But now that I'm in a better place mentally, I've learned some things. For one, I am currently in a hospital in Manchester. I was transferred here after a much smaller hospital in the Lake District determined that they were unequipped to treat my severe head injury.

The Lake District! I was found unconscious in the Lake District and not London. It's further proof that Ewar and Alistair sent me back through time exactly as I thought.

A social worker has been assigned to help me navigate the chaos related to my health care. Thank the heavens for that. I had no idea it would be so complicated. Based on the doctors' recommendation, a tentative hospital discharge date is given. I don't get too excited over that, though. I'll be going straight to a neurological recovery center for inpatient rehabilitation. It will take weeks before I am truly set free.

Several recovery center brochures are presented for my perusal. My social worker, under the assumption I would prefer the ones in and around London, places them at the top of the stack. I glance through them only out of politeness. Ultimately, I pick a facility that's right outside Manchester.

She's taken aback at first. Why would I want to stay around here when my home, job, and school are in London?

I explain that if I were to have complications, I would prefer having my current team of doctors care for me instead of being sent to a new hospital in London. Sounds plausible, but the real reason I want to stay around here is much simpler.

The chair is hidden in a cave in the Lake District, near a village called Warkstone. Manchester is closer to Warkstone than London.

So, Manchester wins.

After we have filled out the admission paperwork, the social worker rises from her chair. "We should hear back from them within the next couple of days. It's a smallish facility, but we can hope they'll have space available for you when the time comes."

I twist my middle finger over my index. "Fingers crossed."

"Yes. Fingers crossed." She collects everything she brought except for the stack of brochures. "You might still want to think over what to do if they can't accept you, Bella. It's always a good idea to have a backup plan. I would suggest looking at the rehabilitation facilities around London. There's one that's only a few minutes from your flat. Wouldn't it be nice to be close to home again?"

She thinks my London apartment is my home? Ha! I wonder how she would react if I told her my real home doesn't even have running water.

I weigh my next words carefully. "Thank you for the advice, but I don't think I'll have that address much longer. The landlord is probably getting ready to kick me out. I hadn't even thought about paying this month's rent - that's already past due, by the way - until just now."

The social worker gives a funny look. "Didn't your mother tell you?"

"Tell me what?"

"She paid your rent for the next four months."

I'm so blown away that I cannot speak.

"We arranged it with your landlord whilst you were under sedation," the social worker goes on. "You're paid up to November. Your mother wanted to give you time to heal before needing to go back to work."

I don't know how to feel about this news. It's been more than a week since Mom left to go on her vacation. Since then, there have been zero phone calls between us. She did send a text. It was a photo of the fancy beach house she and Phil are staying in.

I left it on read. She's probably having too much fun to realize I haven't responded.

That's how it's been for years. Mom prefers having fun over taking care of her responsibilities. Not until she married Phil did it dawn on me that I wasn't her top priority. When Phil expressed his discomfort about having to stay in the same house as a teenager, she sent me away to live "temporarily" with Charlie.

Temporarily turned into permanently.

To say my fifteen year old self was upset is an understatement. I had to leave my home and all my friends in Phoenix and start over again in tiny, nowheresville Forks. For months afterward, I refused to have anything to do with my mother. What she did was a betrayal, and it stung.

Looking back, I see that moving was the best thing that could have happened to me. Dad was everything Mom was not. He was drama-free and perfectly stable. He never forgot to pay his bills, nor did he rush from one harebrained scheme to the next. I never had to worry about anything under his roof. It was a refreshing change. For a while, I considered him to be my only parent.

It was my dad that facilitated our reconciliation. Why, I don't know. Did he have a feeling that he might not always be there and that Mom would be all I would have left? After he was tragically gunned down, Mom became my sole means of emotional support. Our relationship improved. And when I moved to London to study abroad, she and I talked frequently on the phone.

But now that I am older and wiser, I realize we talked more frequently because I was doing most of the calling. She only remembered when she had something exciting to report. She never called just to check in or to say she missed me. Which brings me to one conclusion.

I will always be an afterthought in her life.

I'm sure she cares for me in her own way, sort of like a child who won a goldfish as a prize at a carnival. The child may enjoy looking at the little fish swimming in its bowl, but more often than not, the child has too many things going on to give the pet the care it needs. The fish becomes purely decoration, easy to overlook. Due to neglect, the day will come when the child finds their pet floating belly-side up.

Thank God I'm too big to fit into a fish bowl.

To hear that my mother paid my rent gives me mixed emotions. On the one hand, I am grateful. Even though I'm not ever stepping foot in that apartment again, I appreciate her generosity - and I'm sure my landlord feels the same. But generosity doesn't excuse her actions. She treated me like an acquaintance instead of her daughter. I needed her now more than ever before, yet she chose a fucking vacation with Phil over supporting me.

She let me down for the final time.

At least her neglect makes me feel less guilty about leaving.

Will she be remorseful when I go missing, never to be seen again with modern eyes? Or, will she be secretly relieved when I seemingly vanish without a trace? She'll never have to cosplay as a mother ever again.

The social worker shifts her foot, the noise bringing me out of my thoughts. She waits for my response regarding the rent being paid.

"Oh. That's... Mom must have forgotten to tell me," I reply awkwardly.

"It happens. So much going on all at once." The social worker picks up her briefcase. "Look through those brochures again, just in case. Let me know if there's anything in London that catches your eye."

I nod. "Gotcha."

After she's gone, all the London recovery center brochures get tossed in the trash can. It's Manchester or bust for me.

Later, Doctor Snow drops by during her rounds. She asks the usual questions about how I feel and then checks to see if the incision on my head is healing properly. Afterward, she gives me a long, unnerving look.

"What?" I ask.

"There's something I've been putting off that you're not goin' to like."

"Ok. What is it? An MRI? A rectal exam?"

She smiles a little. "Nothing fun like that. There's someone that wants to speak with you; been waiting for quite some time. I told him you weren't ready because, for a while there, you were..."

"... Lying around, unable and unwilling to talk, similar to a vegetable?"

"I suppose that's one way to put it," Doctor Snow responds wryly. "But what I actually said to him was that you weren't physically or mentally capable at the time of bearing any more stress. Things have improved for you significantly since then. The detective is very eager to schedule an interview."

My stomach does a somersault that would make an Olympic gymnast jealous.

Why haven't I considered before that I'd have to speak with the police? They believe mysterious "intruders" broke into the museum, stole one measly chair, knocked me out since I was a witness, and dumped me in the Lake District. The police are doing an investigation, so of course they would need to interview the purported victim!

Will they think I was somehow involved? Should I explain what really happened?

No, I can't. Who would believe that the original owner of the museum (Alistair) is a good buddy of mine and wouldn't mind if I borrowed his time-traveling chair? I'll either end up in the modern equivalent of Bedlam, or they'll assume I was involved with the theft and I'll be thrown in prison for the rest of my life.

I try to maintain my cool but my voice cracks anyway. "Detective?"

"Yes. With the London Metropolitan Police. He wants to talk about the incident at the museum." Doctor Snow eyes me carefully. "But if you're not feelin' up to it, I can put him off for at least a few more days. There's no rush."

I swallow and shake my head. "No. It's best if I get it out of the way. I'll talk to him whenever he wants."

Hopefully, I'll have my story straight by then. I'm gonna have to play it smart... by pretending I am dumb. That shouldn't be too hard for me.

There's a knock at my door the very next day.

From my bed, I give permission to enter. A man strolls in wearing khakis and a short-sleeved shirt, the type my dad might have worn to play golf. The woman accompanying him is dressed more professionally. Her sleek black blazer pairs perfectly with a knee-length skirt.

"Ms. Isabella Swan?" says the man.

"That's right."

He walks straight over to shake my hand. His grip is firm but not overpowering. "Detective Inspector Lee Stevens. Pleasure to meet you."

"Nice to meet you too."

The woman speaks but doesn't come close to the bed. "And I'm Detective Constable Samantha Wells. How do you do."

I look from one to the other, slightly confused (and slightly alarmed). "My doctor said there would be only one of you."

Detective Stevens spreads his hands open apologetically. "Sorry for the miscommunication. I'm with the London Metropolitan Police, and she's with the Cumbria Constabulary, the police force up in the Lake District. Since this case spans both of our districts, we're working together to try to solve it. Thank you for agreeing to speak with us today."

I dip my head a little in acknowledgment. "You're welcome. Please, sit. I'd offer refreshments, but I don't think you'd enjoy hospital food too much."

Detective Stevens smiles. "Very considerate of you. So, your doctor says you're doing well, all things considered."

"I am. When I first woke up, everything felt weird. It was hard to think, hard to speak. But it's getting better every day. I hope to begin physical therapy soon. It would be nice to walk again."

"I have no doubt you will. From what I've heard, you're a remarkably strong young woman." Detective Stevens pulls out his phone and shows me the screen. "I'm going to be recording our interview if you don't mind." He waits for my head nod before tapping the app to start recording. His voice becomes more serious. "Ms. Swan, I was told that on Friday, the twenty-seventh of June, you were working at Tuddleston House Museum. Is that correct?"

"Yes, it is."

"Tell us about what went on that evening, please."

I exhale. "You'll have to be patient with me. That night feels like it happened years ago." And it was years ago to me. Yet, only a few weeks have passed according to everyone else. Alistair sent me back to the day after I first left.

Ah, the wonders of time travel.

I pause a moment before continuing. "I had worked my shift as a tour guide and was getting ready to go home. My boss, Mr. Eleazar, phoned me right as I was about to leave. He said I needed to do the housekeeping duties since the museum caretaker called in sick. I wasn't exactly happy with this demand, but I ended up agreeing to stay."

"And why is that?"

"Because he sort of hinted that I might be out of a job if I didn't."

"I see. Please, go on, Ms. Swan."

"I was the last person in the building. I started off by cleaning the main floor. That took over an hour. The next place I went was the library. It was Alista... I mean, I've been told it was Mr. Tuddleston's favorite room in the house back when he was alive. Ahem! Anyway, I wanted to do a good job cleaning it since it's so historically important. I dusted the shelves from floor to ceiling. That took a while. I knew I'd need to vacuum after all that dust fell down there..."

Detective Stevens leans forward in his chair. "Yes?"

This is where my limited acting skills have to come into play. I wince. My hand flies to my temple, rubbing in tight circles. "It just... goes blank after that."

Detective Wells tries unsuccessfully to conceal her disappointment. Detective Stevens, however, is more persistent.

"What about before? Is there anything else you can think of about that night? A sound you heard, or something unusual you may have seen. It would be enormously helpful to our investigation."

I squint as though I'm trying to look inside my brain. Ultimately, I release a dramatic sigh. "I can't remember anything unusual. I'm so sorry."

He nods. "We understand. Maybe you can answer a few other questions for us."

"I'll try."

"Thank you." He pulls out a notepad. "Have you been made aware of how we believe the perpetrator entered the museum that evening?"

"I was told the back door was unlocked, but I'm not sure if that's true."

"Oh, it is, Ms. Swan. Is it normal for the rear exit of the museum to be left unsecured overnight?"

"No. It's supposed to be kept locked at all times, unless there's an emergency."

"What door did you usually use when leaving the premises?"

"The front, like almost everyone else."

"Almost?"

I smile slyly. "Well, I'm not sure if I should answer you. My boss might not like it if I throw him under the bus."

Detective Stevens glances at Detective Wells. Something unsaid passes between them. He turns back around. "I can assure you that whatever you say to us will be held in the strictest confidence - as long as Mr. Eleazar is innocent of committing a crime."

I shot of panic rushes through me. "Oh no. Mr. Eleazar would never be involved in anything illegal," I say hurriedly. "It's just that it's well known that he likes to step outside to smoke every now and then. He always uses the rear exit because it's closest to his office."

"And you believe it was him that left the door unlocked?"

I shrug. "Most likely. But I'm sure it was an honest mistake. He usually secures the door once he's back inside."

Detective Stevens asks a few more questions that aren't nearly as interesting, mainly about work schedules and museum security measures. When he seems to be winding down the interview, I ask a question of my own.

"Do you, um, have any leads yet?" Please, oh please say no! I don't want anyone innocent going to jail for robbery, kidnapping, and assault all because I accidentally activated a time-traveling chair...

He shakes his head. "Nothing I would stake my reputation on. The fact that the security cameras went down right when they might have been useful is a hindrance to the case, I admit. But don't worry. I'm not giving up. The person - or people - who hurt you will be brought to justice."

"Why weren't the cameras working?" I ask just to steer the conversation to safer ground.

"A power outage took out the museum's security system. The utility company investigated and concluded the outage was caused by a surge of electricity, as if a bolt of lightning overloaded the grid for the entire neighborhood. What's strange is that there were no thunderstorms or lightning reported that night. We suspect sabotage was involved, but how it was pulled off is a mystery."

I listen to every word he says, acting baffled. But inside my head, this "mystery" is starting to make sense.

Alistair's chair did it.

When I accidentally flipped the activation switch, I remember the effect it had on the room. The library went dark. Streaks of lightning crackled in the air. The chair must have created so much energy that it somehow overloaded the museum's electrical system.

The detective slides a hand down his face in frustration. "One thing we know for certain: all this could have been avoided if only the museum had a backup generator. The security alarm would have been triggered if anyone had opened the rear exit. It's a pity the museum wasn't prepared for the possibility."

Detective Samantha Wells, who has kept silent for the most part, decides to speak up. "Ms. Swan, are you aware of what was stolen that night?"

My lips twist as I "think" about her question. "Um. My mom mentioned something about a chair?"

"That's right. We were told this..." She does a quick check of her notes. "...This Alistair Tuddleston considered himself an inventor. He was tinkering around with that chair a hundred years ago, but no one knows what he planned to do with it. Are you familiar with this chair? It was normally in the library."

Am I familiar with it? More than you'll ever know, lady.

I squint a little, as if trying to form a picture of it in my mind. "Oh yeah. It looked like an old-fashioned kitchen chair. But it had some bits of metal attached to the armrests and underneath the seat." I fake a laugh. "It was the weirdest thing. We couldn't decide if it was supposed to be a massage chair or an electric chair."

She doesn't share my amusement. "Do you have any theories as to why that particular chair was taken and nothing else?"

"Nope, sorry. None at all."

She continues staring at me. It feels like she's scanning my face for lies.

"You were working alone that evening, were you not?" she asks curtly.

I hesitate a moment before answering. "I was."

"Interesting." She recrosses her legs, an air of doubt surrounding her. "Is there really nothing else you can tell us, Ms. Swan? It's quite... convenient that your memory blacks out in the library, the one place in the entire museum where the thieves managed to steal anything. I had hoped you might at least have a theory on what happened to the chair."

I can hear the accusation in her undertone. Her gut is telling her that I know more than I'm letting on. She might even be thinking I was involved in the robbery. I could lie, but I'm not that good of an actress. My only defense is to tell the truth.

I stare right back at her. "Now that you mention it, I do have a vague recollection of what might have happened to that chair. One second I was in the library; the next I was being hurled through space and woke up in another world. Believe it or not, I found myself in a forest. A wooly mammoth was stomping around, destroying everything in its path. I bet the chair was one of its casualties."

My adversary frowns. But the other detective, Detective Stevens, smirks at me. "You don't say." He's playing along, thinking I'm joking.

I move my head casually up and down. "Yep. The mammoth started chasing me. I don't know why he disliked me so much. Luckily, my phone alarm went off just in time to scare it away. Oh, did I mention the handsome caveman I met? I ran into him by accident. He thought my phone was magic and assumed I was a goddess. Don't worry, he realized his mistake soon enough." I glance between the two detectives. "At least, that's what I thought happened to me that night. But according to my doctors," I tap my temple, "it's all in my head."

My lighthearted approach has Detective Stevens chuckling under his breath. "Dreams are funny things sometimes."

"They sure are, especially when you have a brain injury."

His expression softens. "Doctor Snow warned us about that. Also said it's normal to have memory loss. It's a miracle you remember anything about that day." He flashes a disapproving side glance at the other detective before addressing me again. "We are aware you were most likely ambushed in the library, Ms. Swan. I apologize if our questions have upset you, but we want to make sure we leave no stone unturned."

"I understand."

He stands up and hands over a business card, signaling an end to the interview. "If you do remember something, please give me a call. Day or night."

After giving the card a quick look, I slip it to my bedside table. "Will do." As they make their way to the door, I suddenly recall something. "Hey! I was wondering if you could tell me the details of how I was found? No one has told me much."

Detective Wells steps forward, her expression less severe than before. "A group of boys found you at Warkstone. They carried you to the nearest road and flagged down a passing vehicle for help. When I asked them to show me where they found you, they claimed they couldn't recall. All they could say was that it was somewhere on the hiking trail."

The sourness in her voice is a dead giveaway. My forehead furrows. "You don't believe them?"

She smiles for the first time. "I don't. How many fourteen and fifteen year olds do you know would leave their homes to go on a pleasure hike before five in the morning?"

"Not very many. Most would rather sleep in. But why would they lie?"

"I can't prove it, but I suspect they had been wild camping. You just happened to cross their path."

"Camping is illegal?"

"It is when you don't have permission from the property owners. That doesn't stop some folks, though."

I have to smash my lips together to keep from smiling. Now I understand. Those boys went camping where they weren't supposed to. They were probably exploring and found the cave with me inside it. They knew they might get in trouble if it came out that they were trespassing, so they decided to act like they found me on the public hiking trail!

But what if they moved my ticket back home (aka THE chair) out of the cave? I need a way to contact them if that ends up being the case.

"What are their names?" I ask.

Detective Wells' lips thin. "We're keeping your and their identities private. Whoever broke into the museum nearly killed you, Ms. Swan. You never know when that desperate individual might try finishing the job, or to seek vengeance against those boys for rescuing you."

I turn up the innocent act. "It's just that I feel so grateful to those kids. Isn't there any chance I could thank them personally? It doesn't even need to be face-to-face. All I want is a phone number. It, um, would be great if I could call them maybe one day in the future."

She mulls it over and sighs. "I'll have to run it by them and their parents first. I'll let you know what they decide."

"Thank you."

Detective Lee Stevens holds up his finger for attention. "Speaking of Warkstone, were you aware that it's connected to that Tuddleston fellow?"

I slap on a mask of mock confusion. "What do you mean?"

"He had a country house near there, a grand estate called Aldenwood that overlooked the valley. Died there too. He went for a walk and never came back. They didn't find his bones until years later. The estate was sold to new owners a few years down the road. Sad, really." He shakes his head. "It sure is odd that the sicko who hurt you abandoned you there, of all places. Makes me think it was done on purpose."

"Yeah. That is weird," I mumble nervously.

"Maybe it was some obsessive history nut that did it. I hear that Alistair Tuddleston was a big deal back in the day... Oh well. We'll figure it out eventually." He gives a quick bow of the head. "Thanks again for seeing us, Ms. Swan. Here's hoping for your quick recovery."

The instant they disappear behind the closed door, I collapse backward on the bed. Lying my ass off has never been more exhausting.

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Days later, Detective Wells calls to give me news. Out of the five boys who rescued me, three agreed that I could phone them. I scribble down each of their numbers and thank the detective for her assistance. I give her the excuse that I'm not quite ready mentally to speak with them, but having their contact information close at hand is incredibly comforting. With that, Detective Wells ends our call. I put the phone numbers in a safe place, only to be used if need be.

Another week flashes by. I am discharged from the hospital. The neurological recovery center I had my heart set on becomes my new temporary home. I settle into a private room that's more cozy than I anticipated. A bed. A recliner. A small table for dining. A handicapped-accessible bathroom. And to top that off, it features a nice view of the facility garden.

My physical therapy sessions were brutal in the beginning. I had no sense of balance. I didn't have the strength to put weight on my legs. Standing on my own two feet seemed like a pipe dream. But hard work pays off. With assistance from the therapist, I gradually improve. My atrophied muscles recover. I hang from a harness attached to the ceiling and practice daily walking on a treadmill. There's water therapy, cognitive skills tests, and weight training too. I go to bed exhausted each night.

I graduate from a wheelchair to a walker within the first month. It doesn't sound like much of an accomplishment, but it was to me.

By the sixth week, I see light at the end of the tunnel. My progress is going smoothly. They say if I continue at this rate, I'll be able to get around with only a walking cane very soon. Then, I can be released. They recommend that I find a physical therapist for weekly sessions when I return to normal life (aka, London).

I nod along to everything they say, but I have no plan to stay in this century any longer than I have to. Physical therapy? Nah. I'll get plenty of exercise in the Ice Age. When there are no cars or trains, you have no choice but to walk.

I'm sitting at the table in my little room, eating a simple meal of a grilled cheese sandwich and a bowl of soup, when Gilda, the receptionist for the facility, sticks her head through the door. "You have visitors. Should I send them in?"

Visitors? I never get visitors. The detectives would notify me in advance if they were coming. And Mom... Well, I haven't heard a peep out of her in weeks. That may be due partially because of my phone. It hasn't worked right since I returned to this time. No matter how long it's plugged in, the battery drains within an hour. It's no big deal, though. I barely use it.

I set my spoon down. "Who are they?"

"One was an older gentleman. Dark hair with a touch of silver on the sides. Very distinguished looking. I can't remember the name. It was a mouthful. El something or other."

"Eleazar?"

"That's what it was! And the other fellow didn't introduce himself."

My boss is here! But, why?

I smooth out my flyaway hairs and force myself to relax before giving Gilda a response. "You can send them in."

Mr. Eleazar appears first. There's something different about him. The man I worked for walked around with his nose high in the air and a stick wedged up his ass. He wore only the finest suits, drank only the best scotch, and thought he was God's gift to Earth. When he gave an order, he expected it to get done right away, no questions asked. But this Mr. Eleazar? He may be wearing a fancy suit, but his attitude is altered. There's a forced smile on his face, a contrast to the smug arrogance he usually exudes.

"Bella! Dear, dear, Bella. How wonderful it is to see you again!"

Yeah, I should ask to see his ID. This guy isn't anything like the man that bossed me around for two years.

"Hello, Mr. Eleazar," I say carefully. "I didn't expect to see you anytime soon. What brings you here?"

"To check on you, of course!" He pulls out a vase of daisies from behind his back. "I've brought something. By the way, did you receive the get-well-soon gift I sent to your hospital room a few weeks back?"

"Yes. The roses were very thoughtful. Thank you."

"No need to thank me. It was my pleasure." He glides across the room and places the vase on the window sill. "There! They belong by the window. Don't you agree?"

Before I can think of a proper response, another man slips into the room, briefcase in hand. He reminds me of a weasel sneaking into a hen house for a midnight snack.

"Hi," I say in greeting. "Who are you?"

He shakes my hand. "Wendell Pierce, solicitor at Abbott & Associates. I'm representing Mr. Eleazar."

My narrowed gaze darts back to my boss. "Is that so?"

Mr. Eleazar chuckles but his expression doesn't reflect amusement. "Yes, that's another reason I've come to visit you, Bella. I was hoping we could come to some sort of agreement."

"I'm not following you. What 'agreement' are you talking about?"

Mr. Eleazar loses the cheerful façade entirely. "I'll get straight to the point: the police say that I left the rear exit of the museum unlocked. They have video evidence to back it up. Of course, I have no memory of doing such a thing. And if I did do it, it was an accident!" He fiddles with the daisies, rearranging them just to distract himself. "And what with the security system going down when the electricity went out and that dreadful robbery... The museum's board of directors is not pleased. We were all devastated to learn that you were affected, Bella."

He signals for the solicitor to step closer. The solicitor hands over a small stack of papers for me to peruse. I read words like "settlement", "confidentiality", and "monetary compensation."

I have to pick my jaw off the floor before attempting to speak. "You want to give me £10,000?"

"It's for you to use any way you like," Mr. Eleazar announces. "All you need to do is sign your name on that line at the bottom of the page, and then it will all be yours!"

His sunny disposition heightens my suspicions. Who in their right mind would be happy about giving away that much money?

I go back to reading the document in full this time. Several minutes later, I begin to see what this is all about. The board of directors and Mr. Eleazar don't give a shit about me. This is damage control. They're terrified that I might sue them for supposedly getting hurt on their property. The press would have a field day, writing article after article about the museum's incompetency. And if I were to win, the court might award me a lot more than £10,000.

Now, I don't have any desire to sue these guys. Money has no value where I'm going. But this is a non-disclosure agreement. They want me to sign this document saying that I won't hold them accountable for not providing adequate security at the museum. They also expect me to keep my mouth shut about basically everything that might make them look bad. And, most interestingly, it doesn't mention one word about them correcting the multiple security lapses that were exposed.

What if one day a robber really does break into the museum and one of the staff members gets hurt? Will Mr. Eleazar brush that under the rug too?

So, taking this into consideration, I think Mr. Asshole deserves to squirm a little.

I smile at him. "This was a fascinating read, and I appreciate the thought you put into it, but my father taught me to never sign anything without my lawyer looking over it first."

"Y-your lawyer?" Mr. Eleazar suddenly looks paler. "I'm not sure if that's necessary..."

"Oh, but is. It's common practice in the States, and I would think it's that way here as well. Isn't that right, Mr. Pierce?"

The solicitor gives a cold, begrudging nod. This doesn't go down well with Mr. Eleazar. If looks could kill...

I fake a yawn to cover a giggle. "Aaahnn! Excuse me, gentleman. I'm worn out from physical therapy today. I think I need to take an early nap."

"Yes, of course," Mr. Eleazar mumbles. "We'll get out of your way."

"Thank you. You're so understanding." As they are leaving, I call out one last thing. "Don't worry, Mr. Eleazar! I'll have my lawyer contact you soon."

Mr. Eleazar's frown of farewell has me grinning for the rest of the day.

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Three weeks in the hospital. Nearly ten weeks spent in the recovery center. Autumn has officially arrived. The air is crisp and cool. Today, my healthcare providers made it official: I am well enough to leave the recovery center.

FINALLY!

I say goodbye to the patients and the staff I've met along the way. They're all very sweet and wish me luck. There's still an hour left before my ride gets here. I decide to take one last shower just for the hell of it. It might be a long time before I'll be able to bathe again.

Afterward, I stand in front of the bathroom mirror. My reflection makes me wince. A horseshoe crescent incision wraps around my head, starting from my hairline and going around to behind the closest ear. During surgery, the hair in that area had to be shaved along the line. I can conceal most of the scar just by altering my hairstyle. But the scar above my forehead can't be hidden as easily. It's too exposed. The doctor said it would take months before it becomes less noticeable.

What will Ewar think when he sees that scar for the first time? Will he be turned off by it? Disgusted? I wouldn't blame him. It's so pale and ugly.

With that disturbing scenario in mind, I shove a knit hat over my head. It's staying there until my hair grows back.

I dress in layers. Under my jeans are sweatpants. Over my t-shirt is a long-sleeved flannel. The few belongings I have are packed in a single suitcase. The taxi I ordered arrives and takes me to the nearest train station. The officials at the recovery center believe I'm traveling to London to restart my life. No one except me knows that the ticket I purchased is for a train heading north.

The train ride is only two hours long. I may be staring out the window at the scenery, but I see almost nothing of it. My thoughts are full of my family and friends, excitement building at what their reaction to seeing me again might be. I can imagine Ehmay crying with joy. Alie will be jumping around, talking so fast that deciphering what she's saying will be nearly impossible. And Ewar...

My heart pumps faster just thinking of what he might do at our reunion. Or, what I'll do to him. It's been too long since he's touched me. Dreams and fantasies don't do him justice.

As my destination steadily approaches, I decide to pull out my phone and scope out the closest hiking shops. I'll be needing supplies today. But as the morning sun strikes my phone, I see something unexpected.

The corner of the case is chipped.

I've barely touched my phone since Mom got it back from the police. Has the case always been damaged? My gut says "no."

I need to investigate.

More than a little curious, I pry the case off the phone. I look at it from every angle with sharp, discriminating eyes. And that's when I see it.

Markings are scratched on the inside of the phone case, too faint to see if you're not in the right light. Numbers, and also circles representing the dials on a certain turn-of-the-century kitchen chair, are staring back at me.

It's a primitive how-to. I imagine it might be called Setting the Date on a Time Machine for Dummies (Named Bella) manual.

A smile spreads across my face. "You brilliant son of a bitch," I mumble to myself. "Alistair, you're a godsend."

The train pulls into my stop. It's a tourist town in the Lake District, not too big nor too small. I make no effort to grab my suitcase. There's nothing inside it except a shirt, some extra underwear, and pajama pants. It was merely a prop to get me out of the recovery center and onto the train without seeming suspicious. Where I'm going, I won't need it.

I feel eyes on me as I move down the aisle. I keep my gaze on the floor to avoid looking at my audience of curious passengers. They're probably wondering why a woman my age depends on a cane to get around. It will be several more weeks before it's safe for me to go without it.

Two taxis are waiting on the curb outside the train station. I pick one at random. The driver introduces himself as Liam. He's in his early to mid thirties and is going through the early stages of balding. I tell him my phone died (which it did on the train), and I need advice on which hiking shops have the best selection without breaking the bank. He says he knows just the place.

He never mentions the walking cane, nor does he show pity as to why I might need it.

I like him already.

Liam isn't the type to make small talk, but I discovered if you ask questions, he's more than willing to answer.

"Have you ever heard of Warkstone?" Alistair told me it's a tiny speck of a village surrounded by countryside, so I don't have much hope that Liam knows of it.

"Sure I have," he replies. "I drive there nearly every day during the peak of hiking season. It's a popular destination for outdoor lovers."

"Would it be possible for you to drive me to Warkstone this afternoon?"

"Lemme check my schedule." He looks through his phone while keeping one eye on the road. "I don't have any reservations for the next few hours. I'm clear 'til 5 o'clock."

If I wasn't inside a taxi (and dependent on a cane) I would be dancing with joy. Today is going better than I could have ever hoped!

Liam pulls in front of a store selling outdoor merchandise. It's in the heart of town and within walking distance of other shops. He says he will pick me up in exactly one and a half hours.

I step out of the taxi to begin my shopping. It's going to cost a lot. Since I don't know if Ewar and Alistair will be waiting for me or not, I have to be prepared to walk back home on my own. I need a ton of supplies. However, I can only take what I can carry.

I grab a pack of thick socks and a good pair of hiking boots. Gloves are a must, just in case it gets colder sooner than expected. I find a compass that hangs around the neck from a string. To save on space, I'm not buying a sleeping bag. A jacket that promises to be waterproof and warm will act as a substitute.

Much too soon, a store clerk discovers my existence and latches on like a parasite. I am currently backpack hunting. One features plenty of space and has bungee cord netting on the outside for additional storage. The store clerk guy gives a condescending laugh and claims that backpack is meant for the kiddies - not serious hikers such as myself. He recommends a model that costs more than half my monthly rent (and not worth half the price, in my opinion). The rain cover is extra, for Christ's sake.

I block out the rest of his "helpful" advice after that stunt. The cheaper backpack is the winner.

In the end, I'm out a few hundred pounds. But along with what I already gathered, I have a small pop-up tent, a flint for starting fires, 2 reusable water bottles, and one pan for cooking. The outdoor store didn't sell pocket knives, so I run over to the hardware store. A knife is vital for my survival. I'll need it for so many things, including fashioning a weapon. It's not a good idea to be defenseless in the Ice Age.

And just like that, I'm more than halfway done with my shopping.

My last stop is the grocery store. I buy things that won't spoil and require little to no cooking. Couscous, whole wheat noodles, and granola. Tins of fish and corned beef. Dried sausage, peas, fruit, and nuts. Cheese as well. I'll be foraging during my journey, but it's nice to know I'll have a reliable stock of food in my backpack just in case.

I almost gasp when I stumble across the next aisle. Medicine! Why didn't I think of this sooner? I bet Arl the village healer would appreciate having powerful over-the-counter drugs from the future to cure his patients! Hell, Alistair might be able to recreate some of the medicines if he has a list of the ingredients.

After I've made my purchases, I duck inside the supermarket's bathroom to fill my reusable bottles with tap water. Upon adding them to my backpack, the weight nearly has me falling backward. My gear is a heavy burden, but I can't leave any of it behind. A bit of adjusting is all it takes to redistribute the weight and make walking easier.

I'm waiting on the sidewalk when Liam shows back up. He's nice enough to help stow my gear into the taxi, then we leave the town behind. The difference a few thousand years have made on the Lake District is astounding. Back then it was barren and rocky, on par with a polar desert. Now, it's green and full of life. Trees dot the rolling landscape. Sheep graze tranquilly in their fields, fenced in by traditional stone walls. Villages and quaint farmsteads have sprung up around nearly every bend in the road.

No wonder this area is popular with tourists. It's a Beatrix Potter book come to life.

My foot taps nervously on the floorboard. As lovely as the scenery may be, I can't concentrate on it. The anticipation is killing me. I'm so close to going home! Getting around without Alistair as my guide won't be easy, but I do remember him saying that Warkstone and the cave would be on opposite ends of the valley. The cave entrance is small, located at the base of a mountain. It's just a few steps above the valley floor, so relatively easy to climb. As long as I keep my eyes peeled, I'll find it eventually.

We're slowing down in front of an enormous body of water. A range of small mountains surrounding it looks familiar, yet I'm certain I've never seen that lake in my entire life. Liam parks the taxi in a nearly empty parking lot. A hiking path begins not far away.

"Well," he says, "here we are."

Confused, I glance out the window again. Instead of being dropped off at the village of Warkstone, he's leaving me in the middle of nowhere?

"Excuse me, Liam, but are you sure we're in the right place? I need to go to Warkstone."

"This is Warkstone. Warkstone Reservoir."

My head jerks back. "Reservoir? I don't understand. Where's the village?"

"Oh, you've heard of Warkstone village? Interesting story, that. Back in the 1930s, the Government decided the bigger cities needed access to more fresh water. So what they'd do? Passed a law so they could flood one of the rural valleys and build a reservoir. They didn't seem to care that the people living there would lose their homes; or that the village of Warkstone, which had been around for three hundred years, would cease to exist. Just forced 'em to move like they were a bunch of nobodies. Tore down everything. Even the parish church was demolished. And for what? So a rich chap in Manchester could have a swimming pool?" He snorts in derision. "Eh, that's progress for ya. Warkstone is one of the largest reservoirs in the country. Water's sixty meters deep in some places. Hard to imagine a thriving little village existed here just a hundred years back."

I do a quick calculation in my head. Sixty meters... That's over a hundred ninety-six feet of water.

I look at my surroundings with dawning dread. The valley I walked across more than ten thousand years ago will never be touched by human feet again. Every inch of it is lost, filled to the brim with murky water. Alistair's secret cave is down there somewhere. So too is the chair that I so desperately need. Both are out of sight and out of my reach.

It looks like I won't be going home after all.

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A/N- Ok, take a deep breath and concentrate on not killing me. I am well aware that I lulled you into a false sense of security and then knocked you with a "surprise" cliffhanger. So, I better have the next chapter ready ASAP, right? Right.

Look for it to post in four days! (As long as the website cooperates, of course.)

For all you history nerds out there: there is no Warkstone village or Warkstone Reservoir. It is, however, loosely based on a real-life incident that took place in the Lake District. Haweswater Reservoir was created by an act of Parliament so Manchester could have reliable access to drinking water. Two small villages and a lovely little valley had to be sacrificed. When the reservoir is low, you can still see the remnants of stone walls and foundations.

Thanks for reading. :-)