Time After Time

“I want to mingle with the popolo grasso and dine with Dante at the Palazzo Vecchio,” Regina said. “I want the real thing.”

On our Teams call, her reel played: Regina with an Aperol above the Arno; Regina combing her fingers through lemon blossoms; Regina at the Medicean Bar, all gild and fresco. Tuscany fit her like a costume she wore perfectly. There she was walking the gardens of olives and cypress with her hands at her sides feeling the petals of row after row of plants.

“Did you hear me, dolcezza? I want the real thing.”

“I curate time,” I said. “I don’t bend it.”

“You’re a time-travel agent, Norah. Be one.”

“Regina, it’s a catchy calling card. I send people on historical vacations, like the one you just had at the Villa La Massa. It feels like another era, but it’s still fantasy.”

“I won’t take no for an answer, Norah darling. Find a way. At once. Nothing is impossible to a willing mind. Tata.”

“Regina,” I said. But the line was dead. Not even a ‘Thank you, Nora! I had the time of my life!’ Wealthy clients always want the sun, the moon, and the stars. Then when you deliver, they want more. After that, the impossible. Me? I wanted only one thing: to see my father again. But we are not gods. Time is a one-way street. I should know.

Time travel is just a child's fantasy. Except Sam Allman insists otherwise. His vlog, Time After Time, has become my guilty pleasure. He claims to livestream from history itself—Tokugawa Japan, ancient Rome, the Old West. They're obviously elaborate productions. They have to be. Yet every time I watch, I find myself wondering the same impossible thing. What if they aren't?

Sam’s supposedly fake trips to historical destinations were the inspiration for many of my own tours.

The phone started ringing again. It was Regina. “I’ve been thinking, Norah, darling. It’s called false advertising. You know? You call yourself a ‘time travel agent.’ There’s a quote I like: ‘the ultimate inspiration is the deadline.’ I consider you a friend, Norah. I really, really do. And in a lot of ways this is for your own good. You know what I am capable of. You’ve got seventy-two hours, or I shut you down. The real thing, baby. Tata.” The line clicked off.

I couldn't even guarantee museum tickets in Florence on seventy-two hours' notice. Regina had given me seventy-two hours to rewrite the laws of physics. Not knowing what else to do, I clicked on the open tab to Sam’s vlog. I began to read about Sam’s recent trip back to ancient Rome. Complete with a four-minute Vimeo reel of him walking through the Roman Forum that looked as real as real could be.

I still couldn’t figure out how he was doing it—or why his footage always made me shiver—was it because I wanted it to be true—or part of me believed that it was?

Or because he was my only hope.

Then the live feed of Sam’s current video blinked on.

***

“Sam Allman here, fellow time travelers.” Sam stood in front of the dark wooden façade of the Silver Dollar Saloon in Leadville, Colorado, in front of the iconic swinging batwing doors. Sam wore a brown Stetson and toted a gleaming Colt Single Action Army Peacemaker, hanging from the holster of a worn leather belt.

A crack. Felt puffed from the crown of his hat, a ragged smoldering hole punched clean through. Sam dropped to the ground, crab crawling down the wooden porch as more shots chewed on the boards. He slid around the corner, reappeared, eyes scanning for more incoming.

The camera zoomed in on his face. “Don’t panic, travel tribe. If this goes sideways, Travis can rewind a jump in the first ten minutes—stream never airs. If you’re watching, we cleared the buffer. But it looks like he’s found me again.”

The Pursuer. The figure who’d been chasing him from landing to landing. Face hidden beneath a black bandana. Pale eyes.

“We’ve got a comment from ‘Norah the Explorer’—she’ll run archival research if I give her the date… August 19, 1884… and she’s typing again…”

I was already searching: Doc Holliday’s last gunfight—Hyman’s Saloon—this exact day. Holliday shot Billy Allen, arrested, later acquitted on self-defense.

I typed: Same day as Holliday’s last gunfight—across the street.

The camera panned to Hyman’s. A constable led Holliday out, his Hungarian moustache unmistakable, the gambler’s forearm bandaged.

Wait. There was a second article. Billy Allen wasn't the only gunman that afternoon. During the confusion after Holliday's arrest, Allen's brother circled behind the Silver Dollar Saloon and fired from the alley. I typed: Behind you. Alley on your left. Shooter coming around the corner.

I saw Sam moving to the other side of the building as a shot rang out causing the constable and Holliday to duck and run. “Travel tribe, remind me never to play historical trivia against Norah. We are gonna skedaddle.”

The newspaper microfiche says everyone hid inside after Holliday was arrested—except one man, a bartender named O'Malley, who opened the rear cellar door and waited it out below.

I typed, REAR CELLAR. SOUTH SIDE. O'MALLEY LEFT IT UNLOCKED. GO! “Okay time bandits, we’re going down in the cellar to wait this out and plan our final escape. Sam Allman out.”

Sam disappears through the cellar, pulling the doors flush just in time. Seconds later, The Pursuer walks onto the porch and freezes, unsure where Sam went. Then Sam's face pops back onto the feed from inside the Sprinter van.

“Sam lives to fight another day. That seals it time squad. Norah the Explorer—wherever you are—I owe you one. Anything you need.”

If Sam was real—if any of this was real—I knew exactly where I’d go: back to 1997, to one ordinary day with my father.

***

My DMs were going unanswered. Some thanks for saving Sam’s butt in the Old West. But I guess Sam was a celebrity. A time-travelling celebrity, apparently. And I was no one. He'd said, "Anything you need." I intended to collect. The problem was I had no idea how to find him.

I went full paparazzi. I stalked his live streams for clues. For three days I lived inside Sam's videos. Eventually, I struck paydirt. Reflections in saloon windows. Airline baggage tags. Parking citations. A fake Indiana Jones whip from Universal Studios that I spotted while Sam was doing his best Indiana Jones impression on a trip to Chichen Itza. I hung a posterboard on the wall and used a red pushpin to pin the word “Albuquerque.” Eat your heart out True Detective. Norah the Explorer is on the job! I added “Henderson” and “Orlando.” Every clue earned another pushpin on the wall until my office looked less like a travel agency and more like an FBI task force hunting a serial killer.

I felt like a modern-day Carmen Sandiego. Sleuthing. Digging for evidence. Connecting the dots. But I still had no idea where to find Sam. He’d covered most of the southern states just in the last week and clearly had no problem airing from a variety of locations. In fact, he never stayed in one place for more than a day from what I could tell.

But I had no idea why, or where he was headed.

***

I had hit a dead end. There was only one thing to do. My father, Finn Ferguson, was many things. One of which was a connoisseur of gelato. And the best gelato on planet earth was at Mr. Whippy’s. Hands down. And the king of all gelatos was dulce de leche. A white and brown, velvety swirl of sweet caramel and milk that disintegrates on the tongue.

My father had always said that the solution to all problems was a cup of dulce de leche gelato. Standing outside Mr. Whippy’s, I placed my order. It was not defeat. It was a nod to the gods.

As I stood there, a man in a hoody stood beside me. “Any good?” he asked.

“The best,” I said.

“I guess I’ll have to try some.” I took a craft stick off the counter and scooped a bit, handing it over.

He tasted it. Then closed his eyes.

"Your father was right."

"How did you know my father?"

He smiled.

"Most people ask whether time travel is real."

I stared at him, unable to speak. “People have lied to me about him before.”

He held out his hand.

"Sam Allman."

I didn’t take it. I was speechless.

“You know, I’ve been waiting here for a while. I was expecting you sooner.”

“What?”

"Your father told me you'd come."

***

We sat in the back of the Sprinter van on opposite sides of a bamboo table.

Sam poured strong coffee out of a carafe. The steam opened my sinuses and masked the tears welling in my eyes.

"I met your father twenty-three years from now."

I laughed. "That's not how years work."

"No," Sam agreed. "Not usually.”

"My father died when I was four."

Sam shook his head. "He disappeared. It’s not the same thing. He wanted to tell you where he’d gone, but his work wouldn’t allow it. He needed to keep you safe from The Pursuer until you were ready—he couldn’t put you at risk."

"Don't."

"I'm serious."

He reached into his hoodie. Sam unwrapped an item from an old linen cloth that had been folded and refolded a hundred times. It looked like an old brass pocket watch, except there were no numbers on the face. Just concentric rings that drifted against one another like tiny galaxies.

"He brought me into the future and gave me this. He saved my life.”

I stared at the pocket watch.

"He said one day a stubborn woman would come looking for him."

"I am not stubborn."

Sam raised an eyebrow.

"You built an evidence board with red string."

"Pushpins."

"It’s called ‘stalking’."

I couldn't help smiling. Just a little.

"He told me three things," Sam continued. "First: never use the machine for profit. So, the vlog is free and the proceeds from YouTube go to charity. Second: never force the destination—the machine decides. Third..." He looked directly at me. "When Norah finds you, bring her with you."

I looked at him, wanting to believe, but afraid it was all an elaborate scam.

"He didn't leave you this machine," Sam said.

I looked at the watch.

"He left you..."

Sam extended his hand.

"...me."

"So, we're partners?" I asked.

"I was hoping for 'friends,' eventually."

"I don't even know if I like you.”

"You will."

"You seem awfully confident. Last I checked, I was the one who saved your behind."

***

We arrived at my house, entered through the back door into my home office, and I said, “Welcome to MacGregor’s Time Travel Agency. Welcome, welcome.”

“It’s… quaint,” Sam said.

“If I’m going to go with you, there’s something I have to take care of first.”

He smiled. "...Regina."

I groaned. "Regina."

When Regina arrived, she was wearing linen worth more than my car. She had enough jewelry to fill a display.

"There you are!" she said. "I always say that necessity is the mother of invention. So, I am going to Florence at last?"

“Not exactly.”

Sam blinked.

"Who is this?" Regina demanded.

“He’s the time technician. He’s in charge of the machine.”

“Ohhhh… how lovely.”

"I don't like her," Sam said.

"Nobody does," I confirmed.

"I heard that,” Regina barked.

Sam disappeared into the front of the van and returned carrying a clipboard nearly an inch thick.

"Before we continue," he said, "we are just going to need you to sign this waiver here, here… here, and here. Standard operating procedure. It is a time travel waiver, and it is absolutely necessary that you acknowledge the risks if you are going to go through with this."

Regina beamed.

"I adore paperwork,” Regina said. She read out loud: "The undersigned acknowledges temporal destinations are selected solely by the device..."

She looked up. Sam nodded.

"You don't choose where you go," Sam said.

"The machine does," I said.

"Based on what?" Regina asked.

"We're still arguing about that,” Sam said, “But the inventor said it was based on need, that each of us has a unique purpose—so, it is personal to each traveler.”

Regina continued reading. "Possible exposure to plague... dinosaurs… religious persecution… volcanic eruptions… execution."

Regina looked up again. "Execution?" she asked.

"It’s rare," Sam said, shrugging with his palms turned up. “But not out of the realm of possibility.”

She turned another page. " I acknowledge that I will be subject to temporal pursuit by an unidentified hostile entity..." Regina turned to Sam again.

Sam sighed. "The Pursuer." He pointed to the wall of the van. Pinned across one wall were dozens of photographs. Ancient Rome. The Wild West. Victorian London. Napoleonic France. Every single photograph contained the same pale-eyed man watching from somewhere in the background. Regina stared.

"Who is he?" she asked.

I shrugged. "My theory? Time cop."

Sam shook his head. “I think he’s more like a temporal immune system. Terminator 2 style."

"An assassin?" I countered.

"Creepy fan?" Sam shrugged.

Regina looked from one of us to the other. “You’re not going to scare me off from meeting Dante with this act, if that’s what you think. I’m going.”

She signed without reading another line, a smile drawing across her lips.

"You didn't finish reading."

"I've been divorced twice." She handed the clipboard back. "I've signed worse."

“Very well,” Sam said. “I wonder why anyone would have left?”

The machine hummed to life.

Regina adjusted her sunglasses. "If I don't return with Michelangelo, I'll be terribly disappointed." She vanished in a pulse of blue light.

Sam looked at me.

"How long?" I asked.

"Anywhere from thirty seconds to twenty-four hours,” he said.

Forty-six seconds later another flash erupted.

Regina tumbled onto the couch in the Sprinter van covered in soot. One heel was missing. Her hair was singed. Her designer handbag was gone. One of her hands clutched tightly to a Roman bronze betting token.

No one spoke. Finally, she looked up.

"...I asked for the real thing. There were lions."

Sam nodded sympathetically. "The Colosseum?"

She swallowed. “Never again."

She stood, dusted herself off with all the dignity she could muster, and looked at me.

"You may advertise real time travel. But perhaps mention… the lions."

She walked away without another word.

We waited for two minutes, then the two of us laughed as hard as I’ve ever laughed in my life.

"Now, let's go find my father."

***

The machine clicked into gear and before I knew it, and to my dismay, Sam and I were on horseback. But the riding was gentle. We were traveling with a group of merchants to a Ryokan Inn on the Tokaido Highway leading to Kyoto in old Japan. Shogunate officials were carrying teapots intended for a wealthy aristocrat.

“It is beautiful here,” I said.

“Keep your eyes out, he could be just around the next corner,” Sam said.

“My father?”

“The Pursuer.”

As if on cue, a band of samurai poured from the trees, ambushing our caravan.

“Your father always said that each interlude was a clue…”

“… before we leave, we have to find out what it is,” I said.

My eyes fell on the maker's mark stamped beneath one of the teapots. I’d been staring at them since we arrived. Only now did I understand. I pointed.

“What is it,” Sam said.

“My father’s initials. FM. Finn MacGregor.”

“Then we’re close.”

Sam broke into a full gallop as the melee unfolded.

"Seriously?" I shouted.

"You wanted the real thing!"

I had never ridden a horse in my life. I clung to the reins with both hands while the horse made all the decisions. I was certain I was going to die before I ever met my father. But at last, the Ryokan Inn came into focus.

It rose beside the river like a bronze lantern against the darkened sky, every roofline and beam honed with impossible precision.

We entered the reception area. Behind a table was a small Japanese man who looked to be older than time. He had a large straw hat and a robe and was smoking a bamboo pipe. It smelled of hay and summer. Of sweet tobacco and milk thistle. He grunted as we entered.

A man emerged from the shadows with long red hair and a red beard. He walked forward slowly, his sandals barely making a sound.

“I can’t believe you’re both here,” he said.

I felt tears come to my eyes.

“Father?”

His eyes filled before mine did. He took another step forward. His arms enveloped me.

“I didn’t believe you were alive,” I said, struggling to catch my breath.

“I’m so sorry,” Finn said, “I had no choice… but I’m here now… I’ve been waiting a long time for you to find me.”

All these years I'd built my identity around being abandoned. Suddenly the breadcrumbs fell into place. The teapots. Sam. The vlog. Time after time, my father had been leading me to him.

"We must keep moving." Finn glanced toward the trees. "He'll be here soon."

Sam didn't ask who.

"Where to now?" Sam asked.

I looked at the watch.

Looked at my father.

Then smiled.

"We don't choose the destination," I said.

“Now you're thinking like a time traveler,” Finn said.

My father squeezed my hand.

"The future's not yet written," he whispered.

I smiled.

"Then we'll write it together."

I wound the crown, and the world folded around us.