My heart hammered against my ribs. “Birdie,” he whispered again, and his cracked lips curled into a weak smile. I knew that voice, even after fifty-five years. “Tommy?” I breathed. He closed his eyes and nodded. Tommy Reyes had been my first love, a boy who shipped out to war in 1970 and never wrote back. I had spent decades believing he was gone.

I tore off my coat and wrapped it around him. The dog pressed closer, shivering, and I pulled out my phone with trembling fingers. One bar of signal. I dialed emergency services and gave the dispatcher our location. Then Tommy’s hand found mine, and he pushed something small into my palm. It was a rusted locket, and when I opened it, I saw my own face from 1969.