Duwan Parker kept his head down as he moved through the crowded hallway, hugging his notebooks to his chest the way a soldier might brace a shield. He'd filled those notebooks with map sketches, troop movements, and historical notes he didn't trust to any app. It made him stand out like a lighthouse in a sea of teenagers who wanted anything except attention.
"Yo, Museum Boy," someone called behind him. "You gonna draw another war no one cares about?"
He ignored it—he always ignored it. Attention was an invitation, and invitations got you stomped.
A hand smacked his notebook out of his grip. Papers scattered like panicked birds across the tile. The laughter hit next.
Duwan froze. Heat crawled across his neck. He let out a slow breath, crouched, and gathered his papers. He didn't look up. The last page to pick up was his favorite—a careful sketch of Fort McHenry as it looked in 1812. The flag. The guns. The ramparts.
He whispered to himself, "They held the line."
Someone kicked the back of his shoe. "Say something, nerd."
Duwan stayed quiet, tucking the drawing between the pages of his history book. Let them think he was harmless. Invisible. He'd learned long ago that being the smart Black kid in school didn't get him praise—it just made him a target.
He slipped away as the bell rang, heading not to class but to the only place he knew he'd be safe—the library.
The sharp smell of old pages wrapped around him as he entered. He always relaxed here, like stepping through a doorway into another century. He slid into his usual seat behind the tall shelf labeled "Early American History," cracked open his book, and let himself sink into it.
The War of 1812 began with scattered militias, undertrained officers, and an overconfident Congress…
He smiled faintly. Everyone else thought the War of 1812 was boring. A footnote. A bump between the Revolution and the Civil War. Not him. It was messy and brutal and uncertain—full of disasters barely avoided and victories earned by scraps.
He traced a finger along a map of the Chesapeake Bay. "If they'd fortified the northern approach sooner…" he whispered, finishing the thought like the answer to a math problem.
The words died as he heard footsteps. He tensed—but it was only Ms. Ruiz, the librarian.
"Back to your battles, Duwan?" she asked warmly.
"Yeah. Just…reading."
"You know," she said, "most kids your age are into TikTok challenges."
He shrugged. "History's cooler."
She smiled, gave him a knowing nod, and moved on.
He flipped to a page he'd read so many times the corners were worn. The British fleet, after raiding along the coast, began preparations for a major assault—
The letters on the page blurred for a moment. Duwan blinked. The room seemed to tilt. He put a hand on the table to steady himself.
"…what the—"
His heartbeat thudded in his ears. The fluorescent lights above flickered sharply, humming louder, brighter. A strange surge crawled up his spine like electricity.
Then came the sound.
A deep, thunderous boom.
He jerked his head up.
The library was gone.
No shelves. No books. No lights.
Just smoke. Thick, acrid, clinging to his throat. The ground beneath him wasn't tile—it was dirt. Cold, uneven, damp. His fingers brushed rough cloth—not his hoodie, but a heavy linen shirt. His shoes were gone; his feet were wrapped in worn, stiff leather.
"What—where—"
Shouts echoed nearby. Not school kids. Men's voices. Grown, harsh, urgent.
"Get that rigging secured!"
"Move the barrels! We need powder by dawn!"
A hammer rang against metal. The sharp scent of tar filled his lungs. He spun around, heart racing.
He was standing at the edge of a bustling harbor. Wooden masts rose high above him like some forest of dead trees. Workers hauled crates. Sailors shouted orders. Horses clopped along muddy streets. The buildings around him were low and cramped, made of brick and wood, smoke curling from chimneys.
It was Baltimore.
But not the Baltimore he knew.
This was Baltimore from his books—raw, loud, chaotic, alive.
He stumbled back, trying to catch his breath. He stared down at his hands.
Hands darker. Rougher. Calloused. Older than sixteen but not by much. Someone else's hands.
Footsteps approached. A boy, maybe thirteen, with the same skin tone and simple clothes, jogged toward him. "Nathan! You deaf or somethin'? Mr. Cooper said we gotta finish loading the crates!"
Duwan blinked. "Nathan?"
"That's your name," the boy said slowly, giving him a look. "C'mon, we ain't got all day."
Duwan stared at him, at the harbor, at the world around him. Everything was too sharp, too real.
This wasn't a dream.
This wasn't a fantasy.
This was 1812.
The boy—apparently his brother? coworker?—grabbed his sleeve. "We gotta move, Nathan. British ships were seen near the coast. Folks say war's comin' for real."
War.
The word punched through his dizziness and snapped him into a kind of terrified clarity.
I know this year. I know what's coming. I know these battles. I know how this plays out.
But this wasn't a test. This wasn't a map. This was life and breath and fear and dirt under his nails.
The boy tugged him again. "Nathan! What's wrong with you?"
Duwan swallowed hard.
He didn't know who Nathan was. He didn't know this boy. He didn't know why he was here.
But he knew the War of 1812 was about to explode—and he was standing at the epicenter.
He took a shaky breath.
"I'm…" he began, the words catching in his throat. "I'm coming."
As he followed the boy into the chaos of the harbor, one truth settled over him with the weight of a cannonball:
He had spent his life studying history.
Now he had to survive it.
Duwan followed the younger boy—apparently "Nathan's" brother—down the muddy street toward a row of stacked crates near the harbor. Every few steps he stumbled, unused to the strange leather shoes on his feet and the uneven ground beneath them.
He tried to breathe normally, but the smell of tar and seawater and livestock clashed hard with the sterile scent of school hallways still clinging to his mind.
Okay. Think.
You're in Baltimore. 1812. War about to start. You need to blend in until you understand what's going on.
The boy stopped near a stack of barrels. "You gonna help or not, Nathan?"
Right. Nathan. That was him now.
"Yeah," Duwan said quickly. "Yeah, I—I'm here."
The boy raised an eyebrow. "You sure? You look kinda sick."
"I'm fine," Duwan lied.
He reached for the nearest barrel, nearly buckling under its weight. The boy snorted. "You okay? You act like you never carried one of these before."
Probably because I haven't, he thought. At least…not in this life.
He steadied himself, gritting his teeth, and rolled the barrel into place. The boy nodded approvingly.
"You better get your head straight," the boy said. "Mr. Cooper's in a mood today."
Duwan swallowed. "Who's—"
But he didn't get to finish. A loud voice boomed:
"NATHAN! JOSIAH! Move faster unless you want the dockmaster chewing your ears off!"
A man with a thick beard, rolled-up sleeves, and arms like tree trunks strode toward them. Mr. Cooper, Duwan guessed. He looked Duwan up and down with irritation.
"You're movin' slow, boy. Sick, are you?"
Duwan froze. A wrong answer could get him beaten…or worse.
But before he could speak, a shout rang out from further up the docks:
"Mr. Cooper! British schooner spotted near the mouth of the Bay!"
The man stiffened. Workers murmured. Sailors grabbed ropes, hooks, anything that could be used in a hurry.
The younger boy—Josiah—whispered, "Thought they were still scouting the coast…"
Duwan's heart kicked hard.
This is early. Too early. That means trouble.
He scanned the harbor instinctively. Men moved crates randomly, blocking paths. The softer barrels of pitch were stacked near the front where sparks from the blacksmith could hit them. The dock's narrow walkway was jammed—if the British attacked or if soldiers came rushing through, people could be crushed or trapped.
His brain went into the same mode it did during his daydream strategy sessions.
He stepped forward before he knew he was doing it.
"Sir," he said to Mr. Cooper.
The man shot him a glare. "What now, Nathan?"
Duwan took a breath, steadying his voice. "You should move the pitch barrels to the shaded side by the stone wall. If they heat up or get hit by sparks, they could ignite. And the walkway—people can't get through. If militia come running or if there's an alarm, they'll get bottlenecked and someone will fall into the water."
Silence.
Mr. Cooper stared at him like he'd grown an extra head.
Workers slowed, listening.
Duwan felt heat rise in his cheeks. Maybe he'd said too much. Maybe he sounded strange—too strange for an 1812 dockhand.
Josiah blinked at him. "How'd you think of all that?"
Duwan shrugged, trying to look casual despite his pounding heart. "It just…makes sense, sir."
But instead of anger, Mr. Cooper gave a low grunt. "Boy's right."
He pointed sharply. "Move the pitch barrels to the stone wall! Clear that walkway! Any man blocking it'll be swimmin' home!"
The workers jumped to obey.
Josiah stared at Duwan like he'd never seen him before.
As the men rearranged crates and barrels, a group of city militia hurried along the pier—muskets slung over their shoulders, bayonets glinting. One of the militiamen slowed as he passed the newly cleared walkway, giving an approving nod.
"Smart work," the soldier said. "Would've been a damned mess if we had to fight through clutter."
Mr. Cooper lifted his chin. "Thank this one," he said, jerking a thumb at Duwan. "He thought of it."
The soldier gave Duwan a long look—curious, almost impressed. "Keep that head of yours working, boy. Baltimore might need it soon."
Then he jogged off with his unit.
Josiah smacked Duwan lightly on the arm. "Since when are you the smart one?"
"I—uh—must've been thinking clearer today," Duwan said awkwardly.
Mr. Cooper grunted. "If you can use those brains to stop wastin' my time, maybe you'll be worth somethin'. Get back to work."
He walked off, barking orders at other men.
Josiah leaned in, whispering, "Nathan…how'd you know all that? You ain't never talked like that before."
Duwan swallowed hard.
He couldn't say Because I'm not Nathan. I'm from 2025. And I've studied this war since I was ten.
So he just said, "I guess I'm seeing things differently today."
Josiah watched him suspiciously but didn't push further.
As they worked, Duwan's mind spun.
This is good. This is really good. Someone noticed me. And if the war is coming…maybe I can get into a militia unit. Maybe I can use what I know. Maybe I can matter here.
But the thought chilled him too.
Using his knowledge of the future meant he was involving himself in history. In life and death. In a war that would change the nation.
He wiped sweat from his brow.
A cannon boomed faintly in the distance—far out in the Bay.
Josiah looked up nervously. "You think it's starting? The war?"
Duwan's pulse quickened.
"Yeah," he said quietly. "I think it is."
And for the first time in his life—not as a bullied kid, not as a boy hiding in libraries, but as someone standing at the edge of real history—Duwan felt something he'd never felt before.
Purpose.