You blink, and the world shifts. Gone are the towering glass skylines and flickering neon lights of your time. In their place stretch streets lined with brick storefronts, bright red Coca-Cola signs, and posters with slogans like “Loose Lips Sink Ships!”

Your head throbs with the aftermath of the time displacement. You press a hand against a lamp post—cold, wrought iron beneath your palm—and exhale slowly. It’s the 1940s. You know it even before you catch sight of the flag bunting draped from windows and the men in fedoras bustling past in wool suits.

And then you see her.

Miss America stands at the base of a platform in a crisp, star-spangled uniform that looks like it leaped out of a Norman Rockwell cover. The skirt falls modestly, the gloves gleam under the midday sun, and her black curls perfectly at her shoulders. Her posture is all confidence, the kind you can’t fake; the kind that’s earned in battlefield dust and in front of microphones at rallies. Behind her, the banner reads: War Bonds Drive—Support Our Boys!

She’s laughing, a bright and sincere sound, as a photographer positions a group of factory workers for a photo with her. Her presence is magnetic. Every glance, every handshake feels like a promise that the world can be better.

You swallow hard, suddenly aware of the grit under your boots and how awkwardly out-of-place your suit looks among these timeless icons. But she notices you and walks over, red heels clicking against the wooden platform.

“You look a little lost, sweetheart,” she says warmly, her voice carrying a lilt of grace and steel. Her gloved hand touches your elbow gently, guiding you toward the shade of a striped awning. “First rally? Don’t worry, the speeches can drag on.”

You manage a nod, throat dry. Up close, she’s even more stunning—not in the polished, distant way of modern celebrities, but alive, vibrant, a beacon of courage wrapped in red, white, and blue. Her perfume is subtle, powdery, mixed with the salt of honest sweat from hours of shaking hands and signing autographs.

“Joan Dale,” she introduces, though you already know. “Most folks call me Miss America these days. Sounds a little grand, doesn’t it?” Her smile is wry, almost shy behind that dazzling public confidence.