The young man strode down the suburban sidewalk, alone except for the whistles and chirps of birds in the nearby trees and a single air taxi that buzzed overhead and was gone. He stuck his hand in the pocket of his loose fitting jeans, face tightening as he touched the stiff envelope containing his draft notice. His stomach clenched when he imagined himself fighting in the steaming rot of the Brazilian jungle--or even worse, serving as a so-called peace keeper in the Martian-Jovian breakaway colonies.

The young man slowed when he spotted the little boy with his arm in a cast. The boy crouched on the front lawn of a brown two story house, holding a neon orange toy rifle.

"Kabam, kabam, kabam," shouted the boy, spraying imaginary bullets from his toy gun. "Kabam."

"Who are you shooting at?" called the young man as he started past the house.

"Bad guys," said the boy. "Are you a bad guy?"

"Do you want me to be?" asked the young man.

"Yes." The boy's face lit up in excitement.

"Okay," said the young man. "Then I'm a bad guy, at least for now."

"Kabam, kabam," yelled the boy, firing with a wide grin splitting his face.

"Ahh." The young man staggered, clutched the chest of his yellow polo shirt, and flopped onto his back in the front yard.

The boy ran over, holding his toy rifle across his chest with both hands, not the least bit hampered by his broken arm.

"Are you okay?" the boy demanded. 

"Well, no," said the young man. "I've been shot."

"Does it hurt?" asked the boy.

"Probably not as much as that," said the young man. Still on his back, he pointed up at the boy's cast. "How did you break it?"

"I fell out of a swing," said the boy. "I was swinging too hard."

"Why were you swinging so hard?"

"I dunno," said the boy. "I guess I was mad."

"Mad at who?"

"At my dad."

"What did your dad do?"

The boy didn't answer for several long moments.

"Nothing," the boy finally said. Then he added with a touch of pride, "He's a soldier."

"That's an important job," said the young man. "Is he home now?"

"No," said the boy, his face pinched. Then squatting down next to the young man he asked, "What are we doing now?"

"That depends. Am I still your prisoner?" asked the young man. He relaxed on the grassy lawn. The day was warm, and the grass formed a soft cushion beneath him.

"I guess so," said the boy.

"Then you'll have to be a medic to patch me up."

"What's a medic?" asked the boy.

"A soldier who fixes bullet wounds," said the young man.

The boy knelt on the grass as the young man talked him through cleaning his imaginary wound, applying a compress, and bandaging it.

"All done," said the boy, leaping to his feet. 

"Thanks doc," said the young man. He stood up and brushed dirt and grass off his jeans. "I feel much better."

"Travis." A woman in a sun dress stood in the front door of the brown house, holding the screen open. "Come in now. Your snack is on the kitchen table."

"Coming, Mommy." Without a backward glance, the little boy ran up the front steps and into the house.

The woman remained at the front door, staring at the young man. A wrinkle formed between her narrowed eyes.

"Do I know you?" she asked, tilting her head slightly to one side so a wave of chestnut hair spilled over one shoulder. 

"You probably used to see me around." The young man grinned. "I'm only here today to visit my family."

"I see." The woman's face relaxed. Her lips twitched in a half smile. "Thanks for being so patient with my son. I have to admit I'd much rather he be a doctor than a soldier."

"I don't blame you," said the young man. He slapped the last of the grass and dirt off his clothes, smiled at the woman and continued down the sidewalk. He glanced back as he passed beyond her house. She still stood in her front door, watching him with her brows lowered in thought. He gave her a final wave and kept walking.

Except for the birds, no one was outside. No one was watching him when he turned and walked up a driveway, then slipped into the side yard between two houses. No one saw him stop, start to glow as if with a bright golden light from within, and vanish without a sound.

* * *

The young man in the yellow shirt stepped out of the Temporal Displacement Booth as soon as the door slid open.

"How did it go?" asked the middle-aged woman in a green dress who waited for him outside the booth. 

"Fine, I think." He looked around at the other booths and their waiting attendants in confusion.

"A small amount of disorientation is normal," said the woman. She took his elbow and guided him out to a white corridor and into a room with stuffed chairs. A table held donuts and coffee. "Would you like to sit down for a minute?"

"No," said the young man. "Thanks, but I'm ready to go." He looked around again, frowning. "Can you tell me if my temporal displacement was successful?"

The woman sighed. "We never know." She smiled sadly at the young man.

He nodded and started for the main entrance. When he pushed the bar to the glass front door of the building, his arm gave a bad twinge. He grimaced and rubbed it. The arm had never completely healed since he broke it at age six, the year his father died fighting in South America. As he left the building, something crinkled in his jeans pocket. He pulled out the envelope, and for the tenth time that day, took out and read his acceptance letter to medical school.