Okay, I thought to myself. Get a freaking grip, here. You’re here to help her, not date her. I took a deep breath, exhaled slowly, and told myself I was ready. No more distractions.

One glance at her, and I had to ask just how successfully I could deceive myself.

“Well,” she said, “where should we begin?”

“Good question. Let’s see…” I started looking at the boxes. I’m guessing these are organized by jump, rather than by date, am I right?”

“Yes,” she said, walking up to my shelf. “I find it helps if I keep all the memories of my current host, and just hold the most important memories of prior lives.”

“Okay, that makes our work a little easier, since we can pretty much be assured that my life won’t hold any secrets of yours.” I looked at the next shelf. “So, let me see…” I pulled down the box marked ‘Eastey, Mary’.

“No, wait!” she cried. But not soon enough. I pulled the lid off the box, and was transported back to Salem, September 22, 1692.

The day Mary Eastey was hanged.