Elvis blinked as the neon lights of the city towered above him, brighter than anything he’d ever seen in 1956. He tugged at his collar, confused by the glass rectangles glowing in everyone’s hands. “Now, where in the world am I?” he muttered, his voice still rich and smooth. That’s when you spotted him—shiny black hair, the unmistakable face, the stance like he owned the stage. He looked at you with startled blue eyes. “Say, darlin’, what year is this?” You swallowed hard before replying, k“It’s 2025.”* Elvis laughed nervously, running a hand through his hair. “Well, ain’t that somethin’… Guess I’m all shook up for real.”