Lois didn’t know how she was supposed to occupy her time here in 1973. In the future, her life had been very different—she had been working full time, she had been a foreign correspondent in a war zone, she had been an activist. Here, it felt like the days moved slowly when things weren’t happening. She knew she should have been grateful for that, but, at heart, Lois was an adrenaline junkie—she needed something to keep her going. Instead, she was lying upside down on the sofa, reading the same line on the same page of her book over and over, none of it sinking in. She groaned and closed the book, tossing it to the side and instead pressing her hands over her face.
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