He’d been silent, the other man at the bar, gazing into his glass of whiskey before growing animated at the mention of Mark Twain. “I met Twain one time, you know, out near Jackass Hill.”

“You look pretty good for a hundred and fifty years old,” I said in jest, assuming he wasn’t serious.

“It wasn’t all that long ago; a few years back,” he answered in a matter-of-fact tone, though he had a faraway look in his eyes as he said it. “For a few hours that day,” he continued, “I became a time traveler.”

The bartender grunted, sounding more annoyed than alarmed, as if he’d heard the line too many times before. He quickly busied himself at the other end of the bar. As the World Series of Poker flickered silently on the TV above us, I sipped my beer and considered my options. Dare I press the matter further?
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