“Should there be pigeons here?” Megan Duncan said, her grey eyes searching the sidewalk before her with concern. “Pigeons are urban birds, are they not? And they prefer a warmer climate.”

An old man walking next to her asked, “Why shouldn’t they be?”

She started at the sound of his voice so close, and turned to look at him, frowning. He wore a soft cap the color of nutmeg and round glasses. His hair was almost white, and he had grey whiskers as well. His blue eyes were lively, though, as he looked back.

Her sharpened tone betrayed just a hint of indignance. “Can I help you with something, sir?” She clipped the word “sir” as though it were an insult.

The old man frowned, shaking his head. She began to feel uncomfortable with the way his eyes were searching her face, seeking something she couldn’t guess. Finally he responded.

“Megan… don’t you recognize me? It’s me, Charlie.” He looked at her so sadly now. “Not again,” he whispered, as though to himself. “Please not this again.”

Megan hesitated. She didn’t trust this stranger who seemed about to ruin her very expensive, very exclusive cruise to Antarctica. And yet… he did know her name. And there were the pigeons. And what seemed to be a city street, and cars, and buildings.

She looked down at her hands. They were so… old. The skin looked paper-thin. She began to feel a panic rising in her.

“Where am I?” The words that escaped her were barely audible. “What… what time is it?”

“Megan. It’s time to go home.”