I’ve wandered from the party going on in the house out into the big back yard. An open lawn with a late-summer look: long mostly dark green grass blades with a small percentage of tannish ones—not dry patches, just the season on the wane. The perimeter lined with large trees and scattered leafy bushes. There are four or five white wrought-iron lawn chairs and three small wrought-iron tables. I sit down at the nearest one. There’s a sense of relief, away from the crowd. A woman I don’t recognize sits down across the table from me, and just then I notice the grass is moving, as if blowing in a non-existent wind. I look over at the next table that stands maybe thirty feet away. Two women are talking and laughing, too engaged to notice the grass. I look back into the grass, which by now is seething, though the trees seem unaffected: their leaves hang motionless. I glance toward the woman at my table and see that she’s staring at the grass, mesmerized. “You see it, don’t you,” I say. She nods. I look back into the grass. It’s as though I’m flying into it. “We’re in the tunnel,” I tell her. “I always wondered how things would look when you’re time-traveling.” Suddenly a dark mood overtakes me. I realize then that I’m aging faster than everyone else at the party.