Free Once Was a Time by Leila Sales Page A

planning and hiding. I took a deep breath and said, “Do you believe in time travel?”

Chapter 11
    The waiter brought over our meals: a mug of coffee and a dish of yogurt for Miss Timms, and two full plates heaped high with food, bananas on the side, and a milkshake forme.
    â€œNo,” Miss Timms said with a smile. “I don’t believe in time travel. Charlotte, you can tell me how you really ended up here. I won’t get mad, no matter what it is. I promise.”
    My shoulders sank. But of course Miss Timms wouldn’t believe me. In a world where no one had ever discovered the secrets of time travel, what had happened to me was wholly unbelievable.
    I peeled open my first banana and took a bite. “Oh!” I cried. “It’s even better than I remembered!”
    Miss Timms smiled at me again, but her eyes were sad. “Are you okay, Charlotte?” she asked. “Has anyone hurt you? I hate to ask this, but . . . were you kidnapped? You can tell me anything, hon. I know you don’t know me, but I promise, I’m on your side.”
    I could tell she was on my side, but there was nothing I could tell her. Yes, I had been kidnapped, but that was just about the least of my problems.
    â€œNobody hurt me,” I said. “I’m fine. I’m just . . . lost, Ithink.”
    â€œHere’s what we’re going to do,” Miss Timms said. She took a sip of coffee. “I have a friend who works for Child Services. We’re going to go over to his office, and we’ll see what he thinks. He’ll probably interview you, and then put you in a foster home, at least for a little while, until they figure out who you really belong to. How does that sound?”
    I liked that Miss Timms said “we,” and I liked that she was really asking for my opinion, as though, should I say this was a bad idea, we wouldn’t have to go through with it.
    â€œAren’t you needed back at the library?” I asked.
    She checked her watch, then sighed. “I wish. They’ve cut funding again, so now I’m officially only there from noon to six. I went early today to reshelve some books before we opened to the public. So, I definitely appreciate your concern, but I can get you to Child Services and back before anyone even starts to look for me. What do you say?”
    â€œFine,” I said. “That sounds fine.”
    â€œGreat!” Miss Timms said. “But first,” she added, “let’s finish eating.”
    * * *
    Miss Timms’s friend was a slender man with dark brown skin and very short hair. He introduced himself as “Christophe Babcock, but you can call me Chris,” and I wondered why it was that both the American adults I’d met wanted to be called by their first names.
    As Miss Timms had predicted, Mr. Babcock asked me a series of questions. He was very nice about all of them. There just wasn’t anything I could tell him.
    My name is Charlotte Bromley. I’m ten years old. I’m from Bristol, England. My father is Robert Bromley, and my mother is Elizabeth Bromley, and they are both dead. No known living relations. How did I get here? I don’t know. Did anyone hurt me? No one to speak of. Will anyone come looking for me? Not likely.
    â€œJennifer tells me you think you might have time traveled here,” Mr. Babcock said gently.
    I shrugged noncommittally.
    â€œYou know,” he said, “sometimes we like to believe that something happened to us, because that’s easier than confronting whatever it is that actually did happen to us. Do you know what I mean?”
    â€œSort of,” I said.
    Mr. Babcock didn’t seem that bothered by any of this, as if ten-year-old orphan girls often landed in his office with no explanation. Come to think of it, maybe they did. Maybe that’s what working in Child Services meant. “Don’t worry, Charlotte,” he reassured me. “I’ll work