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The bed is neatly made, though the comforter is too big for the single bed. The rest of the room is obscured by bookshelves, small tables, a desk; piles of LPs, CDs, tapes, books in English and Chinese, dictionaries, comic books of every variety; old clocks, framed photographs on the walls and desk, an ancient vinyl Minnie Mouse doll; a stereo system, an eight-track recording deck, notebooks, scores, bottles of ink, a few teacups. Maps of Chicago, London and Shanghai are pinned up over the bed. It’s all very tidy and dust-free, but there is an abundance that’s hard to contain in these confines.

It’s conspicuously devoid of computers. No Apple product has ever entered this room. No telephone, no television, nothing digital. Oliver’s old Eberhard wristwatch sits on the desk, its pigskin strap curved into the shape of his wrist. Next to it is a white envelope with his name written on it in Chinese characters. Oliver’s handwriting is bold, even in ballpoint pen. I look around for his wedding ring. It’s nowhere to be seen.

Oliver stands at the foot of the bed, looking intently at all this stuff, his arms wrapped across his chest, his hair dripping rain onto the carpet.

“For me?” He does not seem delighted, only confused.

“Yes,” I say.

“Why?”

“You live here, sometimes.”

“What is here?” He can’t seem to make eye contact. “Do you live here?”

“Sometimes. Not always.” I step out of the room. “It’s an in-between place. No one lives here except you, sometimes, and me, sometimes. Go ahead and get dressed, I’ll meet you in the kitchen.” I shut the door as Oliver walks to the desk and picks up the envelope.

(Oliver had a hard time writing this letter.

“What’s the problem?” I asked him as he deposited yet another draft in the wastebasket. “You’ve already read it.”

“I don’t remember it very well,” he said. “I burned it after I’d read it.”

“Burned it? That seems extreme.”

“I was worried about being followed. I was afraid government spies would read it.”

“What does it say?”

“Something like, ‘Dear Yang Qing, You are in a safe house in Chicago. The lady’s name is Alba DeTamble, she is a composer and a violinist. She will not lie to you, so be careful what you ask her. She is a time traveler. You may tell her anything you like.’ I think that was all of it. I’m worried about telling myself too much or too little.”

“Is there anything I should tell you?” I asked.

“I’ll be terrified of you. Just feed me breakfast and look benevolent. My English was quite poor then.”)

I put on yesterday’s clothes and go downstairs. By the time Oliver appears in the kitchen doorway I am frying eggs and bacon. At this age, Oliver drinks tea, not coffee, and I find a box of Earl Grey in the back of the cupboard. I set the kitchen table for two, though I’m not hungry. He’s wearing a light blue shirt, dark trousers and highly polished black shoes. He gives off the vibe of a first-time job applicant. Hopeful, nervous, clueless. I wave him into his seat at the table and place food before him. Just tea for me.

“You are not eating?”

“I’m not hungry, it’s the middle of the night.” Oliver glances at the clock on the stove, but it’s an old-fashioned dial, not digital, and I realize that he can’t read it. “It’s almost four in the morning,” I tell him.

“Oh, it’s very late,” he says.

“When are you coming from, Oliver?”

He seems startled, either by my indelicate mention of time travel or by my use of his Anglicized name, I don’t know which, maybe both. He chews and swallows bacon. “It was morning. October 14, 2044. Yesterday, a lady told me to come here.”

“That will be me.” I smile. “A long time from now.”

Oliver looks at me, surprised. Then he smiles, too. “Yes, I see!”

I hope my future self is not an unrecognizable crone.

“You are Alba?” Oliver asks me.

“Yes. Alba DeTamble.”

“This is your time?”