1892

MAY 14, 1892
“The wintery night proved as cold and dark as my father’s heart. How could he set me up for this? Trading me off like some piece of merchandise? He bargained a price on my life, a sack of silver in the place of his only daughter.
“I pretended to be optimistic for a while, though I was only fooling myself. I told myself, ‘Don’t worry Anna. He will come back for you, just like he promised.’ I should have known better. My father was a relentless gambler. He never kept his promises. Everyone back in my home village in Kent, England called him a trickster, a crook. They never thought I could hear them, but I have even caught the term ‘malicious criminal who needs to be stopped at all costs’. I cannot believe that I defended that barbarian. When no one else would, including my own brother, I was always the one who stood up for him in the presence of the townsfolk. Me. Not Samuel, me. And I have regretted doing so ever since he deserted me in this hellhole.”

The mystery woman’s words on the first page of her journal spoke directly to Nathaniel Martin’s soul. When the highway workers found him, he was garbed in a suit. Not the kind of suits you see on your everyday businessman or CEO. No, he was dressed in some filthy, tattered rags that could possibly have been a suit at one time, maybe even almost a century ago. He does not remember how he ended up in an old bomb shelter in the middle of a desert in Nevada, nor does he remember anything about his life previous to being found and woken up. All he has of the past are the objects he was holding: a ring, a diary of a woman from God-knows-what era, an old shotgun with one bullet, a key, and whatever clothes he had on his back.