In two hours

“Around the corner, there he is!” the man with the right-handed hook said. “This way, men.”

The men chased Aaron around the corner, but he went up the alley. He came out onto Peachtree Street and ran across. Dagnabbit, not enough traffic to keep them back. Then he ran across Piedmont Avenue down toward Montgomery Avenue. He passed the dump, or at least that’s what America’s most celebrated writer called her place.

“Blech! It’s certainly no Tara.”

And she came outside, looked both ways, and nodded her head. “Safe and clear, John. No reporters. We can go to the market. You too, Bessie.” She walked forward, holding a little black cat. A tall man and a round colored maid followed. Margaret Mitchell was a tiny wren of a woman, so unlike her heroine. But Aaron couldn’t stop more – he saw the men, running in the distance.

Margaret Mitchell noticed, too. “Back inside, John, they saw us.”

He’d have to return with the time machine another time, to get his interview with Scarlett O’Hara’s creator. Perhaps he wouldn’t – she detested public attention, that much he knew. Then the light bulb went off. He’d go into the novel itself. Scarlett O’Hara wouldn’t mind the attention. Not one bit. And he didn’t think his pursuers would find him there.

He ran on toward the park. Piedmont Park might be a dangerous place to hide, but it might work, too.

He had two hours until the machine would come back for him, take him somewhere else. They’d finally found him. How they’d gotten to ‘30s Atlanta, Aaron had no idea. But they were here, they were smart, and they were watching him.