He is wearing Dad’s old jeans and a plaid flannel shirt, and he looks tired and unshaven. I left the back door unlocked for him this morning and here he is.

　I set the tray of food I have brought on the floor. “I could bring down some books.”

　“Actually, these are great.” He’s been reading Mad magazines from the ‘60s. “And this is indispensable for time travelers who need to know all sorts of factoids at a moment’s notice,” he says, holding up the 1968 World Almanac.

　I sit down next to him on the blankets, and look over at him to see if he’s going to make me move. I can see he’s thinking about it, so I hold up my hands for him to see and then I sit on them. He smiles. “Make yourself at home,” he says.

　“When are you coming from?”

　“2001. October”

　“You look tired.” I can see that he’s debating about telling me why he’s tired, and decides against it. “What are we up to in 2001?”

　“Big things. Exhausting things.” Henry starts to eat the roast beef sandwich I have brought him. “Hey, this is good.”

　“Nell made it.”

　He laughs. “I’ll never understand why it is that you can build huge sculptures that withstand gale force winds, deal with dye recipes, cook kozo, and all that, and you can’t do anything whatsoever with food. It’s amazing.”

　“It’s a mental block. A phobia.”

　“It’s weird.”

　“I walk into the kitchen and I hear this little voice saying, ‘Go away.’ So I do.”

　“Are you eating enough? You look thin.”

　I feel fat. “I’m eating.” I have a dismal thought. “Am I very fat in 2001? Maybe that’s why you think I’m too thin.”

　Henry smiles at some joke I don’t get. “Well, you’re kind of plump at the moment, in my present, but it will pass.”

　“Ugh.”

　“Plump is good. It will look very good on you.”

　“No thanks.” Henry looks at me, worrying. “You know, I’m not anorexic or anything. I mean, you don’t have to worry about it.”

　“Well, it’s just that your mom was always bugging you about it.”

　“‘Was’?”

　 “Is.”