Mr. Miller fell silent as Archer brought the projectile higher to get a better view of it, his own eyes studying the object in a morbid curiosity. Blood stained Archer’s fingertips, and he swayed at the realization that it was his own. Mr. Miller’s loosened grip tightened once more at the younger man’s shoulders.

“Were you shot? Are you injured? Is there anyone else hurt?” Mr. Miller’s questions shot out of his mouth so abruptly Archer’s head spun as he attempted to keep up with the onslaught.

“Yes,.. I mean!- not anymore,” His voice was raspy, signalling its lack of use. Archer scrubbed a hand over his face, scraping over the rough hair sprouted against his cheeks and chin. His heart sank in his chest when he answered. “There’s no one else. Only me,” There was a desolate finality to Archer’s voice that gave Mr. Miller pause. He had never heard such a young man, in the prime of life, sound desperately heartbroken.

It was then that the older man finally took notice of the dirty and abnormal clothing Archer wore and of the old worldly,  mannerisms that belonged to a time long gone. Dirt covered the young man, and his greasy hair fell over his eyes. Dried blood stained the front of his shirt, and Mr. Miller fought to not stare at the oddity. The faraway stare in the man's eyes reminded him of that of the son he lost to war. Mr. Miller cleared his throat, uncomfortable suddenly; Archer took no notice, all his attention focused on the metal bearing he rolled between his fingertips.

His entire life stolen away by little more than a rough forming of iron. He mused. A cowardly way of execution if he had ever heard of one.

A shaking of his shoulders had his eyes darting up to meet Mr. Miller’s. It took another moment for Archer to realize he had asked a question.

“I asked if you were alright, son,” He repeated, retaining his firm hold.

“I believe I am now, sir.” When he began to struggle to his feet, Mr. Miller hastily grabbed his hand, helping him the rest of the way. “Thank you,”

“I didn’t do nothing,” He responded. Archer’s lips tipped upward in reply, having no response for the man’s statement. Mr. Miller tipped his head in the direction of the bullet Archer still held. “You gonna tell me who put that in ya’?”

Archer faltered when faced with the entirely expected inquiry because he was unsure of how he was expected to answer the question.  How was he supposed to explain to a stranger, who he had only just met, that his murder had occurred in a time that had vanished, leaving him in a world he did not know? How was he to explain an impossibility he had not even accepted himself?

In the end, he answered that he failed to recognize the man, who shot him, falsifying a believably vague description of the assailant, and the lie burnt his tongue as if made from the vilest acids.

Archer expected after he answered the man's questions that Mr. Miller would hop back into his thunderous mode of transportation, but his life rarely went the way he expected, if ever.

“Is there anyplace I can drop you off at?” He asked.

Archer shook his head, watching the man step back. His own family's plantation met it's own demise at the hands of Union soldiers while the Mason property had seemingly been lost to time itself. He had not a home in the world to call his own.

“No,” Archer answered. “It appears not,”

“No place to go?” He pressed, taking his cap into his hand and scratching the side of his head, concern in his expression. Again, Archer shook his head, his blue eyes revealing how lost he truly felt.

“No, sir,” He said. “Not anymore,” Archer saw the pity in the man’s expression and was quick to continue speaking. “But if you could point me in the direction of the nearest town I would be much obliged,”

“And what are you gonna do there?” He challenged, and when Archer scrounged up the courage to defend his statement, Mr. Miller promptly interrupted. “And at not even five o’clock in the morning?”

Archer sighed defeatedly. “I would..” He trailed off, not knowing what he would do when faced with that situation. All his worldly possessions were gone; he had been left with nothing but the clothes on his back and the treasured silver ring that rested on his right hand, middle finger. His fingertips, with an absent anxiousness, rubbed along the band of the small piece of jewelry as though the action alone could return the giver of his most prized possession.

“C’mon, son,” Archer’s head shot up when he heard Mr. Miller speak while an undeniable hope warmed his chest.

“Pardon?”

Mr. Miller began back toward his vehicle, looking over his shoulder to answer the question.

“Well, I ain't just gonna leave you out here,” He said, crossing back over the two lanes of empty highway. “My wife would skin me alive!”

Warily, Archer made his way across the strip of asphalt, only hesitating when he finally glimpsed of how gargantuan Mr. Miller's contraption truly was.

Mr. Miller pulled some sort of handle on the other side of the monstrous invention and hauled himself into the opposite side of the cab. Pushing hair back from his eyes, Archer began to study the unusual mode of transportation with great interest. He had always been fascinated by the subject of mechanics and ascertaining what caused something to work and how the mechanism could be improved. Although when Mr. Miller thrust one key from a collection of several others into an opening that ignited a roar from the front of the vehicle, Archer strongly believed he would not be given opportunity simply because his heart would give out from pure fright.

“I don't have all night!” Mr. Miller shouted over the rumbling growl of the diesel engine. Archer, once again, found himself hesitating; an action he had mocked others for falling prey to. He had no idea or premise of how this new world operated, or of how he was expected to act.

Mr. Miller reached across the cab of his old farm truck and pushed the door open. Archer, imperceptibly, took a small step back, the action no more than the subtle shifting of his feet.

“I know it's not the best thing in the world,” Mr. Miller continued. “But it looks to me that you're in worse shape than my truck,” He gave a small joking smile which Archer returned with a strained one of his own.

Without allowing himself another moment to consider what could be the repercussions of his next actions, Archer grasped a handhold inside the cab and hauled himself inside to sit alongside Mr. Miller, all the while ignoring the protests of his tired muscles and searing pain flaming throughout his chest. He suppressed a groan when he stretched out to fasten the door, his ribs screaming at the agony caused by the action. Nodding when Mr. Miller asked if he was all right, he fell back into the support the bench seat offered him before pulling a strange belt across him as he had seen Mr. Miller do.

He startled when the older man pulled a lever near the steering mechanism, causing the vehicle to lurch forward. He grabbed onto the seat, squeezing the old leather and foam so tightly his knuckles turned white. Archer struggled to return his breathing to a normal rate as the vehicle began to pick up speed. When he was finally able to find his voice, he couldn't help but ask:

“What is the date, sir?”

He received a bewildered look in return, but his curiosity would not be deterred.

“July 12, 2016,” Came the dubious reply.

Hope that Archer hadn't known remained died out when that information came to light. He had thought that, perhaps, of the time had still remained the same that…

He gave his head a small shake, as though the action could rid him of the morose considerations. He fell back into the seat, his heart feeling as though it had been turned to lead.

The lines along the roadside began to float by at a hypnotic rate. Archer hadn't even noticed that his eyes had fallen shut until Mr. Miller suddenly asked a question.

“Are you gonna tell me what you were really looking for on the side of the road?” His tone was quiet, calm even, but the intonation left little room for argument regarding the expectation for an answer.

Archer sat straighter, his head turning to look at the other man. “Something that no longer exists. I only found out about their long time disappearance a few hours previous,”

Another pang of sympathy darted through Mr. Miller. His first impression of the disheartened boy sitting next to him had been a well deserved wary suspicion,  concerning his intentions. But as time began to tick by, the first impression was slowly being obliterated by growing evidence which suggested the young man fighting sleep in the passenger side was a figure the world was losing faster than it could replicate. He was a good man underneath the formal facade and ragamuffin clothes.

Mr. Miller nodded, the genuineness in the man's tone convincing enough. They fell silent again until Archer brought it upon himself to give a last polite effort in a respectably horrible first impression.

“I apologize for not introducing myself,” He extended his left hand to lessen the strain on his ribs. “Archer Taylor,” He said.

Surprise flashed across Mr. Miller’s expression before he quickly covered the reaction, returning the gesture firmly. “Robert Miller,” He said before turning his attention back to the road.

Archer nodded once, retracting his hand and closing his eyes. “It's an honor to meet you, Mr. Miller,”

Mr. Miller chuckled. “Likewise, Archer,” They were silent for a long moment before Mr. Miller spoke again. “How long were you out there?” He asked, tilting his head toward the trees which flew past them.

A humorless smile flitted across Archer’s face. “Feels like decades,”

“Then, I'm glad I found you, Archer Taylor,”

“Not as glad as I,” Archer responded.

Mr. Miller flipped a knob on the dash, and the soft noise of a piano drifted through the air.

“Get some sleep, son. I'll wake you when we get to the house,”

Archer managed a small nod before the beckoning of sleep succeeded in its temptation.