I saw her as soon as I materialized in Golden Gate Park. She lounged on a blanket, waiting for the Jefferson Airplane concert. The crown of dandelions adorning her hair seemed familiar somehow. She turned toward me, perhaps sensing my stare—and I swayed on my feet, knocked dizzy by a rush of déjà vu. My entire life seemed to swirl in her eyes.

    She leaned toward me playfully. “Take a picture, it’ll last longer.”

    “A picture,” I repeated. That’s why she looked familiar; the photo in the historical archive, taken on this warm summer day in 1967. Same crown of flowers, same patchwork blanket spread over a bed of dandelion fluff and leaf mulch. I never dreamed I’d see her in person. I drew a shaky breath.

    “Hey, are you okay?” she asked. “Looks like you’re tripping.”

    I blinked. “I guess I am.”

    She laughed and patted the blanket. “Show’s about to start.”

    I was supposed to be gathering first-hand data on counterculture evolution, not flirting with a pretty girl from a history book. I’d already broken a gazillion temporal safety rules just by speaking to her. But…she wasn’t just any girl.

    I’d lingered over her picture—a grainy newspaper photo—countless times in my research. In a roundabout way, she’d been with me throughout my studies. Her dandelion crown was the catalyst that piqued my interest in this chaotic era, with its addictive music and crazy fashions and revolutionary ideas.

    Could I ignore the rules, risk a timeline collapse or a catastrophic paradox, just to…watch the concert with her?

    The band came onstage, immediately launching into my favorite old-time song, “Somebody to Love.” She lifted her face to the sun, singing along. I hummed the melody, our voices resonating. Goosebumps erupted in a frisson of connection. With pure sunlight illuminating her freckles and music lacing the breeze, I forgot about the rules. I kicked off my shoes and joined her.

    “It kinda feels like I already know you,” she said after the song ended. She traced her finger along my jaw. “Got a name?”

    I couldn’t think past the shiver of her touch. “Steve,” I finally stammered.

    She nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s right. But I think I should call you Trippin’ Steve. And I’m—”

    “Dandelion Maggie,” I finished for her.

    “How’d you know?”

    Good question. The archive hadn’t identified her by name. “I guess it was just meant to be.”

    Her freckles disappeared behind a blush. She kissed my cheek just as a newspaper photographer snapped our photo.

    The photo.

    I froze as realization struck. That picture was supposed to be her, alone. Not kissing an out-of-place researcher. The altered image would cascade through time—was cascading through time—had already cascaded through time?

    As soon as the anachronism registered, the time lab would yank me back upstream. They were probably keying in the recall sequence right now. I’d never be allowed to travel again. San Fran would be lost to me, my career over. Worse, I might have already caused significant damage with the altered photo. But despite all those immediate concerns, my jumbled thoughts snapped to the most important question: How had I known her name?

    “What’s wrong?” Maggie asked, squeezing my hand. Suddenly, I knew she preferred coffee to tea, liked to dance under the streetlights in The Haight, and doodle happy little spiders in her library books. And I loved swaying with her at neighborhood gatherings, even though I’d never been there.

    I couldn’t let this version of my life go. Couldn’t let her go.

    The temporal anchor strapped to my arm tingled as the time drive engaged. I ripped it off and banged it with my shoe until the case cracked.

    Maggie gaped. “Steve?”

    I held my breath, waiting for something horrible to happen, a paradox or a time splinter. For the universe to implode or another traveler to appear and drag me back. But…nothing changed. Had the new photo settled comfortably into the lines of history? Was this how it was always supposed to be? My breath huffed out in a wheeze.

    “Why’d you smash your fancy wristwatch, Steve?”

    Gazing into Maggie’s eyes, I knew I had made the right choice. “I think my trip is over. Or maybe it’s just beginning?”

    She snorted. “Let’s get you sobered up. There’s a cheap diner outside the park.”

    “The one on Fulton?” I’d never set foot on Fulton Street, but the aroma of burnt coffee filled me as I said the words. “The diner with the little pancakes?”

    Maggie nodded and took my hand, and a new timeline blossomed ahead of us, brilliant as the dandelions in her hair.