She looks up and blinks. "Not for me," she says steadily, shaking her head. "I'm from 1944. When I came here, I mean." It's not nineteen-anything here; it's hundreds of years in her future, and it's unsettling and frightening every time she lays eyes on the ship and the modernity of it, but slowly, horribly slowly, she's getting used to it.

"I don't think it's January yet."