The old man has mastered the art of parallel living: he is ten years old in the droning heat of July 1940, as he waits under the 'Don't Walk' sign. He knows all about time travel, how to portal between the checkout counter at Walmart and the fishing boat his father ran on the coastal waterway. The tremor you see on his lip is what's left of the joke he told his friends on the riverbank that afternoon in '48. They were bronzed from the summer's days, butting each other like goats, hard of muscle, careless in their daring. They looked no farther than tomorrow, could not imagine a day when kneeling to tie a shoe required some planning. The hands that clutch the wheelchair's rims are calloused, blue-veined and brown. The eyes squint against the long, slow sun. 'Don't Walk' says the sign.