Pushing myself to my feet, I catch sight of my old-fashioned shirt. Before I do anything else, I should clean up, get some new clothes, and find something to eat. And money. I’m going to need some of that, too.
Using the Chaser, I skip into a series of back gardens until I find a home where the occupants aren’t home. One more time hop and I’m inside.
The house I grew up in had only a tub for washing. In this place, I find a bathroom off the largest bedroom upstairs that has not only a tub twice as big as my family’s, but also a roomy shower.
I have no idea how long it will be before the people who live here return, but I’m a mess so I strip off my clothes and step inside.
Once I figure out how to balance the temperature of the water, the shower is amazing. I don’t think I ever want to take a bath again. I look around for soap but find only several plastic bottles. One is labeled SHAMPOO and another BODYWASH. I know what shampoo is, and though the phrasing is odd, I can guess what bodywash means.
Five minutes later, I’m dripping wet but clean. I grab a large towel hanging from a nearby rack and dry off. In the bedroom, I search for clothing. I don’t like the idea of stealing but I don’t have much of a choice.
From what I find, I know a man and a woman share this room. It’s shocking to me how much clothing the woman has. Dresses and blouses and skirts of various lengths fill most of the closet. They’ve got to be Threes for sure to be able to afford this much. And shoes. My lord. Who would ever need so many shoes?
The man’s clothes are limited to a handful of jackets and pants and shirts. I pull out a shirt but immediately see it won’t fit me. The man, though probably around the same height as I am, clearly has a much larger girth.
I decide to check the other bedrooms. One of the rooms belongs to a girl, but boys live in the other two, one of whom, it turns out, is about the same size I am. I pull on a pair of pants made of a blue, rugged material, but when I zip and snap up, I find that the waist rides low, exposing the top of my butt. I search through the boy’s cabinet for a pair that has a higher waist, but all the pants are the same.
I realize I’ll have to make do, for now, with the pants I have on, as uncomfortable as they make me feel. I go in search of a shirt. In an upper drawer, I find a pullover of a thin soft fabric that feels like cotton. It’s dark gray and has a silhouette of a stylized bat printed on the front. It’s long enough to cover the top of the pants so I won’t be exposing the crack of my butt to the whole world.
In the closet, I find shoes. Not nearly as many as the woman has, but several times more than the single pair I had growing up. The ones I try on are a bit large, but they’ll do.
After dressing and collecting my things, I head down to the kitchen. There, I take two apples from a bowl on a counter and several slices of bread out of a clear bag, and then turn on the faucet and take a long drink of water. I want to look through the cupboards but I’ve already taken enough from this house, so I set a new destination on my Chaser and leave.
Though I still don’t have any money, I feel less conspicuous now. As I walk down some busy streets, I see larger vehicles that appear to be for transportation of large groups, similar to the Pub Cs — public carriages — I’m familiar with. They stop every few blocks at locations marked by signs. These usually have overhead covering and a bench where people can wait for the next ride.
It’s at one of these that I find an older woman who points me in the direction of a library.
The sign outside reads:
LOS ANGELES PUBLIC LIBRARY
WOODLAND HILLS BRANCH
Los Angeles again. Still no mention of New Cardiff.
Inside, the library is laid out not too differently from those I have known. In the history section, I decide to work my way backward through time, so I start by choosing volumes that will give me an overview of the twentieth century.
After finding an empty table hidden among the shelves, I crack the book open and begin to read. It’s not long before my heart starts to race. With the exception of location names — though not even all of those — nothing’s familiar here. It tells of “world wars”—two of them — and more individual nations than I can fathom. The British Empire is nonexistent, at least in the way I know it. Instead, a “Commonwealth of Nations” encompasses many of the territories I know as being under direct rule of the king. According to the book, those territories are now mostly independent nations.
What surprises me is that the only part of North America that belongs to the group is Canada. The part of the continent that’s always been my home is its own nation, with no direct political ties to the kingdom at all. It calls itself the United States of America.
When I come to the section about the 1970s, I feel the weight of my actions closing in on me again. In the year 1976, the US — as the book often refers to it — celebrated its bicentennial.
Two hundred years of existence means the nation was started in 1776, one year after the twelve-second error at the Three Swans Tavern.
Leaving the book unfinished, I hurry to the shelves and select a text specifically on the history of the United States of America. I don’t even make it past the table of contents before I know the truth.
A chapter entitled “George Washington” includes subsections with the titles: “The War Years 1775–1783” and “The First President 1789–1797.”
The Washington I’m familiar with was captured and executed, thanks to information provided by Richard Cahill. In this new timeline, Cahill died before he could fulfill his role and Washington not only lived but thrived.
How do I describe how it feels to confirm I’m both the annihilator of my world and the creator of this one? That, in a single slip of my hand, I’ve changed the paths of millions — maybe billions — of people and likely killed more human beings than all the tyrants in history combined?
Perhaps kill isn’t the right word. To be killed, a person would have to exist and then have his or her life taken away, right?
It’s not murder. It’s not genocide.
My crime is taking the lives of those who now have never been. There’s no word for that.
I begin reading the book but this is merely out of habit. My mind is so numb that the words might as well be in a foreign language. My eyes are following the patterns while my fingers automatically turn the page when I reach the end, that’s all.
“Excuse me, sir.” The voice comes from somewhere behind me, but I pay it no attention. “Excuse me. Sir?”
A hand touches my shoulder and then pulls away. I turn my head and find a smartly dressed woman standing behind me.
“The library’s closing in ten minutes,” she says. “If you want to check that book out, you’ll need to do so now.”
“Oh, okay. Thank you.”
She walks off without another word.
I look down at the book that has confirmed my crime. I’ve gone through nearly three-quarters of it and can’t recall a single word. I do need to hold on to it so I can really read it, but borrowing it the traditional way would likely require identification I don’t have. Luckily, I’m not limited to the traditional route.
I look around to make sure no one can see me, and then use my Chaser to hop back to the middle of the previous night at the library.
There are fewer lights on than during operating hours, but it’s more than bright enough for my needs. After retrieving the book I was reading and slipping it into my satchel, I hunt around for a biography on George Washington. When I locate the right area, I’m surprised by the number of choices I have. The man who was no more than a footnote in the history of my world is clearly a legend here. I pick one at random and add it to my bag.