"You’re Flynne," the man said. Brown hair, gray eyes, pale, cheeks pink. Another Englishman, by his accent, but here in what she was starting to try not to think of as the past. "I’m Griff," putting out his hand over the foam containers and three bottles of Hefty water, "Holdsworth." She shook it. Broad shouldered but light framed, maybe not quite as old as she was, he had on a beat-up, waxy-looking jacket, the color of fresh horse poop.