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come over the day before.
    There.
    He looked for the hut. No luck. The forest was too dense.
    “Move!” Platt ordered.
    Jake felt the musket in his back again. Harder.
    SMMMMMACK!
    One of the men swatted Platt’s weapon away with his own musket. “The boy can move on his own.”
    The stranger’s hair was reddish-brown, like Jake’s. His face was intelligent and strong. Of all the men, he was the only one who looked as if he’d shaved or brushed his teeth during the last week.
    And the only one with a hint of kindness in his eyes.
    “Thanks,” Jake said softly. “I’m Jake Branford.”
    “Jedidiah Samuelson,” the man replied. “Way I see it, you’re our guest, not our prisoner. So far.”
    They were trudging over the crest now. Into the woods.
    “All right, Hobson’s Corner lad,” Schroeder said. “You lead us.”
    Oh, great.
    Just fantastic.
    You stay out of the stupid woods your whole life. And now that you have to find your home, now what?
    He looked around for some familiar road. Some sign.
    Nada.
    Just a few barely worn paths.
    Eeny, meeny, miney, mo.
    “Okay, follow me,” he said, heading for the path to his right.
    Platt ran around to the front of him. He was grinning. “Reckon you don’t know your north from your south.”
    Samuelson nudged him gently to the left.
    “I meant, that way,” Jake said.
    The men formed around him again. And they began a long, silent march.
    Maybe it was the itching, or the pain in his cheek, or the ill-fitting boots, but by the time the houses came in sight, Jake was cranky and exhausted.
    The trip had seemed long. Too long.
    They’re actors. They don’t know the woods, either.
    We probably went clear up to Delaware and back.
    But he was home.
    Finally.
    And Byron and his parents would find out everything.
    If they didn’t know already.
    If Kozaar hadn’t already contacted them.
    Quiet.
    The village was too quiet.
    No car noise. No lawn mowers. No nothing.
    Which made no sense. They were approaching School Street, near the big playground —
    Dirt.
    The road was unpaved.
    Jake looked around, bewildered.
    They’d reached a village, all right.
    But it wasn’t Hobson’s Corner.
    No streetlights. No playground. No water tower in the distance, or Kmart down the road, or World War II statue at the corner of School and Main, which would be right there —
    His thoughts suddenly stopped.
    He tried to say something, but no words came out.
    At the nearest corner to the left, where the dirt road intersected a cobblestone street, a granite post was carved with the names SCHOOL ST. and MAIN ST.
    Exactly where it should be.
    Just up Main Street was a medium-size clapboard house.
    The museum. The Overmyer Memorial Museum. Left to Hobson’s Corner by one of its founding families.
    But it was different.
    Smaller. Missing the porch and the addition on the back.
    Not to mention the brass sign on the front lawn. And the dogwood trees. And the ramp leading to the front door.
    And in the first-floor window, where the front office should have been, Jake could see … furniture. No file cabinets. No computer terminals.
    “They’re supposed to be here still,” muttered one of the soldiers, a worried-looking man with flaming red hair and freckles. He began running toward the house. “Mama? Papa?”
    “Where are you going?” Schroeder thundered.
    “My house!” the man shouted over his shoulder.
    “Overmyer, get back here!”

Is he —?
    Did they—?
    Reestablish contact immediately!

8
    R IDICULOUS.
    IMPOSSIBLE.
    But they were walking down a street called Main. With a curve just like the one in Hobson’s Corner. And cobblestones, like the ones that peeked through the worn-out blacktop back home.
    But the blacktop was gone. The sidewalks were made of brick, not cement.
    And the buildings were different.
    Smith’s Eatery. A blacksmith shop.
    The Pottery Shack. Now Central Apothecary.
    Ben’s Hardware. Hobson’s Corner Dry Goods.
    And just above Main Street, before it