At the Scene FAR TOO EARLY on a Tuesday morning, unshaved and only just adequately dressed for his station, he arrived at the unfamiliar place that spoke to him in whispers like an old acquaintance. With his left hand sunk into the . . .

The future is 1976. It hovers just out of reach, only five months away, barely visible on the August horizon but reaching back along the timeline and wrapping strong gilded fingers around his arm. Whatever it was like now, in 1976 it . . .

“What have we done?”  The white patio table, with its spots of rust along the edges and its light dusting of the  same ochre powder that seemed to cover everything to varying degrees, connected  their hands. Teacups, two. They called it Moroccan . . .