In my whole life, I was to meet the Time Traveler three times.

The first: at sunset.

The second: afternoon.

The third: at dawn.

Of course, I only have a dim handle on what happened the first time; if there is anything I am sure of, it is that it was a few months after the Crash of '29 and a year after my father left.

The second time, I was in the woods of the Ardennes region of Wallonia in Belgium, France, in the midst of a surprise attack that nearly cost me my life.

The third time, I was only a few kilometers from where I had first met him. That was the only instance I knew enough to ask him if he was a ghost or an angel, and if he had a name.

"Sir," he said. "I haven't the slightest clue."

And I never saw him again.