Finally he reached the area where the ice cream truck had been ambushed. He saw the oak trees, the bushes, the dry creek with the little bridge. He drove through the dry brush on the opposite side of the road from where the Hummer had been hiding, heading for some voluminous bushes behind a bent oak tree.

Coming around to the back of the bushes, he found he could pull the Explorer into them some distance, screening the vehicle from view on three sides. He got out and locked the doors. The ground was firm and on a slight slope, so he hoped it would be a good place for the deserted Explorer to weather the rains.

Nate stuffed the keys a short ways into the tailpipe and ran off. With his remaining time, he wanted to put some distance between himself and the Explorer, so the man he was inhabiting would not discover the SUV when he regained his senses.

Feeling rested after the drive, he started out at an ambitious sprint, feeling the texture of the dirt road through the thin soles of his shoes. Soon Nate flagged to a brisk walk, throbbing pain hammering inside his forehead. He continued forward in spite of his weariness and discomfort.

Nate was well out of sight of where he had hidden the SUV when the fringes of his vision began to darken. He became so dizzy that he had to sit down. The darkness encroached from all sides until it seemed like he was peering at the world through a narrow tube.

The world spun and he swooned, soaring up into nothingness.

Chapter Nineteen

Red

Nate came to himself seated in the overturned ice cream truck. “I’m back,” he said to the coyote. “The headache is gone—what a relief!”

“To me it seemed you never left,” the coyote said. “It happened in a twinkling. Hurry, use the red sand.”

Nate unscrewed the other end of the hourglass. “I stashed a car nearby,” Nate reported.

“Good thinking.”

“Hope it’s still there. Off I go!” He poured the sand into his mouth, swooned, and soared.

*****

Nate opened his eyes. He was lying on a couch in front of a television, head cushioned on a decorative pillow. On the TV a judge was dispensing advice to a woman with poofy red hair, who was nodding reluctantly.

Nate sat up. His arms were pudgy and he had long nails. He could feel rolls of fat on his waist and chest. He was a woman!

Hustling to the kitchen, he found a clock. Instead of numbers, it had the hours represented by different species of bird. According to the clock, it was about blue jay past goldfinch. Which meant 3:25. Daylight flooded in through the open blinds, throwing shadow stripes on the kitchen floor, so he knew it was afternoon.

Nate noticed a set of keys on the counter. He grabbed them and headed for the door, pausing to take a look at himself in the bathroom mirror. His brown hair was tied up in a scarf. The face was chubby and friendly, a woman in her forties wearing too much makeup.

One of the keys was electronic. Scuttling out the door, Nate tapped the unlock button twice. He heard the locks click inside the silver Sentra parked in the driveway. Turning in a circle, Nate recognized the neighborhood—he wasn’t far from the cemetery.

Nate tugged open the door of the car and got behind the wheel. Relieved that the car was an automatic, he started it up and backed out of the driveway. Mr. Stott had said the red sand would take him one or two days into the future. Whichever it was, at this time of day, his best bet would be Pigeon’s house. Judging from the phone call before the ambush at Gary Haag’s, Pigeon was his one friend who had not yet been captured. Hopefully that was still true.

Driving cautiously, Nate found the streets abnormally empty. He wound his way down to Mayflower and followed it to the Presidential Estates. Turning down Monroe, he parked alongside the curb where Pigeon lived.

He got out of the car and walked up to the door, fascinated by the feel of his softer, flabbier body. Nate rang the doorbell, waited, and rang it again. An old man opened the door who looked so much like Pigeon that Nate almost laughed. It had to be his grandfather, or maybe even great-grandfather.

“Can I help you?” the old man asked in a frail voice.

“I’m looking for Pigeon?” Nate said. His own voice surprised him. It was so feminine! He would have to get sprayed for cooties when he got back to normal.

The old man looked him up and down. “Do you know him?”

“Yes, this is really important.”

The old man stared at Nate suspiciously. “How do you know him?”

“He’s a really good friend of my son,” Nate tried.

“What friend?”

“Nate Sutter.”

The old man shook his head. “You’re not Nate’s mom. What is this? Who are you really?”

“Who are you?” Nate countered. “Pigeon never mentioned he had a grandpa living with him. How do you even know what Nate’s mom looks like?”

“Okay. Try this on for size. I’m Pigeon, and I’ve never met you.”

“Pigeon?” Nate said. “How far into the future did I go?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Pigeon, it’s me, Nate Sutter. Mr. Stott helped me travel into the future and I ended up in this body.”

Pigeon grinned. “No way. Prove it. What’s the name of our club?”

“The Blue Falcons.”

“What does Denny call you?”

“Dirt Face.”

The grin broadened. “Wow, Nate, good to see you.”

“What year is it?” Nate asked, wondering why none of the cars or houses looked futuristic.

“I saw you yesterday,” Pigeon said. “I was aged by magic. Come in.”

Nate entered Pigeon’s house and found a seat on a sofa. Pigeon sat down carefully in an armchair. “What happened with Mrs. White?” Nate asked.

“She did it,” Pigeon said. “She drank from the Fountain of Youth. I tried to stop her but I blew it.”

“Pidge, you have to tell me everything you know. I’m only here for a little while, then I’ll go back to yesterday. We might still be able to stop her.”

“That would be great,” Pigeon said. “Nate, it’s terrible. She’s turned into a little tyrant. Everyone who has been eating the white fudge is under her spell. Like the Sweet Teeth, but worse—they do whatever she says. My parents are actually at a special meeting down at the candy shop right now. She took over the town.”

“How old did she end up?” Nate asked.

“She looks about our age. The age we were, I mean. Ten or eleven.”

“How’d she do it?” Nate asked.