Free The Bellbottom Incident by Neve Maslakovic Page A

thought the attributes were related to the bogue quality of the food, but then I remembered it was Halloween. The staff must have chosen to get creative with their menu. “Fried chicken, I guess,” I said.  
    Abigail nodded. “Same for me.”
    “Your wish is my command, ladies,” Xave said. He turned to Dr. Little, who had slid his duffel bag under the table and taken a seat across from us. Dr. Little wrinkled his nose. “Isn’t there anything…lighter? A vegetable would be good.”
    Dr. Little had grown up in California and earned his PhD at Berkeley before coming to St. Sunniva. He was not the only vegetarian in the state of Minnesota; they were just grossly outnumbered.
    “Time travelers can’t be choosers, but I’ll see what I can do. I don’t suppose you have any…funds to contribute? I’m just a poor graduate student.”
    Dr. Little dished out some cash from his travel wallet, and I said, “I’ll help you carry, Xave.” He and I got into the food line, exchanged some light chitchat about the election while waiting, and came back with fried chicken (which was a strange orange color), mashed potatoes (green), and corn on the cob (with pitchfork-shaped holders).  
    Abigail hesitated before digging in. “I hope Sa— Sally comes back here. It’s getting really dark out there.”
    I was worried too—where could Sabina be?—but forced myself to eat. After all, none of us would be thinking clearly if we didn’t nourish ourselves. The food coloring made for an unappetizing appearance, but it didn’t change the taste of the chicken and mashed potatoes. Just standard cafeteria fare. Dr. Little, who had stuck with the corn and mashed potatoes, seemed to be enjoying them just fine.
    After a moment of quiet contemplation, Abigail dug in as well.
    “How’s the chicken tonight?”  
    Gabriel. Gabe was dashing in a dark suit, with the upturned collar of the white shirt underneath tightly pinched by a tie. His hair was slicked and tied back to look short, and his mustache had been combed to a bushier version. I glanced from him to Xave and it sank in that their costumes were supposed to be of a young and an older Einstein. Gabriel was the young Einstein. Xave—dressed in a sweater, casual droopy pants, and the white wig—was the older Einstein; he had even dyed his mustache white, which I had somehow failed to notice. It wasn’t bleached but covered in some kind of a white paint. I found myself hoping it was nontoxic food coloring, as it had started to flake as he ate.  
    Gabe had addressed the question to his friend and fellow grad student, all the while avoiding any eye contact with the rest of us. I studied him above my fork. This was strange. If I didn’t know better, I would have thought History was making sure he didn’t register our presence, but that made no sense. It was supposed to be the other way around. Our movements were supposed to be limited while we traveled, not those of the locals.  
    Xave waved his fork at the three of us. “Gabe, meet Julia, Abigail, and Dr. Little. They’re visitors. You’re not allowed to ask them anything.”
    Gabe didn’t appear to have a problem with that request. He seemed too weighed down by what I suddenly understood was his own social anxiety to care why he wasn’t expected to talk to us.  
    Xave told him, “The chicken’s not awful.”  
    Focusing on a spot on the floor, Gabe replied, “I’ll be back with my tray,” and left.
    “Gabriel’s a bit shy,” Xave explained, and waved hello to a female student passing by our table. She waved back at him.  
    I opened my mouth to comment that we all knew Gabriel Rojas but thought better of it. It struck me that while we’d been able to fill one of STEWie’s inventors in on the bare bones of our situation, we probably wouldn’t be able to interact much with the other, if at all. Xave was a doer, his confidence in his pet project unshakable, so our presence was only confirmation of what he already