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Well, that was weird.

Instead of the Avenue M stop, the next dot on the subway map read—

"Eighteenth Street!" the conductor called out.

The train lumbered to a stop, and the lights cut out. Such things happened all the time. People always bitched about it. Preston had hoped to capture audio of passenger voices, but the train was silent. He flicked on his phone's flashlight and trained the beam on the map.

There—right there—was a strange 18th Street stop in the middle of the Q yellow line. A stop that shouldn't be. As far as he knew, the only operational 18th Street stop in the entire MTA system was on the 1, 2, 3 red line on the west side.

The lights of the subway car flared on again.

Back to normal—

Only, the train felt different under his butt. It looked shabbier too. Preston had rolled out of Coney Island aboard a Kawasaki car built in the 1980s. But this old car—this beautiful old monstrosity—had to be a Redbird. But—it couldn't be. The city's original Redbird fleet had been retired back in 2002, buried at sea to build an artificial reef for marine life.

Preston craned his head. Wait. What was the deal here?

Not a single person in the car was looking at a smartphone. A few had—Blackberries. If anyone was listening to music, they wore giant honking headphones connected to portable CD players, or else dopey-looking mp3 players. A guy to this left read a newspaper whose headlines announced that the Bush-Gore election would be decided by the Supreme Court.

What was this?

The doors opened. In came a fresh crowd. His eyes went immediately to a lovey-dovey Black couple who entered, entwined in each other arms. They grabbed a seat and nestled so far into each other that they made Preston uncomfortable.

The doors closed. The train rolled on.

"Twenty-Third Street, next stop," called the conductor. "Twenty-Third Street, next stop!"

What had caught Preston's eye was the fact that the girl across from him bore a striking resemblance to his sister. Only it wasn't Francey. This girl wore a light windbreaker over her teal scrubs. She threw one of her legs over the leg of the man beside him, snuggling closer. The man wore a flashy suit and a fedora that must have cost more than any hat worn by any other man on the train. When their lips locked, Preston knew—

Whoa—

He was looking at his parents in the days before they became his parents. They were young again.

Preston checked the Casio F-91W on his wrist. Then his phone. Both said the date was December 2, 2024. I am in the right time, he told himself, but this is not the right time.

His father leaned over and cooed something into his mother's ears. She swooned.

Mom, Preston wanted to scream, don't listen to a word he says!