The death of James Miller did not fade like a normal grief. For the town, it was a tragedy. For Robert, it was a paradigm shift. The past was no longer a static diorama he was observing; it was a live minefield, and he had just witnessed a detonation he had seen on a map long before he arrived. The "known issue" with the BT-9's wing spar was no longer a historical footnote; it was a ghost that had whispered a man's name and then taken him.
The easy rhythm of his life with Arthur and Eleanor was gone, replaced by a strained, mournful quiet. The workshop, once a sanctuary, now felt like a confessional where a terrible sin of omission had been committed. Arthur's protection felt less like a shelter and more like a leash. Every time Robert looked at him, he saw the man who had chosen his secret over a boy's life. He knew it was the only rational choice, but rationality had nothing to do with the gut-wrenching guilt that coiled in his stomach.
A week after the funeral, a different kind of tension began to prickle at the edges of the town. It started with the newspaper, but it was different from the usual reports of European tensions. This was closer to home.
NAVY WARSHIPS TO CONDUCT LIVE-FIRE EXERCISES OFF CALIFORNIA COAST
Army Air Corps Announces Largest Ever War Games in Midwest
The headlines were bold, the articles full of patriotic fervor and talk of "preparedness." But to Robert, they were not exercises. They were rehearsals. The stage was being set, the props were being wheeled into place. The quiet, puttering peace of 1935 was a thin veneer, and the machinery of the coming war was beginning to grind ominously beneath it.
He saw it in the town, too. A recruitment office opened on Main Street, its door freshly painted. A few more young men than usual were seen in crisp new uniforms, their postures a little straighter, their eyes a little brighter, unaware of the storm into which they were volunteering to march.
One afternoon, Robert was sent to the hardware store for more screws. As he walked past the recruitment office, he saw the same dark-haired, intense young soldier from Jimmy Miller's funeral. He was standing outside, not in a uniform now, but in a simple shirt and trousers, having a heated, low-voiced conversation with the recruitment officer. Robert slowed his pace, his senses heightened.
"...not good enough, Sergeant," the young man was saying, his voice tight with frustration. "Jimmy was the best of us. If that's what happens to the best in a training aircraft, what hope do the rest of us have? We need better machines. We need to know the flaws before our friends die in them."
The recruitment officer, a older, weary-looking man, spread his hands in a placating gesture. "The Army is always improving, son. It's a tragedy, but it's the cost of progress. We learn from these things."
"Learn?" the young man shot back, his voice cracking. "He's dead. That's a hell of a tuition fee."
Their eyes met for a split second across the street. The young soldier's gaze was sharp, angry, and intelligent. It was the look of a man who saw a problem and was furious that no one else seemed to be solving it. Then he turned and stalked away, his shoulders hunched against the world.
Robert stood frozen, a cold certainty washing over him. That soldier wasn't just grieving; he was questioning. He was a crack in the perfect, unquestioning facade of this time. He was looking for answers that the men of 1935 didn't have.
But Robert did.
The encounter left him deeply unsettled. The world was no longer a passive backdrop. It was reacting. Jimmy's death had created a ripple, a tiny fracture of doubt in the military machine. And that fracture was personified by a grieving, angry young soldier who was hungry for technical answers.
That night, lying in bed, Robert didn't think about the impossibility of return. He thought about the crack. He thought about the soldier's furious, searching eyes. He had tried to speak and had been silenced. But what if he didn't need to speak? What if he could write?
The idea was insane. Reckless. It made the bridge blueprint look like a child's doodle. This would be communicating directly with the US military, however anonymously. The risk was astronomical.
But the image of Jimmy Miller's coffin, of the young soldier's anguished face, wouldn't leave him. He was drowning in his knowledge, and it was starting to feel like a sin to keep it to himself.
Quietly, he slipped out of bed. He didn't light the lamp. By the faint moonlight, he took out a single sheet of paper and a pencil. His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic drum in the silent house.
He didn't write a letter. He didn't sign a name. He simply began to draw a diagram. A detailed, technical drawing of a reinforced wing spar for the BT-9, showing the precise points of stress failure and the geometric solution to counteract it. He noted the specific alloy composition that would be needed for the reinforcement, a composition that was metallurgically possible in 1935, if not yet widely used for this application. His handwriting was a careful, printed block, devoid of personality.
It was not a message from the future. It was a ghost in the machine, a solution without a source. A single, anonymous page that could be found on a desk, tacked to a bulletin board, or slipped under a door.
When he was finished, he folded the paper until it was small and thick. He hid it not under the mattress with his other secrets, but in the pocket of his new, old trousers.
He didn't know if he would ever have the courage to send it. He didn't know who he would send it to. But he had created it. He had given his knowledge a physical form. It was a tiny, dangerous act of rebellion against the crushing inertia of the past. The world was preparing for a war, and Robert Vale, the castaway, had just drafted his first, silent shot across the bow of history. The stillness was over. The fight, however secret, had begun.