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question, which I try to dodge.
    â€œWell, I ain’t seen you before either,” I say, trying to match his accent.
    â€œGood point.” He extends his hand. “What’s your name?”
    We shake. His hand is hard as rocks. “Stonewall Hinkleman,” I say and smile.
    A surprised look shoots across his face. “Hot durn! That’s the same as mine.”
    â€œStonewall?” I ask. Since Stonewall Jackson hasn’t gotten his nickname yet, I figured I’d be the only one.
    â€œNah,” says the kid. “Hinkleman. That’s me. Cyrus Hinkleman.”
    The smile slips from my face. My stomach lurches.
    â€œWhoa!” he says. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
    I have.

CHAPTER FIVE
    IT’S GOOD that I have something to think about besides all the people I just saw get shot and stabbed. A few feet away from me, a young guy with freckles and blond hair is trying to load his gun, but his hands shake too badly and all his powder spills onto the ground. He tries to scoop up the black powder and pour it back down the barrel, all the while talking to himself. It’s obvious all he can think about is dying, and he probably will.
    Frankly, that’s all that I’ve been thinking about so far. I’ve been mocking my dad and all his reenactor buddies for years. I should have been paying attention! Knowing about the Civil War isn’t enough. I need to know how to act in it. Like what to do with this musket I’ve got in my hands. I’m glad it’s already loaded, because after I fire that one shot I’m screwed!
    But now my brain races in another direction. Thinking of bits and pieces of movies and science fiction books I have read. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, you can’t mess around in the past without messing up the future. One wrong step and your parents never meet, or you never get born, or apes rule the world, or Michael J. Fox has to play the guitar real loud.
    Or your great-great-great-great-uncle survives the war’s first battle and goes on to be Robert E. Lee’s right-hand man and single-handedly destroys the Union Army two years later at Gettysburg, winning the war for the South.
    Maybe that’s a stretch. I don’t think I’ve done anything yet to keep Cyrus from getting shot. I do feel like a jackass for all the cracks I’ve made about him. He seems like a real nice guy, and he’s the exact opposite of a coward.
    I mean, right now he’s got this stone in his hand that he uses to sharpen these two knives that he keeps in a scabbard on each hip.
    â€œNice knives,” I say.
    Cyrus flips one out of his belt, lets it spin in the air a couple of times, and catches it by the hilt.
    â€œIs this a dagger I see before me?” he says, doing his crazy Shakespeare thing again. He could almost be one of those drama geeks from school. But then he says, “Not really a dagger, actually, a throwin’ knife. And I got a pretty good arm, if you don’t mind me bragging a little.”
    He looks down the hill, to where some Yankees are gathered about a hundred yards away.
    â€œHeck, I could probably stick one of ’em between the eyes from here. Well . . . maybe.”
    Okay, so he’s not exactly like the drama geeks. A little more . . . uh, violently insane. But . . . he did save my life.
    Speaking of life-saving, my main mission is to survive this battle and get the heck out of here. The best thing I can do is run away, lay low, and try to figure out how to make this bugle take me back home.
    I give the bugle a quick try. I bring it to my lips and play the first thing that comes to mind—the opening of “Dixie,” better known as the Dukes of Hazzard car horn song.
    The metal stays cold, and I stay where I am.
    â€œWhew,” says Cyrus, “you mean you been carrying that thing around all day and that’s the best you can play it?”
    Cyrus turns back