I couldn’t get that old guy with the paintings out of my head or the whole dream thing. I’d been awake this time. Maybe Sarah was right; maybe I was having seizures or something. There was a scritchy-screechy feeling in my head like nails raking my brain. I told myself to calm down, take it easy, but I also knew that I had not imagined being drawn, and I wasn’t daydreaming. It was time travel all over again, just like the barn, and it started at the threshold to the old guy’s room.... No, correction: it really got going when I got a look at those paintings. After an hour of clearing dinner trays and settling people into rooms, Peggy said, “Would you help Mr. Nelson down to the activities room for the art class? I’m going to take a smoke break.” The activities room was set up with about twenty easels. The teacher looked up as I wheeled in Mr. Nelson and pointed me to an empty spot. A rectangle of drawing paper was clipped to the easel: a shaky, half-finished Japanese-style wash of bamboo and some kind of attempt at a bird.
