I hear in the rail. Yes?”

Clayton’s whole weight forced him to the track. It hammered, and if the blows came from the earth or sky, his heart could not tell. For it was hurrying, rushing, hurling itself in great thunders that racked his body or his chest. Eyes shut, he whispered: “July thirteenth, 1998.”

“Now,” said Gomez, head down, eyes tight, smiling. “Now I know what year I live in. Brave Gomez. Go, señor.”
“I can’t leave you here.”

“I am not here,” said Gomez. “Your year arrives this day in July, I cannot stop it. But Gomez is where? Cinco de Mayo, 1932, a good year! They may come, but I am hidden where they will never think to look. Go. ¡Andale!”

Clayton stood up and looked at Gomez, whose head lay hard on the rail.
“Señor Gomez …”

“He has long departed. Go with God,” came the voice at his feet.
“I beg you,” said Clayton.

“Where all is emptiness,” said Gomez’s voice, “there is room to move. When you are gone, I will move swiftly.”
Clayton got in his Jeep and gunned the motor and began to drift away.

“Gomez,” he called quietly.

But there was just a body on the rail and much room. Seeking to hide in other years, Gomez had simply … moved.

Clayton drove out of town ahead of the thunders.

The end