Page 4 of Time for You

He looked at her like she had grown an extra head. “ Nineteen eighty-five? No, I said eighteen eighty-five.”

Surprise made Daphne temporarily forget her Doctorsona. “Like, olden times?”

That extra head of hers was still there, judging by how he stared back. “Whatever does that mean? Are you quite all right, miss?”

“Is it not ?”

Okay then. Back to the hospital it is, Daphne thought. Out loud, she put on her brightest voice. “If you can stand up on your own, I can help you to the hospital.” She grabbed her bike—the wheel was bent, and it would need a tune-up, but it could be salvaged.

He frowned and stood, no apparent injuries other than a small scrape on the edge of his jaw, and picked up his hat.

Another glance around at the buildings had him looking even more puzzled, and then he put the damn hat on and looked both puzzled and weird.

“Is this truly what America is like?” he asked.

“Uh, yes? Don’t you have, um, buildings in Edinburgh?”

He sent her an unmistakably annoyed look. “Yes, we have buildings. But not—like this.”

Since Daphne had no idea what the city skyline of Edinburgh looked like, she couldn’t exactly refute that.

“Are you visiting?” she asked, deciding to try and suss out just how deep his confusion went, even though that women aren’t doctors thing still bothered her, concussion or no.

Hitting one’s head didn’t tend to turn a person into a misogynist—that tended to be there all along.

Then again, he also claimed to be from the 1800s, so maybe the problem was a lot bigger than a bonk on the head.

“Don’t be ridiculous. How could I be visiting?”

“So you live here?”

He sighed. “As I said, miss—”

“Doctor. Dr. Daphne Griffin,” she corrected, but he skipped right over her interruption.

“I live in Edinburgh. However I got to wherever we are, I couldn’t say.” He spun around on his heel. “Did you bring me here?”

“ Bring you? I’ve never met you. How could I have brought you here?”

Clearly, he didn’t believe her. “Miss, I insist. Undo it.”

“Undo hitting you with my bike? I’d love to, but that’s not possible.”

“Then explain how I could be in Edinburgh one minute, and in America the next.”

“You hit your head. You’ve probably got a concussion.

” Although she couldn’t remember ever seeing or hearing of a case where a concussion made someone think they were from a different century.

Usually that sort of delusion meant there was serious mental illness, brain trauma—like, the type you could see—or a tumor.

Oh god, he’s got a tumor. Hitting a man with her bike and immediately telling him he had brain cancer would be a really shit way to end the day.

Worse for him, obviously, but still, not great for Daphne, either.

“Nevertheless, I must return home. My mother and sisters will be waiting for me.”

“Please, um, sir,” she said, deciding that if she went along with his way of speaking, maybe he’d listen to her.

“The hospital is this way. We can locate your family once you’re there.

” She motioned for him to follow her, and he did, albeit hesitantly.

She walked her bike, the spokes ticking softly.

He kept stealing glances at her, his face turning a little bit redder each time.

The third time he looked at her and then immediately looked away, she snapped. “What’s the matter? Is there something wrong with me?”

If possible, he turned even more red, but he also refused to meet her eyes. “Miss, I—it’s simply that you’re wearing—would you mind? Covering up?” He gestured at her, and she looked down at herself.

Sure, her scrubs were a little ratty now, thanks to the spill she’d taken, and her hoodie had seen better days even before she ran into someone on her bike, but it wasn’t like she was naked. “Covering up?”

“You cannot be so dense. What you’re wearing? In public? It’s positively indecent. We haven’t even been introduced properly. Although with how familiar you’re being, with no chaperone, perhaps I shouldn’t be surprised.”

Indecent? Oh no, she was definitely ditching this asshole with the triage nurse, whoever that happened to be at the moment. “Yeah, well, that’s because I ran you over with my bike,” she said dryly. “And I did just tell you my name.”

“Yes, I am well aware of your claim to be a doctor .”

Daphne stopped. “What the hell is your deal?”

“Oh good, you’re foulmouthed in addition to being completely undressed in public.”

“These scrubs are what I have to wear to work because I am a doctor , so I don’t know what you expect me to do.” Daphne wasn’t sure why she was bothering, but bothering she was.

“For what purpose could you possibly be required to wear your bloomers in public?”

“Bloomers? The fuck are bloomers?”

That made him whirl around to face her. “With language like that, I’m starting to think you might not be a lady at all.”

“I’m not. I’m a doctor.”

He sighed. “That’s simply not possible.”

“Why? Because my brain is too small? My hormones will get in the way?”

“No. Because most medical colleges do not allow women to graduate. I know that for a fact.”

“You do, do you?”

“Yes. Or else my sister Anne would be attending the medical college in Edinburgh now, if they allowed women to do more than merely observe.”

It was official. This was the weirdest damn brain injury she had ever witnessed.

Or maybe it was a longer-standing delusion—after all, thinking it was 1885 would explain his clothes.

And the hat, which he was wearing like it was normal to cosplay as Abraham Goddamn Lincoln.

But Daphne had encountered a lot of patients dealing with pretty serious mental illnesses, and they didn’t usually present so rationally.

He didn’t have the typical signs he was struggling to hold on to reality.

His thoughts were coherent and consistent, except for the part where he thought it was nearly a hundred and fifty years ago.

Even tumors usually had other symptoms. The only other option was that he was extremely, extremely committed to a very weird, very annoying prank.

She was honestly hoping for the tumor, as bad as it would be, because the other option was ending up on TikTok or some shit, thanks to some dude who wanted to go viral.

“Med schools have accepted women for a long-ass time,” she replied. “It’s the goddamn twenty-first century, after all.”

Daphne had gone another ten feet before she realized he’d stopped walking. “What did you just say?” he asked.

“The twenty-first century.”

“That’s quite simply impossible.”

“Oh, is it?” she said, far more sarcastically than her Doctorsona would, since by now her Doctorsona was hanging on by a thread.

“If it were true, that would mean I had traveled through time. And we may live in an age of astonishing progress, but time travel? That’s preposterous.”

To be fair, at no point had Daphne considered that possibility. “The other option is that you hit your head very, very hard, and now are confused about what year it is, and when you’re from.” Very confused, and with clothes that match your delusion, which is also very strange, she added mentally.

“I repeat, that’s impossible. I recognize you might not be educated on the rules of physics, but—”

“For fuck’s sake, I am a doctor. ”

“Also impossible,” he replied haughtily. “Not to mention, incredibly crude.”

“Okay, you know what? Fine. Hospital’s that way. You can go or not—I don’t care.”

“Charming,” he muttered, but Daphne ignored him, deciding she’d take the light-rail back to her apartment.

A car breezed past, and she looked at him just in time to see him startle and jump several feet back.

Whatever bit this was, he was incredibly committed to it.

And the bit was oddly realistic, although her historical knowledge was mostly limited to a handful of romance novels and the Keira Knightley Pride and Prejudice .

She watched him stumble backward and trip over a small stand that held free local neighborhood flyers.

Daphne snorted to herself when he fell on his ass.

Serves him right, she thought, and turned away with just the smallest pang of guilt.

She’d taken an oath to help, after all, but then again, she couldn’t force someone to seek treatment, and if he wanted to keep pretending he was from a different century, there wasn’t much she could do.

“Miss?”

Daphne kept walking, annoyed, until he called “Miss” again. Reluctantly she stopped. “Yes?”

“What is this?” he asked, holding out the small local free paper that always showed up in their mailbox and went straight into the recycling with the junk mail. He’d gone a little pale, and that you took an oath voice got a little louder.

“A newspaper. Don’t you have newspapers wherever you’re from?”

He shot her a dirty look. “Of course I know it’s a newspaper. I meant—what is the meaning of this ?”

“The date?” she asked, looking where he pointed. “It tells you the day, date, month, and year. I guess you don’t have that back in 1885, then?”

He ignored her, a little more blood draining from his face. “Does it say—does it say the same thing to you?” Daphne confirmed it did, and then worried he might faint dead away as his complexion went grey. “Is this some sort of joke?”

“Why would it be? That’s yesterday’s date,” Daphne replied.

“You’re sure ?”

“Of course I am. I know what year it is, and I promise, it is not 1885.”

All the remaining blood left his face. He bent over, hands on his knees. You took an OATH, dammit, her conscience shouted, and she gave in. “Do you feel lightheaded?” she asked. He might be weird and rude, but she was a doctor before anything else. “Take some deep breaths. There you go.”

“I keep hoping I’m dreaming. But I’m not, am I?” he said, half to himself. He looked up at her, clearly freaked out. His shockingly blue eyes pleaded with her to assure him it wasn’t true.