2:49 p.m., Saturday, February 4th, 2006

Right now Drew, my two-year-old son, is laying on Grandma Evelyn’s living room floor, pushing brightly colored plastic trains along a beige Berber train track. Inches from his nose, the rubber wheels squeak as my son creates the magical island that these trains travel on, carrying their passengers from seashore to inland village.
Right now Mr. Haver pulls his minibus into the square in St. George’s. He scans the shop fronts, looking for potential passengers. Bermuda doesn’t have many tourists wanting scenic tours this time of year. The elderly driver misses all the families that left when the Naval Air Station shut down. But there is Mrs. Jamison, hobbling out of the Black Horse, her usual lunch spot. Her lavender peasant skirt whips in front of her as the breezes off the channel push her towards the middle of the square. She should have tied her scarf on her head before she left the pub; it’s a useless endeavor now in this wind, Mr. Haver muses. She’s a welcome site on this blustery afternoon. She’ll want a ride home, and more importantly, some friendly conversation. Mr. Haver needs the work and the company.
Right now Helen Simmerman is sitting in a vinyl chair in her husband Harold’s intensive care room. The nurse scolds her for trying to sneak in a Wendy’s hamburger for him, but Helen doesn’t care. He isn’t eating the salt-free crap they’re giving him. “Why do they treat me like I’m crazy?” Harold asks. She shrugs. She doesn’t want to tell him it is because he said he’s in Cincinnati and it’s 1967. They’re in Dayton and it’s 2006. Was he even in Cincinnati in 1967? She can’t remember. They were already grandparents by then. “The train’s left the station,” she thinks.