The surgeon

Aaron wanted to be in Dallas that day, so he jimmied the machine to transport him back to the ’61 Lincoln Continental. But he missed – and found himself in Parkland Hospital. Damn. He was always just missing his target, like that time he landed in the Dead Sea instead of witnessing the resurrection. And the time he got hit in the eye by Babe Ruth’s record home run.

Gleaming white and hot silver in the operating room, no one was there. Then the doors burst open and a gurneyed patient was wheeled in – there he was, Kennedy. Or what remained of him. His head was a bloody unrecognizable pulp of brain matter. Jackie slithered across the floor, sideways, to one side of the room. She rested her back against the wall. All the black-suited bureaucrats circled the room, the doctors rushed in, the surgeon attended the president, suturing, pumping blood into the heart. Chaos, control. No control.

No one noticed Aaron, who’d turned off the visibility setting on the machine that time. He didn’t want history to record him for posterity. Too dangerous. They’d been after him so long, they could find him if he showed up in the pictures. He went over and stood by Jackie. The chaos of the moment, the surgeon’s futile efforts to revive the president, all wound down to this woman with the mucus and blood on her face, her hair, and her suit.

And then it stopped – the chaos, and the priest came into the room. Everyone filed out but Jackie and the priest. They walked over to the president and muttered silent prayers for his soul. Aaron disappeared back to the void where he went when he could no longer remain in place, but before he found his next adventure.