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Angel’s family was vegan, I gave her my helping of corn and took her chicken, although it tasted different from how it did back home.
    â€œThere’s a lot of dark meat on this chicken,” I said.
    â€œâ€Šâ€™Tis not chicken,” said Felicity. “ ’Tis squab, a traditional colonial dish.”
    â€œSquab?” I repeated, taking another bite. “I’ve never heard of that. Are they only around this area?”
    â€œNay,” said Felicity. “They live in your big cities, though you know them by a different name: pigeons.”
    I instantly choked and started coughing.
    â€œPigeons?” Angel squeaked, scooting away from my plate as if the contents might take flight.
    Even Mom turned a little green.
    â€œBaby pigeons to be exact,” said Felicity.
    If I hadn’t already been hacking up a lung, I would’ve screamed.
    Dylan offered me a mug, smiling. “Warm goat milk to wash down your baby pigeon?”
    That was more than I could handle, and I sprinted toward the kitchen for a place to spit it out. But right as I pushedthrough the door, I smashed into someone and fell, swallowing the squab.
    So far, colonial times were disgusting and dangerous.
    â€œWhoa! Are you all right?”
    I rolled onto my side, and a cute guy about my age knelt beside me. A cute guy with a capital WOW.
    He was wearing a black, triangular hat with only the sides of his dark hair visible. The front point of his hat rested low above eyes the same warm brown as Felicity’s.
    I must have been staring longer than I thought, because he began snapping his fingers in front of my face.
    â€œAre you with me? What year is it?” he asked.
    I blushed and pushed his hand aside. “1680,” I said.
    He grinned and rocked back onto his heels. “My name’s Caleb. What were you running from?” His face took on a serious expression. “And should I be running too?”
    I smiled and pointed at the dining room. “Squab. And yes.”
    He wrinkled his nose. “My mom’s secret recipe.” He reached into a satchel draped over his shoulder and pulled out a flask. “Here.”
    I eyed the bottle warily. “If that’s goat milk, I’m going to throw up on your shoes.”
    â€œApple cider,” he said with a laugh. “Goat milk is nasty.”
    I drank and took deep breaths.
    â€œThe squab’s not so bad if you imagine it’s chicken,” he said.
    â€œMy imagination is not that powerful,” I replied, handing back the flask. “Thanks.”
    â€œYou know my name, but I don’t know yours,” he said. “Who are you?”
    I blinked up at him. Boys that cute never asked my name. They only asked for quiz answers.
    Caleb leaned forward expectantly. “If that question was a stumper, you won’t last long here.”
    I shook my head. “Sorry. I’ve got squab on the brain. I’m Tori.”
    For some reason, that made him smile. “Victoria Grace Porter. I’ve read all about you.”
    I took a step back. “I feel like I should be running again.”
    â€œOh no!” It was Caleb’s turn to blush as he waved his arms in front of him. “It wasn’t anything creepy. My parents and I received bios on everyone in the competition so we could figure out where your strengths and weaknesses are.”
    I raised an eyebrow. “And what were mine?”
    Caleb shook his head and wagged a finger. “I can’t reveal the specifics, but I am impressed that you managed to get yourself banned from a museum for a year.”
    â€œIf you read it on the Internet, don’t believe it,” I said. “I only broke into the museum because their Cretaceous periodsign was wrong and they wouldn’t fix it.” I paused and cleared my throat. “I’m not sure which is nerdier: that I did it or that I felt you needed to know it.”
    Caleb laughed. “If it