“Father!” Called Thomas, his voice hoarse, his eyes blindfolded.

“I’m here, son,” I reassured him, holding back the panic that gripped me. I crossed the threshold, my eyes darting left and right. A dark shape lunged for me; it was Victor. I dodged to one side, brought my foot up, but missed him by an inch.

“How nice of you to join us, Mister President!”

I stepped towards him, swinging my right fist. He ducked, and stepped back, bringing up a knife, its blade red with blood. I didn’t see the knife; I only saw his face, what he meant to do to my son, what it would mean to history if I were to die. We circled each other. He lunged again, the blade held poised. Then his eyes widened, he stopped, looked down. An arrowhead had sprouted from his chest. He toppled over. I ran to Thomas, and untied the ropes which bound his hands.

“Mister Lincoln!” Called Kennedy from the doorway, shouldering the bow, “we’d better return to the time machine or else James is going to leave without us!”