Walking through Kemper Square, the Square to locals, helps to develop my knowledge of the town's blueprints. The hospital, municipal building, and Briar Wood are in center square. Off to an angle on the side there is the Post and the First Banking Co., both of which are on the same dirt road as the Cedar Lodge and Mill Pub.

Beyond that, there is the gravel lane that leads to the Ash House. On the other side, behind the lodge and set back a few hundred yards, there is Browning Blacksmiths and Wallace's Woodshop.

            Behind Wood, a narrow entryway leads to a wide-open lane and a manicured courtyard. Its lawn is vibrant green, with rich soil and blooming bushes. Petite cottonwood saplings are planted down the center of the lawn, which separates the two sides of the plaza.

            William walks alongside me as we cross the flagstone path. The plaza is perfectly whimsical. The promenade, stretching about 100 yards long, is lined on either side with crooked shops.

            At the center of the lawn there is a cascading fountain with a porcelain ivory basin. A tiny picket sign is planted in the courtyard garden: Bramble Court.

            "It is only going to get better, I promise. Wait until you see this place at Christmastime." His eyes light up.

            "It's exquisite now," I say.

            "It is."

            I crane my neck in every direction. On our right I see a miniature wooden cottage with a cobblestone face. Only, half of the building is hidden, devoured by drapes of thick ivy and tiny white blossoms. As we inch closer, I peer into the hazy window.

            The walls are piled high with herbs, spices, plant-like specimens, flowers, and more. Cylindrical jars, glass tubes that resemble the ones in the Ash House, stone mortars and pestles, ceramic bowls, and wooden canisters of all shapes and sizes are on display, each one filled with contents more curious than the next.

            Center front are two sleek glass bottles with cork stoppers –neatly scribbled labels read Vanilla Extract and Lavender Essence.

            A bell jingles inside as an old woman enters the shop. Sweet aromas flow out with the breeze –it's intoxicating. Every scent you could imagine. I step back and glance up. A similar sign hangs on a swinging plank above the door: I & V Apothecary.

            We walk farther down and on the left there is a modern, polished bungalow with clothing hanging in the window display. We also pass a bookstore, Test of Time, and a cozy little jewelry shop with handcrafted beads and ornaments.

            "Almost there." William stares at me sideways.

            We loop around at the far side of the promenade and make our way up the other side.

            We come to a stop in front of a shop directly across from the apothecary and just as alluring. Only instead of earthy essence pouring out the doors, a sweet sugar engulfs the two of us, beckoning us inside.

            The Confectionary is a fanciful wooden cottage, chiseled to perfection. A stone chimney towers in the back, peeking above the shop. The entire front-facing wall is glass from the ground up –like a giant, never-ending window. A table of little sweets and pastries sits behind the window, enticing passersby.

            "Come on." William pulls my hand.

The space is warm and welcoming. Against the far wall there is a crystal counter concealing treats and delicacies, bottles and mugs, and everything else –you name it. I catch a faint whiff of honeyed toffee and freshly squeezed lemons.

            Behind the counter I see an elderly couple scooping what looks like ice cream into cones. The woman, tall and slender with a graying brown bun, glances up and beams. The man is shorter with a pudgy build and blonde hair.

            "Dear, dear, Evelyn! How pleasant it is to finally meet you!" The woman chirps, bouncing up and down.

            Bits of yogurt and graham cone whisk behind her as she throws out her arms and lunges toward me.

            "Th–thank you," I stutter. She has nearly captured me in a full-on hug.

            "ED!" she hollers at the man behind the counter.

            The man pokes his head up.

            "Ed, come on out and meet her."

            I look sideways at William. The balding man hobbles out from behind the counter. His apron is dirty and smeared with multi-colored jellies and flakey powder.

            It's not all warm welcomes though, as two girls glare at me from their table in the corner. I hadn't noticed them when we walked in. They both have on ivory blouses, tucked into tan cotton pants. School clothes, I think. Judging from their flawless complexions and all-around auras, they're natives.

            They giggle. The younger girl's hair is in pigtails. She catches me staring and turns bright red. The older girl looks at William and blushes –completely unaware of me.

            There are pastries, bread loaves, pickled pies, iced crumble crème, natural tea bags, herbal water, and organic juices. William and I make our selections.

            We return to the sprawling lawn in the courtyard, treats in hand.

            "Thank you for warning me," I frown.

            "Aw, they mean well, really." William proclaims defensively. He takes another bite from his rose petal pastry.

            "The Hopplebee's have run that place since I've been here and for years before that," he adds. "They have the best sweets in town."

            "That might have something to do with them being the only confectionary in town," I tease.

            "Point well made." He shrugs it off with a smirk. "It's also the best bakery and sweet shop in the whole land."

            I opted for a battered baton –a deep-fried sugar stick that looks like a pretzel but glazed with vanilla-cinnamon syrup.

            A wrought iron clock stands erect in the center of the courtyard behind the fountain. It closely resembles the one I spent so many hours watching in the Refinery. But it's antique –with roman numerals instead of numbers.

            "Don't think you can avoid the question all day, do you?" William finally asks. I know too well to which question he's referring.

            "What is it you would do?" I ask William between bites of my baton.

He seems bemused –staring with his mouth open. "You mean if–"

            "–If you needed an application," I blurt out. "If you got to pick one out for yourself."

            I know he is a Garner but maybe he would have chosen differently if given the option.

            "Could I do anything?" He lifts his eyebrow, skeptical.

            "Anything." I repeat.

            He considers my question for a minute or two, continuing to shred apart his pastry. A thoughtful look etches onto his face and his eyes grow wide with a smile.

            "Easy. Own the Confectionary," he chuckles.

            "Really? That's what you would want to do? Own the sweetshop," I mock.

            "Mmhm," he says. "It would please me more than you know."

            I take this in. His voice is cheery and playful, but deep down his words are melancholy. Is he not happy now I wonder, being a Garner?

            "And you think you were brought here, to all of this," I look around, "to own a pastry shop?" I ask, serious.

            "I don't think of it that way," he says. "As if there's an immeasurable design. Things just happen."  

            I stare with disbelief, but I don't press the matter. Instead, I opt to steer the discussion toward a lighter mood.

            "So, where are these rivers or roads or whatever Nic keeps talking about?" I ask, trying to switch the subject.

            "Riverroads," he corrects.

            "Right, those. What are they exactly?"

            "Riverroads are travel routes that link the regional lands together; they go cross-country. They are manmade aqueducts with generated currents that are capable of flowing in any direction. North, South, East and West."

            "Why have them?" I question.

            "Well, they're exceptionally efficient and can be extremely convenient," William affirms. "Plus they're wicked fast. There's no faster way to travel between coasts."

            It sounds like a railroad, but with water in place of steel and iron. "But if nothing were wrong with regular roads, why change them to riverroads in the first place?" I pose.

            He chuckles again. "Regular roads? Have you seen any regular roads here? Please don't hesitate to point it out next time we pass by one."

            I shake my head. No.

            Come to think of it, I haven't seen anything other than cobblestones, gravel lanes, and grass. It's never crossed my mind before. No concrete or black top. I haven't even seen a car since I've been here –only horses, carriages, and copper carts.

            I think of 2015's heyday and the roads I'm accustomed to –long, wide super-highways, tangled and intertwined, connecting everything together. They were ubiquitous. I wonder if William has seen my roads.

            This was my in.

            I could press William about his native time –the era he reigns from or his "established" year. Something deep in my gut holds me back. Is it too personal?

            "Considering life as an Aqueductor?" William disrupts my chain of thought.

            "No, of course not," I blurt, flustered. I crunch the wrapper from my baton.

            "Where do you see the riverroads?" I glance up.

            "There's an entrance down by the Wharf," he says plainly. I wait for him to elaborate but he offers nothing more.

            "Can we ride them? Or can we go see them at least?" I implore. William brushes his hand over his glossy hair and sighs.

            "Another day," he mutters. "It's a long walk to the Wharf and there's too much to see for one afternoon. Plus I have to meet with the Garners. We are riding out to prepare for the week ahead. Nicolas can take you one day this week if you ask him," he finishes.

            "Oh, alright. I suppose I will ask him," I mumble back. He seems distant and on edge all of the sudden. Maybe it's something I said. Maybe he's frightened by water.

            "I'm assuming you've traveled the Regional Riverroad Rail?" I ask.

            "Yes, but sparingly. I prefer to journey by horseback or wagons or carriages," William says.

            "Aren't the riverroads more... express?" I try to emphasize my point.

            "Yes," William agrees. "In fact, the Coastal Causeway will get you across the Five Lands in just under five hours. But you miss all the good stuff. The scenic route has a lot more to offer."

            I think about this. I haven't seen any roads, large buildings, or traffic lights around here. If the rest of the land is identical to this town, then there is nothing but trees, old stone buildings, and more trees.

            "Where have you gone? What have you seen?" I inquire, wondering about his travels.

            "I've been loads of places, sometimes with the Garners and other times just on my own. I've visited the other four regions: Nettlewood, Tuckahoe, Cedar Ridge and Sycoma. Last year when I was sixteen, I made my solo voyage westward."

            "West? What's out there?" I long to hear of adventure, to live vicariously through his storytelling.

            "My favorite place is a small town just a few miles off the Rockies," he says.

            My ears perk. Finally, a landmark that I actually know! William explains more about places that have continued to exist since 2015.

            "I take it you know about the Canyon as well," he says matter-of-factly.

            "The Grand Canyon? Out in the mid-west?" I nod.

            "Grand?" William laughs. "Yes, I suppose it is. That's the one. It's still there –miles long –stretching the horizon."

            Comfort.

            That's the word I'm looking for. That's what this thought brings me. After centuries of evolution and land transformation, the Grand Canyon has survived –in all its glory.

            Why would nature destroy its own masterpiece collection?

            "What else is out there? Have you been to the other coast?" I ask.

            "I spent some time in Sycoma Valley in a town called Montgomery. It's really just a mega-town built along the waterways. It's almost a city, actually." William exclaims.

            I think of a city in this land. What would a century-old city even look life? Skyscrapers made from Lincoln-logs?

            "You mentioned the overseas before, when we were talking about the cabin." I bite my lip. "Then Brynne mentioned it again at my briefing."

            I don't ask a question, but he senses the direction I'm heading.

            "Curiosity is not a setback," he says. "What would you like to know?"

            "Well... what is it? What's over there? Did they have an ice age too?"

            "What's over there is... what's over there." He shrugs. "The Second Ice Age affected the entire globe. After the thawing, we rebuilt or we tried to anyway. Bristol, or what we call the overseas, suffered the worst. During the Dark Age... well, let's just say they haven't exactly forgiven us."

            I wait, eagerly but he seems anxious.

            "Forgiven? For what?"

            "It was worse there. Legend says the sun didn't shine for half the Dark Age, almost three centuries. It was constant darkness. People grew weary and then they grew wary. The entire land was on edge. Not to mention with the wars going on..." William trails off again and I let him.

            "Bristol." I repeat, happy the "overseas" finally has a name.

            "Yes." He nods. "Eventually, a sector of their peoples migrated here to this land and searched up and down the east coast. After a year, they built a small settlement on the coast, easy to protect and defend should others try an attack it."

            "Okay," I urge. This sounds too familiar.

            "At first, they had their desired freedom. Then not long after, tension heightened between the new clan and its rulers in Bristol. After a short reprieve, the small town was taken over and then later deserted. They left Kemper behind for our natives to find," William concludes.

            "So our town... was rebuilt from what they left behind?"

            "Yes," he replies, "I suppose you could think of it that way."

            "Why did they search up and down the coast? If it was freedom they wanted, why not just make camp in the first place they found?"

            "Orders. It wasn't just freedom they sought, after all. The fleet was still controlled by Bristol. The settlement needed to be at exact coordinates," William finishes.

            I want to ask more. I want to know more. Why did it matter where the town was built? And why was it deserted years later? But part of me knows the answer.

            It was not a coincidence that the entire cliff-side town was nestled just south of the forest, the forest where an enigmatic portal connects eras of time.

            "Is it still there?" I blurt out. "Bristol?"

            "Yes, it's still there." He nods. "Only now it is known as Old Bristol. Most of it lies in ruins."

            "Are there still people there? I mean it can't be just land..." I think about it. What happened to the rest of the world after the end of the world?

            "People don't live there. They live there."

            From the way he says "they" I can tell the conversation is over. I can't help my hunger for more but I guess this will have to satisfy me for now.

            "Well, where should we go next?" I perk up. "Where else is there?"

            "Loads of places you haven't been yet," he says. "You still aren't supposed to leave the town without permission."

            "Even if I have a Garner by my side?" I tease.

            "Even then. You never know what's out there."

The two of us are still perched on the fountain. The same lights from the waterwheel flow through the fountain's waterfall, entrancing, like little sparks of energy swimming along.

            I remember the Square and the giant metal waterwheel I saw my first day here. I stare at the springing fountain in the courtyard and think of the riverroads that double as an irrigation system, or transportation system, whatever it is. It seems this town has a preoccupation with water.

            "What's with the water everywhere?" I ask.

            "Everywhere?" He emphasizes the word, confusion registering on his face.

            "Yes. The waterwheel mill in town, the riverroads, the fancy aqueduct irrigation system Smyth mentioned before, the giant powerhouse behind your house... It's all water related. Or haven't you noticed?" I point out.

            "Yes, I reckon it is." He laughs. "Wenonah is a water-efficient region. Everything is primarily generated by water. The riverroads serve a dual purpose. They assist transportation but also distribute water throughout the land in a manner much more efficient than anything you've ever seen, no doubt. Riverroads are natural and utilitarian, more practical than regular blacktop roads. Plus, there are no cars here," he says. "Or haven't you noticed?"

            So he does know what a real road consists of and cars as well.

            "The mill in the Square," I motion down the lane to the end of the plaza. "What's its purpose? Is it just for show?"

            "Representation. Wenonah is the leading region in water technology. Plus, we're located on the eastern coast and have an excess of access to water," William states matter-of-factly.

            "So, if the land is water-efficient, then all the other regions... they all have water mills too?" I try to keep my thoughts straight. "In their towns?"

            "Not necessarily," he exhales. "Each of the regions has its own techniques when it comes to generating energy. Cedar Ridge for example implements fire. Half the region consists of forest and woodlands. People there burn everything they have to spare.

            "They have roaring fires in their town squares, with flames that reach eight feet high. It's never kindled but it never burns out either. There's no temperature to it, it's all for show." He smiles. "Each province of our land is proud of its technology. Kemper prides itself at being waterwheel proficient, ergo the mill," William concludes.

            I nod and repeat his words in my head. Wenonah is entirely dependent on water generation. This makes sense. I wonder what else there is, if not water.

            "Is it just fire and water?" I question. William shakes his head.

            "No, other regions employ different resources. Each of the Five Lands is noted for a single, unique resource. Nettlewood is a big advocate for windmill generation. Mills as tall as trees spin, collecting and storing energy," he answers.

            "And do they have a giant windmill in their town square?" I tease. Yes.

            "Tuckahoe region is big into mining. Coal mostly, though they take whatever they can get. Way out west, past a certain point, everything runs off solar power. A few years back, some man learned to harness and store the sun's energy, now half of Sycoma is covered with foil panels," says William.

            I picture an ancient city that's filled with modern-day structures and built right on the waterway.  

            "I have an idea. If you still want to go somewhere?"

"Lead the way." I shrug.

We crossed the promenade and crept down the hillside on the backside of the courtyard and followed it to the edge of the forest.

            Along the way William explained the significance of the town statues –something about symbolizing peace.

            "So, as long as the waterwheel keeps churning then the town is free from duress," William confirmed.

            "And the fire bonfire burns and the windmill turns," I said.

            "Precisely," he says.

            We walk only a few more minutes before he stops, looking around.

            "How far out are we going?" I ask.

            "It's around here somewhere..." He holds up his hand, ignoring my question. "Hold on."

            My shoulder knocks into his arm. "What is it?" I look around. The forest is quiet.

            William surveys the land to his left. He takes two steps. "It's this way. Come on."

            I follow him down the sloping stony floor, weaving around giant tree trunks. "Where are we going?"

            "You'll see."

            He stops in front of an ancient tree and reaches his hand inside the hollow. He pulls out an old transistor radio and a rolled flat sheet. A wide smile stretches across his face. "My secret stash."

            I run to his side and snatch the radio. It looks retro for sure, definitely before my time, and I haven't the faintest idea as to how it's lasted.

"Does it get any stations?"

            "A few. The signal usually lasts a few minutes, and you only need to adjust the antenna for an hour first." William laughs and I can't help but join him.

            "Only an hour?" I laugh.

We continue to trek for quarter an hour until the vegetation thickens and so the smell of sodden earth. I'm reminded, again, of the place I resurfaced –with the thick trees and wet forest ground.

We come to a shallow brook with a white-pebbled beach. I duck under a curtain of willow branches and find a field of tall grass hiding on the other side. Yellow and purple wildflowers devour the riverbed, growing ravenously. Spindly birch trees line either side of the stream.

            "Do you like it?"

            "How did you find this place?" I ask.

            "Came across it one morning while doing rounds." William unfolds the sheet and sets it down. "It's the most beautiful at this time of year. The summer is moving out but life here remains just a little while longer."

            "It's beautiful."

            "Let me see that." William tugs the radio from my hand. He adjusts the dented antenna and spins the knob a few times before I hear static.

            I drop to my knees and lay on my side to face William. I smell fresh grass through the cotton and the thin blades tickle my nose. "Where did you find that old thing, anyway?"

            "What, this?" He holds up the radio. "It's brand new."

            As our laughter dies out, the static evaporates into a country melody –something with a banjo maybe. He rests the music box on the grass and jumps from his knees. With no effort, he pulls me up with him.

            William slides his hand around the small of my back and pulls me in. He twirls me and tosses me around in his arms with ease.

            "And how did you learn to dance so well?" I laugh, falling between steps.

            "I take lessons in all my free time," he says, flinging me from his grip. For a moment, I think I might fall but he is at my side again, his arm steadying my weight.

            "Oh?" I raise my brow in disbelief. "I can't imagine you having much free time around here, what with your heroic habit of saving people."

            "Well, when I'm not, you know, off saving people." He says it very blasé, but I know better.

            He does save people.

            A minute later the banjo stops and fuzzy white noise resumes.

            "Until the next wave of good reception," William says.

He stops moving, but doesn't let go right away. I'm aware of how close we are, how carefree...

            I just think maybe, if only my plate wasn't full with the whole dying thing and the subsequent time-travel thing, maybe this could be normal. He releases my palm as we return to the ground.

            I look up at his face, filled with concern, and break the silence. "How do you know what a radio is, anyhow?"

            "History lessons," he laughs.

            "A radio? History lessons?" I repeat his words, laughing to myself. Never did I think of radio and history being part of the same subcategory.

            "Every child here has them, at the school mostly. It's the only way to ensure that natives have a relative understanding of the many eras that came before," William says.

            "And of the refugees who wash-up," I add.

            "Of course."

"Where do you suppose the signal was coming from, anyway?" I tap the radio.

            "No clue. Sometimes I think it's just stuck inside the radio waiting to play for someone."

            "Maybe it is," I say and I wonder how many times it's played for William. How many times has he come to his spot to seek solace? "Does this freeze over in the winter time?"

            "It does." William nods. "Once the summer's gone, the river starts to dry up, leaving behind puddles here and there and they freeze over. Natives call them puddle ponds."

            I breathe in the meadow air. I smell the saltwater. The vegetation and overgrown grass lends a fresh aroma to the riverbank. I sprawl out under the willow tree using the wildflowers as a cushion.

            "I think I could stay here all afternoon. Maybe forever," I admit. My cheeks prickle.

            "You say that now."

            William reclines and stretches out. He seems taller lying down. My eyes linger on the concave dip under his collarbone and the faint trace of a scar I hadn't noticed before now.

            "In what thoughts are you lost?" He asks.

            "It's just..." I look down, my face warm from the blood rushing to my cheeks. "I was thinking how I hardly even know you."

            "Nor I you. Maybe we should change that. Start little and go from there."

            "That sounds manageable." I bite my lip.

            "Tell me about your time... About 2015 and the life you had there."

            "There's not much to tell," I lie. As far as he knows, I still barely remember anything. "There weren't many places like this." I look around at the untouched landscape. "The towns were bigger, more like cities really with lots of cars and buildings. Cities booming with technologies. And not as many horses."

            "And not as many horses?" William laughs.

"We preferred modern means of public transportation."

"What kind of technologies?" He asks, clearly less interested in the horses.

            How do you explain the twenty-first century to someone who is from the future but also the past? There is only one true answer. "The kind you won't ever find here."

            "Fair enough."

With that he taps the top of the radio again, but nothing happens.       

            "No more music." I sigh. "Not today at least."

            "That just leaves more for another day," he grins.

I stare at his lips and his smile and the beauty of the two together and wonder how such a thing was created.

"It always comes down to the silence of our minds. That's all we are left with." William mutters.

            "That's what it comes down to?" I smirk.

            "Thought is the best remedy for silence, Ev. Deep down inside is where you'll find all the answers you could ever need."

Again, he speaks with words from another time. Then I realize.

I have no idea when William James is from.

/  /  /

Behind the Cedar Lodge is a cracked-soil road leading out of town. I made sure the coast was clear before I scampered past the lodge and turned the corner.

            Tall pines line either side of the pathway. The grass is overgrown and the trail is littered with tiny weeds sprouting up at every turn. I have an eerie feeling this is a road less traveled-by.

            For what seems like an hour I hike along. The lane leads through a thick, leafy forest with mounds of mossy boulders. I pass an old cabin that's been swallowed by burly vines. A rustic wagon is currently decaying on the porch.

            Across the path is a crumbled structure of an ancient building. All that remains is the foundation. The path grows steeper and steeper until it flattens out to a grassy plateau.

            I track through the meadow. I am high up now. A large vast ocean laps ravenously at the cliffs beneath me. Sea salt and sand whips through the air. I can taste the ocean on my chapped lips.

            The horizon is distant and the ocean is empty –apart from a scrawny strip of land jetting out on the left side. Across the inlet, I see a rugged rock wall plunging down from the hill. Atop the drop, nestled between tall pines and engraved in a stony terrain, rests a cozy cottage with wooden beams and a foggy glass wall.

            The cabin.

            A thinning forest with spindly tree trunks is up ahead on my left. Just before the forest, in a small clearing, there is an archaic structure –grand and alluring. I crawl closer, trying to catch my balance as I trek through the overgrown grass.

            It is old and castle-like but annihilated from its former glory, apart from a sole remaining tower. Maybe it was an ancient battleground. The ruins are embossed with vines and blossoms and the same green moss from the forest creeps up the stone.

            At the base there are massive rocks and gaps in the ground. I maneuver my way around the slippery rocks and jump onto the soil in front of the castle.

            I gaze in awe. This structure is old, even for someone who supposedly hails from seven centuries ago.

            The foundation has deteriorated; the ocean water has coated the stone with a thin, slimy layer of brine. Vines dangle from pines trees above and tiny saplings grow straight up through the stone floor. The ceiling, either blasted off or having caved in, is missing.

            Debris jumbles the floor –fragments of wood and scraps of metal, a splintered table and chairs and a smashed kerosene lamp. I cross to the base of the turret and find what remains of an iron serpentine staircase. A pile of glass crunches beneath my boot and I look up.

            Hanging high above the staircase, dangling on the sole remaining beam, is a shattered lantern with a rusted metal frame. Instantly, I recognize where I am. It's just like in the old movies. Straight out of the 1800s, I'm standing at the base of an old decrepit lighthouse tower.

My room is cozy and warm. I knot my hair into a ponytail and climb in my bed. Charlotte changed my sheets while I was out; they are heavy flannel now –like thermal.

            I roll over on my side. The lampposts in town burn brightly, shining like stars in the night. The silence lets me know the town has gone to sleep.

I wake drenched in sweat, the flannel sheets sticky against my body. I jolt upright, coughing and inhaling the muggy air. I whirl around and see light dwindling inside the lampposts.

            Another sleepless night.

            It was the same recurring nightmare from my days in the Refinery. A ledge of rocks stretched out in front of me, but then it shifted. A glaring inferno loomed in front of me with flames the size of pines.

            Faster and faster I ran through the fire, fearing the hot hungry flames, but the heat never came. Instead, the flames were ice cold and I came out the other side. The soil was cracked and charred and the land desolate. I turned my head, but the fire was gone and in its place was a great stone barrier. A portal, maybe.

            Before me, stood a lone crooked windmill with a crippled mast. As I inched closer, the blades began to slow and shake. I stopped at the base of its tower and watched as its blades crumbled at my feet.