“I thought I could give you the entire lowdown this afternoon, but I can’t,” Al said when he had control of himself again. “I need to go home, take some of my dope, and put my feet up. I’ve never taken anything stronger than aspirin in my whole life, and that Oxy crap puts me out like a light. I’ll sleep for six hours or so and then feel better for awhile. A little stronger. Can you come by my place around nine-thirty?”

“I could if I knew where you live,” I said.

“Little cottage on Vining Street. Number nineteen. Look for the lawn gnome beside the porch. You can’t miss it. He’s waving a flag.”

“What have we got to talk about, Al? I mean. . you showed me. I believe you now.” So I did. . but for how long? Already my brief visit to 1958 had taken on the fading texture of a dream. A few hours (or a few days) and I’d probably be able to convince myself that I had dreamed it.

“We’ve got a lot to talk about, buddy. Will you come?” He didn’t repeat dying man’s request, but I read it in his eyes.

“All right. Do you want a ride to your place?”

His eyes flashed at that. “I’ve got my truck, and it’s only five blocks. I can drive myself that far.”

“Sure you can,” I said, hoping I sounded more convinced than I felt. I got up and started putting my stuff back into my pockets. I encountered the wad of cash he’d given me and took it out. Now I understood the changes in the five-spot. There were probably changes in the other bills, as well.

I held it out and he shook his head. “Nah, keep it, I got plenty.”

But I put it down on the table. “If every time’s the first time, how can you keep the money you bring back? How come it isn’t erased the next time you go?”