She looks at him for a long moment, so long that it’s awkward, but he’s watching her too. I get a chill up my spine. “I have to go now,” she says. She sounds wistful. “But my name is Quinn.” “I’m Nick,” the boy replies. I glance at the mailbox. Reilly, it says. Like Luna Reilly, the time traveler who tried to fight off Coron in 1918 and died for it. My hands grip the steering wheel. I want to tell myself it isn’t possible. But as I look at the two of them there, my daughter and this little boy, so spellbound by each other, I know what I’m seeing. Two of the first families in my daughter, and—I
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