Thomas sighed and checked his pistol under his jacket. It wasn’t anything to write home about, just a police surplus Glock 17 he’d picked up on the way down. He’d been lucky in that respect. Though his real age was closer to 60, this body had just turned 21, and he had an NC pistol purchase permit left over from his previous self. 

He was a big man, a hair under six feet and close to 200 pounds of solid muscle, as one would expect from an Army Ranger in peak physical condition. In this timeline, he hadn’t made it to the Special Forces yet, which was just as well. Thomas’s commander had practically been beside himself with joy when he got the paperwork saying he was someone else’s problem. 

Greg hadn’t been so lucky. His body was only 18, and the gun store owner, while sympathetic, wouldn’t sell him a proper pistol. He’d considered picking up a shotgun, but that wasn’t all that much better than the black powder replica revolvers they’d had on hand. A shotgun might have more firepower, sure, but there was no way he could hide it under his jacket. So, he settled on a replica Remington 1858, complete with spare cylinder. At least the damn thing was timed correctly. He could swap them out fairly quickly if he had to. 

Though he towered over Thomas, coming in at a whopping 6 foot 5 inches, Greg didn’t weigh all that much more. He had always been a skinny kid, thanks in no small part to the fact that there was never enough to eat back home. Greg knew from experience that he’d fill out a little more once he got a steady diet and access to a proper gym. Until then, he hoped the heavy jacket would hide the way his ribs showed under his thin T-shirt. Thank God for an unseasonably cool September. 

“Can’t say I blame you for being uncertain,” Thomas said. “But try to imagine how I feel. At least you speak their language.”

As a Black man running a covert operation in the deepest, darkest parts of the South, Thomas couldn't help but feel like he had a target on his back. At least in the larger cities, he could blend in and go unnoticed. Wentworth barely counted as a village. If it weren't for the fact that it was the county seat, it would barely be a blip on the map. 

Greg shook his head vigorously. 

“I’ll grant that the color of my skin might earn me some initial goodwill, but I ain’t any more welcome in these parts than you,” he drawled, his thick Appalachian accent making his words almost unintelligible. Thomas had to focus hard to pick out the meaning. “Soon as they pick up I ain't from respectable stock, they'll think I'm out to steal their copper wire and catalytic converters."

“Can’t you hide your accent?” Thomas asked, rolling his eyes. “Seems like that would solve the problem nicely.”

“I just woke up in this body yesterday,” Greg replied grimly. “Ain’t got all the wires uncrossed yet. Shit, back in my last life? I barely knew how to read at 18. Gonna take some time to let my old memories sink into the new brain.”

“Time we don’t have,” Thomas said. “Fine. You still probably ought to do the talking.”

“I know. Don’t mean I have to like it. At least I still got muscle memory for the piece. Had one just like this as a kid, until my brother sold it for oxy.”

That much, Thomas could believe. Greg had spent most of the ride to Wentworth working on the gun, filing and polishing the internals until it ran the way he liked. How he managed to do it in a moving vehicle with tools he bought at an Ace Hardware was a mystery. It rode on his hip in the leather holster like an old friend, and didn’t look too terribly out of place, either. At a glance, it could pass for a fairly standard police .38 Special revolver. 

“At least there’s that,” Thomas said. “How do you want to play this?”

“Well, we got the right papers, and if they call the number, they’ll get their confirmation. Just gotta hope that they don’t think too hard about our age,” Greg said. 

That was one thing they had going for them. Greg still looked a little on the young side, but he didn’t carry himself like a kid, and Thomas had both a full beard and the command presence of a senior NCO. Their identification, slightly fudged but completely authentic, would pass even close scrutiny. It was a shame they hadn’t been able to use it at the gun store. As soon as the numbers were checked, they only had a couple of hours to complete their business before they dropped from the system altogether. 

“Here’s hoping the kid’s not in on anything serious,” Thomas grumbled. 

“Wait. You didn’t check?” Greg asked, incredulous. 

“Did you forget what year it is? I’d be surprised if three people in the whole county have the internet, much less the cops. We’re lucky the kid was able to call before they brought him in.”

“Shit.”

The way he said it reminded Thomas of an old white dude who used to be friends with his grandpa. Drew it out into two syllables. Shee-yit. 

“You said it, brother man,” Thomas replied. “We’ll just have to hope they’re not keen on keeping the kid.”