Until We Met Again ( Rowan and Johnson )
Chapter 38

Chapter 38

Karla trailed behind at a leisurely pace, but as she rounded the corner, she saw Henry collapsed on the ground. Startled, she dashed over, exclaiming, “Henry! Henry!”

Henry remained unconscious. It was Karla who suddenly sensed danger. She whipped her head around, but it was too late–the thug’s iron rod had already smashed into her head. The blow was so severe that Karla felt her skull might have cracked.

As she fell, clinging to the last shred of consciousness, she reached into her jacket pocket. There, she had a photograph.

Only when she felt the picture faded from her grasp did Karla allow herself to close her eyes in

peace.

Karla was awakened by the commotion. Nearby, it sounded like people were fighting, with the sounds of punches and kicks, along with curses being hurled. It wasn’t in familiar English; instead, it was in very pure French, as if there were a few French people involved in the brawl.

Karla’s head throbbed as she opened her eyes and sniffed the air, catching a whiff of a sour stench. She turned her head and realized she was lying next to a garbage bin. No wonder it reeked. She was sitting right by a dumpster.

Staggering to her feet, Karla found herself in an alleyway–dirty, messy, and secluded, far from the clean side street she had been on with Henry.

The buildings overhead were not what she knew. They bore a European style, something straight out of the ‘70s, and judging by the surroundings, it looked like a derelict zone.

Karla only glanced around briefly, her attention quickly captured by a group of young guys. at the end of the alley. They were beating up a little boy!

The boy lay on the ground, curled up, looking helpless and scared. Karla couldn’t see his face clearly, but her gut told her it was Rowan.

“What the hell are you doing!” Karla bellowed, her anger boiling over.

Those young people turned their heads and noticed it was a woman. The leader, a blond guy, whistled and swaggered towards her with a smirk on his face, muttering something under his breath. Karla was in no mood to translate his trash talk. As he approached, she rewarded him with a swift kick.

The others, seeing their leader take a hit, exchanged glances and charged at Karla, armed with makeshift weapons.

The alley echoed with the sounds of screams and groans.

Minutes later, the blond leader, nursing a bloody nose, helped his battered and bruised friends limp away, shouting threats over his shoulder, “Damn, you’ll pay for this!”

Karla responded by hurling a baseball bat at them.

They scrambled away, and Karla stood, hands on hips, fuming. Anyone who messed with Rowan was going to face her wrath every time.

Remembering Rowan, Karla hurried to the corner where the little boy had taken cover. To her surprise, she found a blue–eyed kid staring at her. She had been mistaken. This wasn’t Rowan. Karla’s tension eased. It must have been the stress of the moment that led to her

mistake.

The little boy was filthy, his clothes torn and ragged. Just as Karla was about to ask if he was okay, he scrambled up and bolted, disappearing in the blink of an eye.

Karla was left bewildered.

Her travels through time and space were too random, like parachuting into unknown territories. At least the previous times she had landed near the protagonist, but now, she found herself in this dump of a place.

Graffiti was scrawled on the walls, broken desks and chairs littered the ground, and a rusted, abandoned car stood nearby. It was a scene straight from a film about troubled youth.

Karla stroked her chin, pondering. “Now, the question is, where do I go to replace Rowan?”

“And what year is it now?”

“How old would Rowan be at this point?”

With these three questions, Karla embarked on her lengthy quest to locate Rowan.