The re-enactor, garbed in wool and leather, stood in the hottest hour of day cradling his rifle and talking to the children while sweat rose steadily and ran rivulets down his neck.
It was the wrong time altogether for him, a mind that quaked and swayed like wagons and smelled the earth of two centuries past.
He lost himself in feather and felt, smoke and grass and bare skin. Arrow and wind led him astray. The children move on to other sights, but he stays.