The memories flashing through my mind were not my own. I recognized them, but they were not familiar; like old photographs, they were worn around the edges and the colors muted to sepia tones. It wasn't really me in any of them.
The only thing I knew for sure was the time-travel that had dumped me here had not been my idea.
The place was familiar—the musty smell of rotting hay in my grandfather's barn was one I knew no matter where, or when, I was. Sunlight streamed through the chinks between the rough boards behind me, catching the swirling dust in its rays.
Stepping out of the shadows, I realized I was not alone. A man was sprawled in one of the stalls. I edged forward quietly, though something told me he couldn't hear me. It wasn't until I was standing over his prostrate form that I understood why; two small holes pierced his shirt, oozing blood onto the bare earth below him.
My hands hit the ground with my knees; I winced against the sudden pain. Burns on my fingers were starting to blister white and throbbing. I had no idea how I'd gotten them.
No, that wasn't true. I looked back to where I'd been standing and could see the gleam of a muzzle in the dust. I'd been holding the gun. I'd been the one to pull the trigger. Twice. Heat from the old-fashioned weapon had seared my hands.I fought to remember why.