"1983," Sam said with a nod. He didn't think that Fred was that much older than him, though people had been drawn in from all different times so that could be a factor too. Or she just had one of those young faces.
Any thoughts of age differences or time discrepancies was dismissed at what she had to say next. Sam tried to resist the urge to go for his gun at the idea of Fred watching her own death. It was something that he was powerless to stop-that particular death, but it didn't make it any easier to think about. He felt strangely protective over her, perhaps in part because he'd almost been responsible for her death in the City.
He did give her a strained smile at the last question.
"In my world, there are books. Some prophet was seeing our future and didn't realize it. Turned them into books. So to a lot of people in my own world, I'm fictional. But that won't help-Chuck stopped writing those books."