An e-mail arrived three days later.

Nate pushed away from the computer screen. He ran his fingers through his hair. Henry peered over Nate's shoulder, his scalp reddening as his eyes scanned the screen.

"Frauds?" said Henry, his voice rising an octave. "We're not frauds." He raised an eyebrow, "Thieves, maybe…."

Nate pursed his lips. He swiveled in his chair. When he spoke, his words were slow and low.

"What we are is in trouble," he said. "I met old biddy Houghnagle a few years ago. When her voice shrieks, the antique community listens. If she says we're selling fakes — we're finished. Damn, just when we're starting to clean up. We've got to do something — and quick."

"Do something? Like what? Bring Lincoln back to say it's his stuff — and we stole it?"

Nate's eyes widened. His lips slowly curved upward. He slipped his hand over the silver time box and raised it to eye level.

"No," he said. "Lincoln doesn't need to come here — but ol' lady Houghnagle does… and here's how we make that happen."

Nate put his hand on the mouse and clicked the Reply button.

---

Two mornings later, dawn filtered into N&H Collectibles. At the back of the shop, Henry, dressed in jeans and cardigan sweater, pecked at the keyboard. "Whoa," he shouted. "Nate, check out what we're getting for the Hemingway stuff."

Cell phone next to his ear, Nate leaned over and looked at the eBay auction results. His voice crinkled into the phone.

"Hey sweetie," he said. "Remember those Nike's the boys have been begging us for. I'm buying them tonight."

He paused to listen.

"No, don't worry about bills, business is picking up. I really want to get something for the kids that doesn't come from the Salvation Army."

Outside, a silver tipped cane rapped on the door to the shop.

Nate covered the receiver with his hand and shouted, "Not open yet, come back at nine."

The rapping grew harder, rattling the doorframe and threatening to shatter the thin, aged panes of glass.

"Okay, okay," yelled Nate. "Sweetie," he said into the phone, "got a customer — call you later." Nate shuffled to the front door and tugged it open.

"Can't this wait until …" he started to say.

A tall, white haired woman stormed into the store. She had a long, thin nose, wire framed glasses and hair pulled so severely into a bun the skin at her temples stretched to the point of being transparent. She wore a starched, high-necked, white button shirt, a floor length, pleated black skirt and a perfectly pressed, dark wool jacket.

"No, Mr. Renfrow," she said with irritation — and a hint of money — in her voice. "This cannot wait." With her left hand, she pounded the tip of her cane on the worn and dusty wooden floor of the shop; with her right hand, she waved a piece of paper under Nate's nose.

Nate plucked the sheet from her hand, glanced at it, then showed his teeth.

"My response. I give good e-mail, don't you think, Mrs. Houghnagle? And please, call me Nate."

She snatched the e-mail back. "Of all the impertinence! Suggesting you're the real Lincoln expert. Saying my knowledge is limited and second hand. Who do you think you are?"

"Someone who knows better," he answered, shrugging his shoulders. "And, I can prove it."

While she glared, Nate scooted to the back of the store, retrieved the silver box, and slipped on his overcoat.

"What are you doing?" Henry whispered. "I thought you were going to show her the Lincoln stuff."

"I am — in person."

"What? You can't take her back and forth through time," said Henry.

"Why not?" answered Nate. "And who said anything about 'forth?'"

Henry blinked rapidly. "But, that would be…I dunno, murder?"

"More like kidnapping — but if we can't convince her, it may be the only way. C'mon — you're coming too."

With Henry in tow, Nate approached Mrs. Houghnagle.

"Well?" she said, hand extended. "Where's your proof?"

Nate smiled. Silently, he flipped opened the silver box, then extracted three pellets from his pocket. He tossed one to Henry and pressed one into Mrs. Houghnagle's palm.

"Here it is," he said.

Mrs. Houghnagle glared at the object in her hand. She wrapped her fist around it and shook it under Nate's nose.

"Have you gone mad," said Mrs. Houghnagle. The pellet grew warm. She paused, opened her palm, sniffed.

"Oranges?" she said.

Nate set a dial on the time box and pressed three translucent blinking buttons.

---

The air shimmered. Colored dots appeared, thickened, merged. Pink and ivory splotches formed, swirled, blended. The colors darkened, shapes with texture appeared. Hair, bodies, clothes.

 

Nate, Henry, and Mrs. Houghnagle

Mrs. Houghnagle's knees buckled. Nate wrapped an arm around her to keep her from falling. Henry removed his sweater, placed it in the shade of a gnarled oak tree, and assisted her to the ground.

"Happened to me too, the first time I traveled through time," said Nate. "The dizziness will fade in a minute or two."

She fanned herself. "You expect me to believe we've traveled through time?" she said.

"I don't expect you to believe anything I tell you," said Nate. "But, I do expect you'll believe your senses."

She took a deep breath. The air smelled clean. A cool, autumn day. Yellow, orange and rust colored leaves flitted across a weather beaten dirt road. A horse and wagon rolled past, followed by men on horseback. In the distance was a town. All the buildings were frame and painted white, yellow and shades of brown — none taller than two stories, many surrounded by white picket fences. Railroad tracks touched the edge of the town.

Mrs. Houghnagle blinked, focused her vision, "No cars, no lights, no electric lines, and the clothes on the people…" she said — with wonder in her voice. "Late 1840's?"

"Right close," said Nate. "You know your history."

The sides of her mouth tipped upwards. "That's one reason I'm successful."

She scanned the countryside again, shook her head. "But how?" she asked. "Why?"

Nate showed her the silver box. "This box, these blinking lights and…," he retrieved the pellet still clasped in her hand, "these activated time capsules are the 'How.' The 'Why" is to prove our Lincoln items are authentic — and we're not frauds."

Nate slipped the box and pellet into the inner pocket of his coat.