All through the next day, the unease of my dream sat with me.
I couldn't focus on whatever Nida was trying to tell me about the dire threat to her garden and its noble purpose.
We were riding giant machines across a landscape her people had managed to launch into the void, and still I was fretting over some occultist's scheme from thousands of years gone.
I couldn't be sure it was just a dream anymore.
I'd returned to that man's skin twice now, seen the light of another time through his eyes.
His life seemed no more remote, no less my own than the one I'd lived by the Río de los Americanos.
Which of these men was I?
Both?
Neither?
Had I really been dragged back from oblivion to fight for the people of this undreamt-of future?
Was I damned to skip like a stone across history for my barely-remembered mortal sins?