The Left Behinds and the iPhone That Saved George Washington by David Potter Page A

and tools to examine the situation in a more efficacious manner. Here”—he gestures to the sitting room, the entire house we’re in—“I am, quite unfortunately, utterly helpless. And here, also quite unfortunately, I must remain. I am in hiding, if you must know. I am officially incognito. Unofficially, I believe all of Philadelphia to know where I am and why I have delayed, but all of us must, for appearance’s sake, play the game.”
    “You’re in hiding from the British?”
    “Oh good Lord, no. I am in hiding from my fellow countrymen, and, most particularly, my fellow revolutionaries. I have agreed, you see, to be our congress’s representative to the king of France. And there I should be now, in the court of Louis the Sixteenth himself, had I sailed on the ship that was to bring me. It—the ship—sadly left without me, nearly a month ago now. I was detained at the time of the sailing. Unavoidably detained. I shall sail as soon as I am able and as soon as there is passage on an outbound ship, which I expect to occur within days. So here I am. And here shall I stay. And no help may I give you of a practical nature.”
    There’s a silence as we all process what has just been said, and then a voice, from another room.
    “Father,” we hear. “Who are these children? And why …” She nods at us, sees that something about me isn’t right. “And why are they here?”
    A woman—thirty, maybe forty—enters our room via a doorway in the back. She is wearing a long dress. An apron. She has a bonnet, of sorts, a white frilly bonnet, on her head.
    “We have come to save the revolution,” Elizabeth says. “And only Dr. Franklin can help.”
    “My dear,” the woman says. “I have heard those very words a dozen times, at the least. Why can only Dr. Franklin help this time?”
    “Because,” Elizabeth says, “General Washington is gone.”
    “Gone? Gone where?”
    “To his grave,” says Elizabeth. “He was white as a ghost. And quite dead. It was a blow to our hearts, to be sure. But he—Mel—has spun a tale so fantastical, he has given us hope.”
    “I see no hope,” Dr. Franklin says, “if General Washington has perished. I will refuse to believe it until I must.”
    “The hope,” I say, “is that in some way this death may be reversed.”
    “Reversed?” says Dr. Franklin. “How so? How may any death be ‘reversed’? What alchemy is this?”
    All eyes are upon me. So I say what’s on my mind, and why not? It seems simple enough. “All we need to do,” I say, “is figure out how I—and my friends—got to this century in the first place. Then we can reprogram things. So we arrive one hour earlier. When we can make sure nothing happens to General Washington.”
    “You see, Sally,” says Dr. Franklin, “these children do not ask much. Only that I undo what has been done. If only I had that power—I could reorder all history!”

TWENTY-NINE
    B EFORE ANYONE CAN REACT , there comes a knocking on the door.
    “Dr. Franklin!” we hear someone shout. A man, who is trying to keep his voice down without much success.
    “Dr. Franklin, I beseech you! I have urgent news! Of the utmost importance!”
    Sally goes to the door, peers through the curtain. “It is Mr. Farrington,” she says, “from the print shop. He seems agitated.”
    “Let him in, Sally,” Dr. Franklin says. “By all means, let him in. Shall we not have a dinner dance, and let the whole of Philadelphia visit?”
    “Now, Father,” Sally says, and unlatches the door. Mr. Farrington enters. He is round, short, young, covered in snow, and red-faced.
    “May I speak frankly, sir?” he says. “I have news of the utmost urgency.”
    “You may, Farrington, you may. We’re all friends here. Tell me—by chance, does your news have to do with the revolution?”
    “It does, sir.”
    “With a certain general who happens to command our army?”
    “It does indeed, sir. A great, great tragedy—General Washington has been