The councilman's visit cast a long, cold shadow over the workshop. Arthur's decree of absolute anonymity became the new, unbreakable law of the house. The radio, once a source of wonder, was now listened to only at a low volume, its voices a murmured secret. The newspaper was read and then quickly folded away, its dire headlines treated like a chronic illness best not discussed.
Robert embraced the new austerity with a desperate fervor. He became a master of the mundane. His world shrank to the grain of the wood, the sharpness of a chisel, the perfect ninety-degree angle. He spoke only when spoken to, and his answers were short, practical, and devoid of any hint of insight. He was sanding down his own personality, smoothing away every rough edge that might catch the light and draw attention.
He was helping Arthur build a simple, sturdy bookcase for the local schoolhouse, a project so bland and unremarkable it was the perfect embodiment of their new philosophy. They worked in a companionable, focused silence, the only sounds the rasp of the saw and the rhythmic tap-tap of the hammer.
It was into this quiet bubble that the sound of frantic footsteps and a panicked voice shattered the afternoon.
"Arthur! Mr. Henderson!"
A young boy, Tommy Henderson from next door, skidded to a halt in the workshop doorway, his face pale, his chest heaving. "It's Jimmy! Jimmy Miller! He's home! He's… he's hurt!"
The name hit Robert like a physical blow. James Miller. The West Point graduate from the newspaper. The future ghost.
Arthur dropped his hammer. "Hurt? How? What happened?"
"It was at the airfield!" Tommy gasped, fighting for breath. "Over in Johnson County. He was home on leave, showing off in one of the new Army planes. There was… there was an accident. They brought him back to his folks' place. Ma says… Ma says he might not make it."
The world seemed to slow down, the dust motes hanging frozen in the shafts of sunlight. Arthur was already moving, pulling off his apron. "Ellie!" he shouted towards the house. "It's Jimmy Miller! I'm going over there!"
Robert stood rooted to the spot, his blood turned to ice. An accident. An Army plane. His mind, the mind he had been trying so hard to quiet, erupted with a cascade of horrific, specific knowledge. He knew the primary training aircraft of this era. The BT-9, the PT-13. He knew their common failure points. A structural weakness in the BT-9's wing spar that could lead to failure during aggressive maneuvers. A fuel line issue in the PT-13 that could cause engine failure on takeoff. He knew the statistics, the reports he'd read as historical footnotes.
He knew, with a chilling, surgical precision, what might have gone wrong in that cockpit.
"Robert?" Arthur's voice was sharp, already at the door. "You coming?"
He looked at Arthur, then down at his hands, still holding a wooden dowel he was about to glue. He saw the smooth, anonymous bookcase, the embodiment of his safe, small life. He saw the terrified face of young Tommy.
And he saw, in his mind's eye, the grainy newspaper photograph of a proud young man in a uniform, a man whose death he had already mourned.
"I…" The word caught in his throat. Arthur's rule was absolute. No more ideas. No more fixes. We are just carpenters.
But this wasn't a bridge or a radio. This was a life. A life that, in his timeline, had years left before it was extinguished over Germany. A life that was now flickering out decades too soon because of a stupid, preventable accident.
The two futures warred within him. The safe, anonymous existence Arthur had carved out for them, a life of quiet despair but guaranteed survival. Or the risk, the catastrophic, world-shattering risk of trying to intervene.
"Robert!" Arthur barked, his impatience warring with the fear in his eyes. He knew. He knew the battle raging inside the young man from the future.
With a shuddering gasp, Robert made his choice.
He dropped the dowel. It clattered to the floor, a tiny, insignificant sound.
"His plane," Robert said, his voice low and urgent, grabbing Arthur's arm. "Arthur, I need to know what kind of plane it was."
Arthur stared at him, horrified. "What? What does that matter?"
"It matters!" Robert's voice rose, desperate. "If it was a BT-9, it could be the wing spar! They can reinforce it! If it's a fuel line, they can check the others! They can ground the fleet before it happens again! We have to tell them!"
"Have you lost your mind?" Arthur hissed, pulling his arm away and glancing furtively towards the street. "You want to walk into that house of grief and start spouting… spouting your… your future-talk about wing spars? They'll lock you up! They'll come for me! For Ellie!"
"It's Jimmy Miller, Arthur!" Robert pleaded, his eyes burning. "The boy from the store! He's not supposed to die today! I know he's not!"
The use of the word "know" hung in the air between them, a declaration of impossible certainty. Arthur's face was a mask of anguish, torn between his protective instinct and the raw, desperate conviction in Robert's eyes.
The choice was no longer Robert's alone. He had thrown the dice, but it was Arthur who would have to decide if they would be cast.
Arthur looked from Robert's frantic face towards the direction of the Miller house, where a real tragedy was unfolding. He closed his eyes for a long moment, his own internal war written in the deep lines on his forehead.
When he opened them, the decision was made. His expression was grim, resigned, and filled with a terrible sorrow.
"We are carpenters, Robert," he said, his voice flat and final. He turned and walked out of the workshop, heading towards the tragedy next door, leaving Robert alone amidst the sawdust and the silence.
Robert stood there, the truth a scream trapped in his throat. He had chosen to try and save a life. Arthur had chosen to save their own. And in the terrible, echoing stillness of the workshop, Robert understood the true cost of his exile. It wasn't just about losing his future. It was about being forced to stand by and watch the past unfold in all its cruel, preventable tragedy, his hands tied by the very knowledge that could have changed it. The storm wasn't just coming; it was here, and it had claimed its first victim.