July 11, 1957. Less than one full day left to get Paul and John to meet each other.
I had been quiet all morning, alternating between hoping things would work out and hoping I wouldn’t randomly get sucked back into the present in front of Paul and his family. Paul had told his dad and brother at breakfast that I was leaving today, and they’d said polite goodbyes (or what I presumed were polite goodbyes; I still wasn't entirely used to nineteen fifties etiquette). Paul made it all sounds very normal, and nobody questioned me. I was relieved to see that Paul seemed to have accepted that I...
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