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Chapter Two: The Girl in the Barn

Chapter Two: The Girl in the Barn

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 Clara Martin had always been the practical one. When Jude got lost in his books and Flynn got lost in his video games, Clara was the one who remembered to feed the dog, who set reminders for homework assignments, who made sure everyone had their lunch boxes before the bus came. Being the middle child didn’t mean being the least responsible—at least not in the Martin family. But nothing in twelve years of practical experience had prepared her for waking up in the middle of the nineteenth century. She’d been alone when she came to, lying in a field of tall grass with the sun beating down on her face and the sound of distant explosions rattling her teeth. It had taken her twenty minutes to find the road, another hour to find the farm, and every second of that time she’d spent fighting down the panic that threatened to swallow her whole. Flynn and Jude are out there somewhere, she’d told herself over and over. You’ll find them. You just have to stay calm. Easier said than done when cannons were firing in the distance and soldiers in blue were streaming past in organized chaos, some of them staring at her jeans and sneakers like she’d dropped down from the moon. Now she sat on an overturned crate in the Weikert barn, wrapping bandages around the arm of a young Union private who couldn’t have been more than seventeen. His name was James, and he kept apologizing for the blood he was getting on her hands. “It’s fine,” Clara said for the fourth time. “Really. It doesn’t bother me.” This was a lie. It bothered her a lot. But what was she supposed to do—refuse to help? “Where’d you say you were from again?” James asked, wincing as she tied off the bandage. “Pennsylvania.” At least that part was true. “Near… Harrisburg.” “City girl, huh?” James tried to smile, but it came out more like a grimace. “Never been there myself. Always wanted to, though. Hear they’ve got theaters and everything.” Clara was trying to formulate a response when the barn door swung open and a figure rushed in, silhouetted against the bright afternoon sun. “Clara!” She knew that voice. She’d know it anywhere. “Flynn!” She was off the crate and running before she could think, throwing her arms around her brother so hard she nearly knocked him over. “Oh my Goodness, Flynn, I thought—I didn’t know if—” “I’m okay.” Flynn hugged her back just as fiercely. “I’m okay. Are you hurt? What happened? Where’s Jude?” Clara pulled back, shaking her head. “I don’t know. I woke up alone in a field. I haven’t seen him. I haven’t seen anyone except—” She stopped. “Wait. Have you seen Jude?” “No.” Flynn’s face was pale under the dirt and scratches. “I woke up near the battle. Found what’s left of the time machine. It’s destroyed, Clara. Completely destroyed.” The practical part of Clara’s brain filed that information away for later panic. Right now, they had more immediate problems. “Mrs. Weikert told me something weird,” Flynn continued, lowering his voice even though James and the other wounded soldiers were too far away to hear. “About a letter. She said you had a letter?” Clara had almost forgotten about the letter. She reached into the pocket of her jacket—her favorite denim jacket, now covered in grass stains and splashes of blood that weren’t hers—and pulled out the folded document. The paper was old, brownish at the edges, and part of one corner had been burned away. But the writing was still legible: elegant, looping script that Clara couldn’t read no matter how hard she squinted. “I found it in my pocket when I woke up,” she said. “I don’t know where it came from. I don’t remember picking it up.” Flynn took the letter, unfolding it carefully. His eyes scanned the text, and Clara watched his face go from confused to shocked to something close to afraid. “This is dated July 4th, 1863,” he said slowly. “Three days from now.” “How is that possible? We just got here.” “I don’t know. But Clara—” Flynn looked up at her. “This letter is warning President Lincoln about an assassination attempt. Here, at Gettysburg. On Independence Day.” Clara’s stomach dropped. “But Lincoln wasn’t assassinated at Gettysburg. Everyone knows that. He was killed at Ford’s Theatre in 1865.” “Exactly.” Flynn folded the letter and handed it back to her. “So either this letter is a fake, or…” “Or something changed,” Clara finished. “Something changed the timeline.” They stared at each other, the weight of that possibility hanging between them. “We need to find Jude,” Flynn said finally. “And we need to figure out where this letter came from. But first, we need to—” “Children.” They both jumped. Mrs. Weikert stood in the barn doorway, her face grim. Beside her was a man Clara hadn’t seen before: tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a Union officer’s uniform with a general...
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