crackled and hissed, and a loud voice burst forth: “Yeah?” Brandon leaned forward and tried to speak. Then another blast came from the speaker: “YEAH?” Brandon jumped. His heart was pounding as he got the words out: “Brandon Stratham and friends to see Quint— Quinton—Coster. We’ve got a letter from Faye Birmingham.” There was a long pause before the speaker hissed again: “Come ’round back, up the steps.”
Brandon turned to Sarah and Stephen. “Like he said, around b-back.”
They walked to the back of the building and found a patio with iron steps leading to the second-floor balcony. Brandon’s legs felt like rubber as he started up the steps. He was halfway to the top when a figure emerged from the doorway above and stood on the balcony. It was a slim young man in khaki pants, with no shirt. His gray eyes peered at his visitors with amused wonder beneath dark brown hair.
Brandon nearly fell backward at the sight. “Quint!”
“I thought you sounded like a kid,” Quint said. His voice sounded tinny to Brandon compared to the one he knew. “Y’all have a letter for me?”
Brandon was staring open-mouthed at him. The question sank in and he nodded.
Quint waved them forward. “C’mon in.”
They followed him into the apartment. Brandon stood in the middle of what he supposed was the living room and smiled in spite of himself. Papers, books, and clothes were strewn everywhere. The remains of lunch—and maybe breakfast—were spread out on the floor in front of an old TV. A stock car racing poster and a Tulane University bumper sticker were the only decorations on the walls. A damp, stale smell hung in the air. It was Quint’s place, all right. He saw Sarah crinkle her nose in disapproval.
“Be right back,” Quint said. He stepped into the next room and returned wearing a white collared shirt. “Here, y’all have a seat.” He swept some papers off a threadbare couch. “Pardon the mess. Don’t get around t’cleanin’ much. Moved here from my daddy’s place three months ago.”
Brandon, Stephen, and Sarah sat down on the couch.
Quint pulled up an orange crate and sat facing them. “Sorry I don’t have anything to offer y’all, except a glass of milk or water.”
“We’re fine, thanks,” Brandon said.
Quint nodded. “Can I have the letter?”
Brandon took it out and gave it to him.
Quint looked at the envelope and smiled. “Addressed and stamped, and then she sends it by messenger.” He chuckled. “Faye’s great—heart of gold—but particular t’her own ways.” He tore open the envelope and read the letter. “Sounds good,” he said when finished. “She’s leavin’ for New York soon. Hired me t’drive her north.” He picked a Tulane University bulletin off the floor and fanned the pages. “It’ll sure help with expenses.”
“You’re in college now,” Brandon said.
“Startin’ January,” Quint said.
The room was cool, but Brandon was perspiring.
Quint leaned forward and smiled. “Anything wrong?”
Brandon drew his sleeve across his forehead. “I . . . I don’t know how to start,” he stammered. “We . . . I need to . . . we . . . need your help.”
Quint’s smile disappeared. He looked from Brandon to Stephen to Sarah. “What’s wrong?”
“Quint—can I call you that?” Brandon asked anxiously.
“Uh . . . sure.”
Suddenly it was all hopeless. Quint would never believe the story. No one would. “We . . . know you from before, even though you don’t know it,” Brandon blurted out. “We’re lost, and you’re the only one who can . . . help us get back.”
“Y’not makin’ any sense,” Quint said. “What do y’all need from me?”
Brandon pushed his hands back through his hair. He locked eyes with Quint. “We’re from New York—New York in the year 2005,” he said as steadily as he could. “We’re here by accident. It was my fault. Because of me, Stephen and Sarah are lost too. You and me, we’re friends in
Brandon turned to Sarah and Stephen. “Like he said, around b-back.”
They walked to the back of the building and found a patio with iron steps leading to the second-floor balcony. Brandon’s legs felt like rubber as he started up the steps. He was halfway to the top when a figure emerged from the doorway above and stood on the balcony. It was a slim young man in khaki pants, with no shirt. His gray eyes peered at his visitors with amused wonder beneath dark brown hair.
Brandon nearly fell backward at the sight. “Quint!”
“I thought you sounded like a kid,” Quint said. His voice sounded tinny to Brandon compared to the one he knew. “Y’all have a letter for me?”
Brandon was staring open-mouthed at him. The question sank in and he nodded.
Quint waved them forward. “C’mon in.”
They followed him into the apartment. Brandon stood in the middle of what he supposed was the living room and smiled in spite of himself. Papers, books, and clothes were strewn everywhere. The remains of lunch—and maybe breakfast—were spread out on the floor in front of an old TV. A stock car racing poster and a Tulane University bumper sticker were the only decorations on the walls. A damp, stale smell hung in the air. It was Quint’s place, all right. He saw Sarah crinkle her nose in disapproval.
“Be right back,” Quint said. He stepped into the next room and returned wearing a white collared shirt. “Here, y’all have a seat.” He swept some papers off a threadbare couch. “Pardon the mess. Don’t get around t’cleanin’ much. Moved here from my daddy’s place three months ago.”
Brandon, Stephen, and Sarah sat down on the couch.
Quint pulled up an orange crate and sat facing them. “Sorry I don’t have anything to offer y’all, except a glass of milk or water.”
“We’re fine, thanks,” Brandon said.
Quint nodded. “Can I have the letter?”
Brandon took it out and gave it to him.
Quint looked at the envelope and smiled. “Addressed and stamped, and then she sends it by messenger.” He chuckled. “Faye’s great—heart of gold—but particular t’her own ways.” He tore open the envelope and read the letter. “Sounds good,” he said when finished. “She’s leavin’ for New York soon. Hired me t’drive her north.” He picked a Tulane University bulletin off the floor and fanned the pages. “It’ll sure help with expenses.”
“You’re in college now,” Brandon said.
“Startin’ January,” Quint said.
The room was cool, but Brandon was perspiring.
Quint leaned forward and smiled. “Anything wrong?”
Brandon drew his sleeve across his forehead. “I . . . I don’t know how to start,” he stammered. “We . . . I need to . . . we . . . need your help.”
Quint’s smile disappeared. He looked from Brandon to Stephen to Sarah. “What’s wrong?”
“Quint—can I call you that?” Brandon asked anxiously.
“Uh . . . sure.”
Suddenly it was all hopeless. Quint would never believe the story. No one would. “We . . . know you from before, even though you don’t know it,” Brandon blurted out. “We’re lost, and you’re the only one who can . . . help us get back.”
“Y’not makin’ any sense,” Quint said. “What do y’all need from me?”
Brandon pushed his hands back through his hair. He locked eyes with Quint. “We’re from New York—New York in the year 2005,” he said as steadily as he could. “We’re here by accident. It was my fault. Because of me, Stephen and Sarah are lost too. You and me, we’re friends in
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