Her gaze flicked to the paper's date, and a sick feeling smacked her in the stomach.

      July 16, 1957.

      She lowered the paper and gave the woman at the mirror a furtive glance. The clothes, the passport, now this. Her mind reeled. A nagging sense of familiarity drew her eyes back to the front of the paper. Something about that date…

      But that was impossible. Nothing about this weird situation could be familiar. She’d never been to England before. She’d certainly never been to 1957 before. How could this not be a dream?

      Gripping the paper like a baton, she exited the restroom and stopped in stunned silence. Any doubts she'd had about England or 1957 evaporated faster than a drop of water on hot tarmac. Men in earth-toned suits and felt hats pushed past her, followed by women in smartly pressed floral print dresses, pastel suits and a wide range of fancy hats. Most of the women held dainty purses in gloved hands, not unlike those now clutched in hers. Not a shred of denim or a pair of sneakers in sight, not even on the children. Callie's heart pounded.

      This cannot be 1957! I have a pool party to go to tonight! And freshman orientation next month.

      Her gaze darted from one end of the corridor to the other, seeking anything that would trigger a memory of what had happened between rummaging in the attic, fighting with Leah over a shower and fainting in a London bathroom, over fifty years in the past.

      Through the windows on the opposite wall the first familiar thing caught her eye. Callie crossed the corridor, sidestepping oncoming travelers and their luggage. She pressed herself close to the glass of a tall narrow window and laughed, but tears weren’t far behind. So far, the only thing that looked familiar was the moon in the nighttime sky. Real helpful.

      She gazed out over a tranquil open-air patio dotted with large planters and benches. This had to be the terrace the woman mentioned earlier. A sizable group of people congregated among the greenery, smoking, drinking, and carrying on as if it were a party. They all seemed so…normal. Not like strangers in a dream, but real people. But it couldn’t be real. None of it.

      A loud noise broke through the revelry. Callie searched for the source. Almost in unison, the people in the garden turned to watch a small plane take to the darkened sky. Some people raised their arms to wave as the plane departed. Its engines drowned out their conversations for a few seconds, then everything went back to normal. Long after the plane had blended into the night, red and green wing lights pierced the blackness like a Christmas constellation.

      Okay, this is just insane. I do not have this level of imagination!

      To the side of the patio, one story down, small trucks and uniformed men scurried about prepping more planes for flight. She glanced at the silver watch on her wrist—another antique like everything around her. It read 8:30. She looked at the waiting plane again. The date and time flashed in her mind as if printed in a magazine. July 16, 1957. 8:30 p.m. She squeezed the newspaper in her hand as a chill ran through her. More of her missing memory was coming back!

      "Joey Tempo's plane crash," she whispered.