The following morning arrived not with the blare of a smartphone alarm, but with the crowing of a rooster from a nearby yard and the first, faint grey light seeping through the floral curtains. For a disorienting moment, Robert was back in his university dorm. Then the rustle of the straw mattress and the rough texture of the wool blanket against his skin snapped him back to reality. 1935.
He dressed in the borrowed clothes, the coarse fabric feeling alien against his skin. The suspenders were an awkward puzzle until he managed to get them situated. Looking in the wavy mirror, the reflection was of a stranger—a young man from a bygone era, his face pale and shadows under his eyes speaking of a turmoil the simple clothes could not conceal.
Downstairs, Eleanor was already at the stove, frying eggs and thick slices of ham. The smell was rich and overwhelming. Arthur sat at the table, sipping from a mug of black coffee, a newspaper—yesterday's—spread open before him.
"Morning," Arthur grunted, not unkindly. "Sleep alright?"
"Yes, sir. Thank you," Robert replied, the response automatic. He had slept the deep, comatose sleep of utter exhaustion, but he felt no more rested.
"Eat up," Eleanor said, placing a heaping plate in front of him. "A man can't work on an empty stomach."
Work. The word had a new, terrifying weight. After breakfast, Arthur led him out to a small, weathered shed behind the house that served as his workshop. The air inside was thick with the scent of pine, oak, and linseed oil. Tools hung neatly on the walls—hand saws, planes, chisels, and mallets. They were beautiful in their brutal simplicity, but to Robert, they might as well have been relics from the Bronze Age.
"Right," Arthur said, picking up a long, warped piece of wood. "The Hendersons' fence. This here post is rotten. Needs replacing. I've already cut the new one to size." He pointed to a pristine, four-by-four post leaning against the wall. "Your job is to plane it smooth. All four sides. You know how to use a hand plane?"
Robert looked at the tool Arthur held out. It was a block of wood and metal with a sharp blade protruding from its base. He had used computer-aided design software to model components with micron-level precision. He had programmed robotic arms. He had never used a hand plane.
"I… I think so," he lied, his throat tight.
Arthur's eyes narrowed slightly. He demonstrated, setting the plane on the edge of the wood and pushing forward with a smooth, powerful stroke. A thin, perfect curl of wood peeled away. "Firm grip. Keep it level. Let the tool do the work."
He handed the plane to Robert. It was heavier than it looked. Robert mimicked Arthur's stance, set the plane on the wood, and pushed. It juddered, catching and tearing at the grain, leaving a gouged, uneven surface.
Arthur sighed, a short, sharp exhale. "No, no. Like this." He repositioned Robert's hands, his own grip strong and sure. "You've never done a day of real work in your life, have you, son?"
The words were not meant to be cruel, but they stung with the sharpness of truth. In this world, his university education, his theoretical prowess, meant less than nothing. Here, value was measured in calluses and practical skill.
For the next two hours, Robert struggled. His palms, soft from a life of keyboards and touchscreens, quickly grew raw and blistered. His shoulders and back ached with a ferocity he had never known. The simple task of making a piece of wood smooth became a Herculean labor. He was drenched in sweat, his muscles trembling with the unfamiliar strain.
Arthur worked beside him, repairing a chair leg with a quiet, efficient grace. He didn't speak, but his occasional glances were a silent commentary on Robert's pathetic efforts. The silence was a judgment in itself, more damning than any shouted criticism.
During a break for water from an enameled tin cup, Robert's eyes fell on a stack of newspapers in the corner, destined for kindling. The headline from a week ago screamed up at him: "Nazi Germany Announces Rearmament, Defies Versailles Treaty."
He felt a cold knot form in his stomach. It was one thing to know history; it was another to see its ominous drumbeat laid out in bold, contemporary print. These weren't facts in a textbook; they were the tremors before an earthquake that everyone here seemed oblivious to.
"Terrible business, that," Arthur said, noticing his gaze. "That maniac in Germany. Mark my words, it'll come to no good. But it's an ocean away. Nothing for us to trouble ourselves with."
Nothing to trouble ourselves with. The sheer, catastrophic ignorance of the statement took Robert's breath away. He had a sudden, mad impulse to grab Arthur by the shoulders and shake him. In four years, this entire street will be filled with mothers receiving telegrams! The skies above us will be filled with bombers! The entire world is about to be set on fire!
But he said nothing. He just nodded, swallowing the bitter knowledge like a poison pill.
He returned to his planing, the rhythmic, frustrating scrape of the blade a fitting soundtrack to his internal turmoil. Each stroke was a reminder of his impotence. He was a master of systems that didn't exist, a pilot of aircraft that wouldn't be invented for decades, stranded in a body that was failing at the most basic manual task of this time.
By the time Eleanor called them in for the midday meal, Robert's hands were a mess of raw, weeping blisters. He could barely grip his fork. The food tasted like ash.
"You'll get used to it," Arthur said, noticing him wince. "Hands harden up. It's honest work."
Robert just nodded. The physical pain was almost a welcome distraction from the psychic agony of his situation. The splinters in his hands were real, tangible. They were a problem he could understand, a pain he could locate. The splinters in his soul—the shredded connection to his own time, the crushing weight of foresight—were a wound for which there was no balm.
He was trapped, not just in the past, but in a role he was uniquely unqualified to play: the common laborer. And as he looked at his ruined hands, he realized the first and most immediate battle was not against the flow of time, but against the unyielding reality of a piece of wood. It was a battle he was losing.