"You'll find everything you ever wanted to know about the New Jersey Devil in our folklore section in the east wing." She handed the girl a flyer. "Our map will help you find the right section." The girl scurried off with her mother, a woman who was obviously at the end of her summer-with-kids rope. It happened every year like clockwork. Only the most dedicated researchers visited the historical society from June to August 15th then bam! Parent after parent trooped their offspring through the Society's hallowed halls in an attempt to amuse children who had overdosed on summer fun. As far as Dakota was concerned, you didn't need to be psychic to recognize a lost cause when you saw it. You either loved history or you didn't. For some people the sweep and romance of the past was as dead as yesterday's newspapers. They didn't hear the music or feel the passion or understand the fluid nature of time itself. Dakota did. For her the past, especially the Revolutionary War past, lived side by side with the present, turning her days into a rich blend of what was and what had been.
