The door behind the secretary opened, revealing a black dressed, portly gentleman wearing an ecumenical collar. "I believe that Mrs Murphy was asking why you're looking for work, Young Man," he explained with a chuckle. His tone was jovial and there was affection as he spoke. John liked him immediately.

"I came because I need to earn some money and your lawn needs mowing," John reiterated. He was embarrassed by the sudden gurgle of his stomach; he was even more embarrassed by the pastor's knowing expression and the secretary's frown of disapproval.

The pastor only grinned and opened the door wider. "Come on back," he invited. "I think we can work something out."

Hesitantly, John followed. After a shared brunch of egg salad sandwiches, cold, bottled water and a healthy discussion about local farming practices, John set to work. To his everlasting shock and delight, the reverend attacked his own, overgrown shrubbery with a pair of hedge trimmers while John set to work tuning up the antiquated, parish push-mower.

One trip downtown with the reverend for fresh gas, oil and a spark plug later, the elderly mower chugged evenly over the shaggy lawn. By early evening, the lawn was shorn, bushes trimmed and the flower bed neatly groomed. The pastor gave John twenty dollars and an invitation to dinner.

Over warmed-over casserole, the pastor explained that the egg salad of earlier had been made out of left-over deviled eggs from the same brunch that had yielded their dinner. Twice each month, the church held a potluck luncheon in order to draw the community together. "After all," explained the pastor, Reverend James, "how can you know to help your neighbor if you don't even know your neighbor?"

John grinned. The good reverend had a point. Helping others in need was supposed to be the hallmark of any Christian. "Rev James," he blurted out, "I don't mean to be rude or ungrateful, but can I have one of the pew Bibles as payment instead of the money you gave me?" He laid the cash on the table between them.

"You don't have one?" asked the astonished pastor. "You're so knowledgeable . . ."

John interrupted quietly. "I don't have anything, Sir." He went on to discreetly explain that he'd lost his job and then his home, leaving out most of the circumstances behind those events. "I don't have anywhere to go, and I couldn't take anything with me when I left," he finished, and pointed at the embarrassing backpack. "It was a gift from some well-meaning strangers, but there's nothing in it."

Reverend James laughed heartily. "I can see why! Let's wash up these few dishes and I can help you out with that."

"Sir, you . . ." John started to protest as he ran the sink in order to get the water hot.

"I have an old knapsack in the closet and a grandson that likes 'Power Rangers'," interrupted Rev James right back. "Even trade, and since the church often hosts guest speakers overnight, I keep essentials on hand." Not to be argued with, Reverend James made good on his promise.

John left that evening with the requested Bible, a new toothbrush, toothpaste, bar of soap, hand towel, wash cloth, comb, and a bar of deodorant. John was grateful. The reverend had even given John his old scouting canteen full of water.

The weather was warm, the sky clear. It was a peaceful night as John headed out of town to find a protected spot to fall asleep. Less than a mile from the last street light, John found a relatively decent-sized hay field that had yet to be cut. Not too far in, John found a depression in the ground where the soil was soft. He stretched himself out in the sweet-smelling grass and made himself comfortable. It had been a good day, he decided, and relaxed in prayer, thanking God for his backpack full of blessings.

John woke up underwater. He tried to swim up, but each foot and wrist had been tied by lengths of cord to something he couldn't see in the dark and wasn't strong enough to pull up.

God, help!

John struggled frantically to free himself. The pressure of panic and the need for air built in his chest. John felt himself start to weaken. I'm coming, Father. Soon, I'll be Home. He felt relaxed and at peace. John stopped struggling.

Just then, a muffled splash and accompanying rush of bubbles drew John's meager attention to someone who'd dove into the water. John caught sight of someone swimming down toward him in the darkness. Just as John was about to black out entirely, the other person shoved his fingers into John's mouth. All went dark.

John woke up again with a gasp, as if struggling for a breath that didn't mind coming. When he became aware of his surroundings, it was to find himself high in the air, sitting on the limb of a towering buckeye tree. Straddling the branch beside him, the hamburger guy- Eldred- balanced both himself and John in the tree, preventing John from falling.

"Take it easy, John," Eldred murmured. "You're safe now. That was close!" He relaxed his hold a little. John swayed but adjusted. "You got it?" the man asked of John's balance.

There had been a couple of gnarled old pines out behind the garage when John had been a boy.  John nodded; climbing trees wasn't anything he couldn't handle. Eldred let go, so John headed downward.

Buckeye trees, he discovered, were slicker than pines; they were easier to get out of, than into. John slipped, landed on the ground with an 'oof' and scrambled to his feet. Art had said to stay away from Eldred and to John, that seemed like a mighty good piece of advice just then.

"John, wait!" urged Eldred quietly, but John kept going. He hadn't taken more than ten paces before Eldred knocked him flat on his face in a flying tackle. John 'oofed' again and laid still, trying to recover the wind that had been knocked out of him.

Laying atop John, Eldred spoke in his ear, as if he didn't want to be overheard. "The year is 1747 and we are the only two non-native men in the entire territory. We are breaking a treaty with around seven tribes, just by being here. If one of them happens to see us, we will both be killed. Do you understand what I'm telling you?"

John's 'yes' was muffled by the grass under his face.

"I am not trying to harm you, but I can understand why you might be afraid of me," Eldred continued slowly, making every syllable distinct as if trying to calm a frightened horse. "Please come back to the tree?"

John nodded, so Eldred let him up. Together, they returned to the base of the tree, where the dirt had formed a kind of bank there. Seated with their backs against the bank, John knew he and Eldred would be difficult to spot.

Eldred didn't say a word, just sat and allowed John to think. "How did I get here?" John finally asked.

"I didn't have time to cut the ropes before you would have drowned, so I jumped us."

"How did you know?"

"Long story short?" At John's tired nod, Eldred said simply, "I can track your jumps."

"I don't understand any of this," John confessed, feeling confused and frightened. He was also exhausted. John woke up every morning feeling as if he'd just gone to sleep, since the start of his adventure.

"I'm so sorry about all of this, John. I should have found a way to introduce myself four days ago, no matter how hard it was to get Reggie away from you!" Eldred stuck out a hand for John to shake. "Matthew Arnold Eldred, Department of Timeline Defense."

John started laughing. He couldn't help it; all he could think of was an old movie so bad that it was funny, twenty years after its debut. Thinking of the pre-statehood time period and the natives of the area, John tried to muffle his laughter the best he could. "A timecop?" he finally managed, and laughed again.

"Call me Matt," Eldred suggested in dry tones. "I don't do martial arts."

"You saw it?" John muffled his laughter into a snort of amusement.

Even Matt chuckled. "It was pretty bad," he admitted. "You can't talk to your future-or past- self because you are the only you, obviously." He waited until John was composed before he continued. "Look, I know you're confused about a lot of things. This whole mess has gotten way out of hand but with your help, I think we can stop it."

John thought about the van he shouldn't have gotten into and his conversation with Art. "I was told you're the one at fault for all of this." He fished out his canteen. By habit, John prayed silently, asking God to bless the contents of the canteen to his and Matt's bodies, and them both to His service before he drank, and then handed Matt his canteen.

Matt took a long drink and sighed. "Thanks; it's been a long two days. Archie would say that." John watched him pinch the bridge of his nose and sigh. In his late twenties, Matt could have passed for a college student himself. "We used to be friends, me and Arch."

"Archie? You mean Art?"

"Is that what he's going by here? Yeah, then Art." Matt fell silent for a moment and John could feel his sadness. "I was trying to protect you, the other night," he finally offered, "and that was a really good burger you made me. I'm sorry I didn't know he'd already got you. We found a couple of nanites on your toothbrush. The college really does need better security!"

John didn't bother to nod. Campus security was notoriously lax and had been for decades before John started attending. "Why me, though?" he asked.

"I'm not supposed to tell you."

"Why not?"

You know all those names in the history books? Matt asked. John nodded. "Caesar Augustus, Genghis Khan, Adolph Hitler, Queen Elizabeth, Ronald Reagan, Andrea Amasai . . ."

"Who?"

"Oops! Too far." Matt grinned and winked. "All of those people had . . . have one thing in common; someone else inspired them, either for greatness or notoriety. Art decided that, in order to change history, since we won't allow him to change the person he wants to take out, he's going to take out the inspiration."

He sighed again. "He's brilliant, really. I just wish he'd have stayed on our side. We stopped him from taking out the direct inspiration, so he's gone after the source of the waterfall."

"Am I that source?" John couldn't help the disbelief that colored his voice. He wasn't anything, really, just a guy struggling through the college his family couldn't afford to pay for.

Matt nodded, confirming what John had said in jest. "I'm not allowed to say how, exactly, but I've seen your character. You inspire others to be better people." He chuckled wryly. "Like Daniel and Cathleen, and Reggie, and dare I say, Mrs. Murphy?"

John scoffed. "I don't see it."

"You wouldn't, because you don't see the long-term response. Mrs. Murphy, after meeting you . . ."

"Following Rev James' example, more like," cut in John.

"There's a memoir she writes near the end of her life, where she speaks of you. She spends the rest of her life trying to make up for the unchristian response she had to your hunger, especially after she went home for the day. You were careful not to blow grass on her car."

John shrugged. "It was common courtesy; easy enough with a push mower. I didn't blow grass into the shrubs or flower beds, either."

Matt ignored his protest. "And that girl you sent home from work the other night? She works hard because of your kindness and ends up owning the store one day."