The memory of collectors by Dete Meser 03

Dedication to my siblings D'vorah, Hannah, David, Zahava, Rifka, and Mac who've walked with me through the twists and turns of time, always believing in new beginnings. I am sitting here wanting memories to teach me to see the beauty in the world through my own eyes.

Eay Barnwell.

Chapter 1. Elizabeth.

The first image isn't dreamlike as many say it will be. My sister Deborah is talking with me. Her words are soft and low as if we've been in conversation for a while. She wears her signature star necklace and her thick brown hair is tied back in a braid. The details take my breath away. We're at a wooden table in a courtyard. Mounds of red and purple bogenvia spill over its stone walls. Rosefingered sunlight drifts through the leaves of a guava tree which fashions a canopy over our table. I draw in a slow soothing breath of salty air. The ocean is nearby. It feels so damn real.

My sister's voice, which started out thin and muted, sharpens into focus. She's talking about a young girl's attention problems, and I realize she's telling me about one of her students. Disappointment surges through me. I didn't come all the way here to listen to my sister talk about a student, but no promises were made, no guarantees. AON Expeditions promises a journey into our past, but does not guarantee that what happens will be meaningful. My 60 minutes here will race by, so I turned my attention back to Deborah. I can't help but marvel at the things that I once took for granted. Her familiar smile is softer, gentler. A delicate laugh lights up her face. There's an elegance about her high cheekbones, strong jawline that I didn't notice in real life. Yet, this is real life.

I asked my sister how old she'll be on her next birthday, and her eyes cloud with confusion. I should know how old she is. 38, she says. I've come 22 years into the past. 22 years. The thought is so mindbending that I cover my eyes with my fingers and fight back tears. Even though I've already lived this once before, I'm filled with awe. I bring to this ordinary moment the experience of living 22 years beyond it, of knowing all the joy and love and loss and brokenness that will come after. I notice everything. Breakfast is laid out on the table. Orange juice in tall glasses, a bowl of cup fruit, bright yellow napkins. I reach for the white porcelain teapot before me, its warmth radiating deep into my hands. The liquid flows into my cup and its lemon aroma hovers in the air. Everything is more vibrant the second time around. I wonder if this feeling will go on forever. Every item, every moment, everything I'd once taken for granted taking on new meaning.

I don't remember this conversation with my sister, but I recall being here in Santa Barbara, California, at a family reunion with her, our two sisters, and all our kids. Our kids. Mommy. I hear a little voice behind me say. I turn to my chair and before I can even make sense of what I'm seeing, I feel the tears well up. My heart is dancing and crying all at once.

"Can you help me with my transformer?" he asks.

"By Bonnie's."

I can't speak. My lips are trembling and my mouth won't form any words. My son Sam is barely four here. Strawberry blonde with a little boy haircut and big brown eyes. I reach out to touch his freckled cheeks, smooth and round. He turns to me, a surprised look in his eyes. Why don't I answer? I take in every bit of him. The navy blue cotton shorts and white t-shirt, the scuffed Converse, his chubby fingers grasp a plastic action figure.

"I need help," he says, then takes my hand in his and gently pulls. My voice is thick with tears. "You want help with this one?" I say, pointing to his toy. He shakes his head, all serious. "The other one, Optimus Prime, over there." He points to a blanket under a sprawling oak tree where his toys are laid out.

"Are you crying?" my sister asks. "And your face is really red."

"I'm fine," I say, wiping my eyes. A flushed face is a common result of the time travel, but this feels like more than a side effect. Sam takes my hand in his and walks me to the blanket. He drops to his knees, grabs one of the toy robots, and gives it to me. "This one, I can't make him transform."

I sit beside him, feeling a sense of wonder about my body, which bends and stretches in ways that I'd long forgotten. It's strange how I don't remember ever marveling at my body when it was this age. I'd always been disappointed in its pension for having curves when I wanted it to be flat. I don't remember how to transform this robot into a truck. What this toy is supposed to do, but I try.

"Bad guy or good guy?" I ask.

"Good."

I steal a look at the toy to make sure I look like I'm trying to figure it out, but my eyes can't and won't leave his face. There's a pink stain on his cheeks from the heat and the sun. I lean in and kiss his hair, breathe in the familiar little boy scent, and tears prick my eyes once more. He lifts one of the figures with a purple emblem on its chest. "This one is bad," he growls. I bring him close and squeeze him tightly. In this moment, he is still mine. I have the power to soothe and comfort him, to protect him from what's to come.

"I'm having trouble transforming him," I say. "Maybe you want to try again." He nods and takes it back. I watch as he thinks his way through this puzzle, as if my closeness has somehow made it easier for him. Seconds later, he's morphed the robot into a truck. He holds it up to me proudly. "Transform."

I watch him play. And in this moment, I'm the one transformed. I'm free from all the worry that I wasn't the best mother when he was little, that I was always too tired or not paying enough attention or never enough fun. I bring into this moment that this stage in his life will end all too quickly. that I won't be forever worn and weary and wondering what I did wrong or if I could have done better. And that's when I see the beauty of it all. The joy of his giggles and his love for me that knows no bounds. The littleness of his body that once exhausted me, but now I desperately cling to.

In the future, I no longer get to buy sippy cups or crayons or children's toothpaste. We won't go to the library or playground or buy ice cream cakes. I don't get to run to the shoe store with him because his feet have grown seemingly overnight or get to take him shopping at the toy store to find a birthday gift for one of his friends. I no longer have drawers filled with birthday cards and wrapping paper for impromptu invitations. Nor do I have stashes of colored markers and stickers in case he can't find anything to do.

"Can we play hide and seek?" he asks.

"You want to hide?"

He nods because he always loves hiding more than seeking. He drops his trunk onto the blanket. "Close your eyes. No peeking." I cover my eyes but cheat and peek through my fingers. I have so little time with him. "Ready or not, here I come," I shout, then start looking around the courtyard, pretending I don't know that he's hiding behind a tree in the corner.

"Where did you go?" I call out. The tears fall. "Where did he go?" This beautiful little boy will grow and go to school. He will gaze at the stars and want to be an astronaut someday. Get his driver's license, meet his first love and take her to prom, go to college and earn his teaching certificate. Then begin his dream job teaching astronomy to high school students. Then he will be forever gone, his future erased in a senseless accident. Yet here he is, standing beneath the tree, his body trembling with excitement, a huge smile on his face, delighted that he's found a hiding spot he thinks I can't find. Bursting with life, years and years of joy and laughter and love still ahead of him. The future, with all that it brings, is held at bay. as I scurry around the courtyard twice and then pretend to spot him for the first time.

"There you are." He laughs and races from behind the tree, then plants a baby powder soft kiss on my cheek.

"You couldn't find me for a long time."

"I know," I say. I hold him close to my heart. "It's been a very long time."

"If you could spend an hour in your past, what would you do?" This is the first question on the AON expedition's application and the most common answer is surprising. The hour we want to relive is not our wedding day or the day our children were born. It's not even the joyous moments of a Sunday dinner with family or a Christmas with presents under the tree. And despite how altruistic we think we might be, very few people admit they'd spend that hour giving justice to Hitler or Stalin or any other evil icon. No. The most common answer is that we want to spend a few more moments with someone we lost. I'm just one of millions who gave this answer. I'm also more broken than I admitted in the application. I still have hours, sometimes days, where I don't believe Sam's gone, as if his death is a story I've been told or a movie I've seen. Each day brings the agony of knowing that for the rest of my life, I'll live with arms outstretched for a son who's no longer there.

I read somewhere that a baby's cells remain a part of their mom long after they are born, take their first steps, learn to speak, go to school, get a job, and become a parent themselves. Maybe that's why I can't let go of him. Why Sam still feels like he's always with me. Live long enough and you accumulate losses. My dad used to say that a lot when I was in my 20s. And back then, I thought, why does he say such depressing things? That's because I hadn't lost anything back then. Or perhaps it was also because other than my singular life, I hadn't gained anything either. I hadn't met my future husband, Mark, at a friend's wedding and tumbled head over heels in love. I hadn't lost my first pregnancy, a baby we'd hoped to name after my grandmother, Violet, in a miscarriage at 16 weeks. I hadn't given birth to beautiful Sam, who wouldn't exist if my pregnancy had worked the first time. I had no idea back then that once you love something, anything, all you can ever be sure is that you're going to lose it someday.

Now I'm crying. After my hour was up, I was extracted to the present. And even though I've stepped outside of AON expeditions into bright sunlight, I still can't escape the shadows. From the outside, AON could be any industrial building. A fortress of reinforced steel with a curved hanger-like roof. Its walls, painted in muted sage and desert sand, blend seamlessly into the southern California landscape. No casual observer would guess at the extraordinary things that happen within. Minutes later, a staff psychologist joins me outside. She has a soft, forgiving face that looks like she's accustomed to seeing people at their worst.

"I'm Dr. Kim. How are you feeling?"

The silence expands between us as I find my words. My body trembles and I feel the pulse of grief return. It's not a broken bone I can show you, but it's real. This pain. This experience has destroyed my sense of reality. Grief had taught me that I won't hear Sam's voice or see his beautiful smile or experience the light of his silly giggle. He won't run to me or wrap his little arms around me and squeeze. Grief had shown me that living means he is no longer here. Then a jump in time. And none of that's true. I spent an hour with Sam, holding his hands, watching him run and play and laugh. I held and tickled his body, kissed his soft cheeks a thousand times, sang ridiculous songs, then cuddled and snuggled him. My heart was full. Nothing else in the world mattered. And in my next breath, it seemed the 60 minutes evaporated, and my entire world collapsed.

"I'll never stop missing him," I whisper.

"It's common to feel profound grief after a visit with someone we have loved and lost," she says softly. "Give yourself time to recover and get back to normal."

"I don't want to recover. I want to recapture the feeling of being with him and hold on to it like perfume in a bottle so I can always come back to it. I don't want to go back to a normal world where Sam isn't in it."

In the months after Sam's death, I'd fallen apart, acting like a mad woman, exhausting everyone in my life who cared about me until I came to the point where I began to nurse the idea that I was ready to embrace death. To cling to life seemed a betrayal of Sam, who I could only connect with in death. I dulled the pain with wine and pills, then both. When I hit rock bottom, I was kneeling on the cold bathroom tile, my head flung over the toilet basin, my hair dragging in the foul water, and my body rocked with spasms as I vomited the cocktail of pills and cabernet I'd consumed an hour earlier. I was sobbing, the kind of uncontrollable tears that made me gasp for air. It felt like my grief had no end. And in that moment, I had a kind of epiphany. Not a religious one, I don't think. A clear, calm thought that seemed as though it had winged itself into the room and lighted on my shoulder. This wasn't only about losing Sam. It was also about me. It was only when I allowed the truth to squeeze in that I began to see what I kept hidden from myself all this time.

It's my fault that Sam died. It was my birthday, the milestone 50, and my husband Mark was in what he called a technology monastery. He and a team of 22 engineers holed up day and night on a ranch in Ohigh, California, working on plans for the technology that would later become AON Expeditions. A group of friends had taken me out for a birthday lunch. Then Sam and I made plans to grill some steaks together later that night. 10 minutes into the meal, he glanced at his phone and said hurriedly, "Sorry, Mom. I have to go."

"Where are you going?" he stood.

"I've got to meet someone."

"Come on, stay a while. Talk to me." He was silent for a long moment. I thought this meant he was finally going to tell me why he'd been so distant, leaving the house at all hours of the night, often not returning until hours later.

"Just because dad ignores us doesn't mean I have to be here with you every second." His words felt like a punch to the gut.

"What are you saying?" I should have kept quiet then. Instead, my anger flared after all the things I'd done for him as a mother. after being there for him when his father couldn't. How could he talk to me with such contempt?

"You're just like your father. You do whatever you want."

"I'm not, Dad." I waved my hand at him. "Just go, then." He seemed so young as he hurried to the front door, his head bowed, but also so very old, like he was embarking on a doomed journey. He shut the door behind him with a firm thunk, and I went about the business of cleaning up the celebration dinner that neither of us had eaten, hating myself for my harsh words, wishing I'd handled it differently. I never got the chance to say I was sorry.

When the police called me hours later, I couldn't understand what they were saying. How could Sam be gone? I tumbled end over end. Nothing made sense. Then the question slithered in. Why was the pistol we kept in the safe missing along with $3,000 in cash? Police never recovered the gun or the cash. The same night that Sam was killed in the accident, someone stole our speedboat from the slip at the harbor. It never turned up. The police blamed it on an uptick of thefts that summer, but that didn't explain other nagging questions. Why had Sam been walking on that lone stretch of highway close to midnight? Why was his car parked miles away? Why were his last minutes spent with a drug dealer? The coroner didn't find any drugs in Sam's body or in his possession. So maybe this late night meeting wasn't about drugs. I couldn't find any other connection between them. They hadn't gone to school together. There were no emails or texts between them. It crossed my mind that maybe Sam had a burner phone where he kept those communications secret. I never found one. My sister Deborah brought up the possibility that the two had met on a dating app. Maybe Sam was gay and I didn't know it. And the reason he was on that secluded road was that he was hiding his relationship. I cried, not at the possibility that Sam was gay. I would have accepted it, even though admittedly I hadn't seen signs of that. It broke my heart that Sam might have felt he had no choice but to keep it a secret. Here's what I know. If I hadn't lashed out in anger, he would not have been on that stretch of highway when that car spun through the curve and took his life. He would be still alive.

The psychologist touches my shoulder reassuringly. "You okay?" I have the sense that she thinks she knows about death, but she only knows it from a distance, from comforting people like me. She doesn't know that when death takes away your son, the five stages of grief and everything she learned in college are blown to pieces. Still, I must stop crying. Not just because my ex-husband Mark Saunders is the founder of Aon Expeditions and it will get around the company that I was a mess after my jump, but I don't want this psychologist to conclude that I'm not emotionally stable enough to embark on my second trip scheduled for late this afternoon. The waiting list for a jump is so long, sometimes years, that only a handful of people in the world have ever been granted a second one. It is far easier to get into Harvard than it is to get your first time travel slot. The odds of getting a second one, especially when you're the founder's exwife, are about the same as winning the Powerball.

When I heard the voicemail from Mark telling me he'd scheduled a free second jump for me, I was surprised. I hadn't spoken to him much since our divorce nearly 3 years earlier, so it made no sense that he'd given me this exceptional gift. I'd returned this call right away. "How do you do this?" I asked. "There is a limited supply of time travel slots, and the jumps themselves require so much energy and manpower that they aren't cheap to produce." Then there's the Byzantine application and selection process that kicks out 98% of applicants in the first round. Millions try to circumvent or appeal the process each year and are still rejected. Giving me a second trip, even though Mark is the founder, is a herculean feat. It was complicated, he admitted.

"Why then when we're not together?"

"I was hoping you'd call me back," he said slowly. "And you did."

My voice was filled with disbelief. "You gave me a trip that's impossible to get because you hoped I'd call you back."

"I miss you, Elizabeth. And if you're willing, I want us to get together when you return. You can tell me all about your trip."

"So, there is a catch. And if I don't want that?" I ask.

"Then the trip is still yours."

"Are you okay?" the psychologist asks, bringing me back to the moment. I speak calmly, disguising the pulsing ache. "I'm grateful that I got this time with him," I say quietly, hoping that expressing gratitude instead of despair makes me appear more stable. My softened tone seems to work.

"Let's get you ready for your next jump," she says, then guides me back inside.

Chapter 2. Andy.

She's beautiful and unlike many of my recent dates, she looks like her Hinge profile photo. She has the kind of striking beauty that turns heads. Big blue eyes set wide apart, shimmering blonde hair that would make Barbie self-conscious. Even her name, Fiona, is beautiful. In about 5 minutes, she'll mention Christmas with the Cranks, and I'll hear about every scene, every line she loves, and she'll relate them to me breathlessly, like she's a sports announcer, giving me the play-by-play. Then she'll try to convince me that she talks to ghosts regularly. After that, she'll say that her psychic told her we're a great match, but that I harbored some dark secrets. She hopes that secret isn't that I'm a vampire. We'll laugh about that. Over dessert, she'll tell a harrowing account of meeting what she's sure was an alien at her cousin's barbecue. Scratch that. The truth is, I don't remember exactly what she said about her cousin's barbecue because I'd been distracted. Morose might be a better word. Earlier that day, the thriller novel I'd slaved over for 14 months was rejected by the editor who'd already published five of my books. Her words had felt like a thousand swords impaling my heart. "We liked it. We just didn't love it." After that, exhaustion had crept into my bones, and I'd been unable to focus on anything.

"Are you okay?" Fiona asks.

"Sure, why?" I say, but the words come out slowly.

"You're crying." I touch my face. Tears are rolling down my cheeks. A common side effect of the time travel.

"Sorry, I just need some air," I say, wiping my face. "Would you excuse me?" I amble through the restaurant toward the front door. My mind is still a mess, but this much I know. I've jumped into Cafe Fior in my hometown of Ventura, California, a beach town that's about the size of renowned cities like Santa Barbara. As I passed by the hostess stand, I stopped to glance at the date on the reservation screen on her computer. There it is, August 20th, 2025. My heart pounds so hard it's like a drum beat in my chest. I've come three years into the past. I've hit the jackpot. This is the summer I met Kate. The summer my world turned upside down. I only have an hour in the past, so I hurry to the door. I place my hand on the door knob and try to turn it, but it won't move. Have I lost strength? My skin pricks with anxiety. Every second matters. My patients frayed. I yank on the handle again. The hostess runs up.

"Sorry, is the door stuck again? Let me try for you." She presses her slim frame against the door, pulls up on the handle, and flings it open. The gentle summer wind sweetened by honeysuckle floats in, beckoning me. Outside, cafe lights crisscross the boulevard and couples stroll beneath their warm glow. I step over the threshold and begin to run. There are only 58 minutes left.

I hurry through the four blocks to Kate's apartment. The distance feeling endless despite my speed. My heart is thrumming double time as I imagine seeing her again. As her apartment building comes into view, reality sets in. August 20th. Kate and I haven't met yet. We haven't had our batting cage and Indian food first date on August 22nd. I haven't taken her to the karaoke bar on Main Street where I'll discover she can belt out a pop ballad with a voice like Taylor Swift. Okay, I'm biased. We haven't walked on Hobson Beach beneath the silvery moonlight. She has no idea who I am.

"Buy Apple and Microsoft stock when you get there," my dad said when I told him I'd been granted one of the impossible to get travel slots. My cousin Brad slipped me a list of all the World Series and Super Bowl winners in my lifetime so I could memorize them, bet on a game, and win big. A couple of thousand people on social media have given me the same advice. But we can't get rich by knowing the future. We can't bring any physical object from the past, not our dad's antique watch, or any sentimental item we've got our heart set on. We can't secret away the Willie Mays baseball card that's worth a quarter of a million dollars today. And no, I can't buy some valuable stock, squirrel it away in a safe deposit box, then look for it when I return to the present. It won't be there when I return to the future. That's because the way we enter and exit the past creates a reset when we return. A whole row of quantum physicists headed by Dr. Fabio Costa at the University of Queensland explained the process at the AON expedition's orientation using the recent discovery of closed timelike curves, the theory of relativity, and some very complex math to demonstrate that whatever we jumpers do in the past will bear no effect on the future. I'll admit I didn't understand most of what they presented, but the gist of it is this. No matter what we do in the past, the future we return to remains unchanged.

"Say you go back to spend an hour with your grandma," Dr. Costa said, projecting a giant yet generic photo of a smiling grandmother. "Every small decision you make creates variations. The things you talk about with her will be different than what happened the first time you lived through this event. In that hour, you might convince her to go for ice cream, which didn't happen the first time. You could even go somewhere new, anywhere that didn't happen before. No matter what you do and what happens in that hour, when you return, the future is never changed."

So why bother? If nothing I do here changes anything, if nothing I do here matters, why spend a small fortune for 60 minutes in the past? Because I want one more hour with Kate. In my present life, my girlfriend wants to move in together. Lauren's an architect at a firm that specializes in historic preservation. She has a love of books that rivals my own, and she likes to text me sweet messages during the day to tell me she's thinking about me. But when we were putting down the deposit on an apartment we plan to share, my hands shook so badly I could hardly sign my name. A week later, when she talked about getting a dog together, my heart pounded with panic and I ended making up a ridiculous story about dog allergies to get out of making what felt like the next level of a commitment together. I finally had to admit to myself that as perfect as Lauren is, I had never been able to get over Kate Montano.

I'd met Kate at my friend Jonathan's party on August 21st. I'd popped into the party, not planning to stay long, and presented Jonathan with a Bordeaux made by a seventh generation wine-making family. Exactly the kind of gift he expects. I was planning to sip some of the expensive Blanton's bourbon he always served, stay for an hour or so, then make a swift and quiet exit. My shot of bourbon in hand, I'd wandered into the living room where a woman in a red dress was playing Sinatra's Fly Me to the Moon at the piano, arranged to sound like a modern blend of swing and pop. I walked up beside her and sang softly in what I hoped was a not too terrible voice. "You are all I long for, all I worship and adore. In other words, please be true." She turned to look at me, her face illuminated by the peachy glow of the candles on the piano. "Thanks for singing," that's all she said. And yet, I felt something click, as if everything that had happened in my life before had been leading me to that very moment. I was held by the intensity of her eyes, unable to draw a breath.

"What would you like to hear next?"

"Maybe something by Chad Baker," she asked.

"Sure," I wanted to say. Instead, I found myself gazing at her for a long moment, feeling strangely giddy, my usual charm replaced with fumbling awkwardness. "What would you suggest?" I said, my face burning.

"How about 'There Will Never Be Another You'?"

I nodded. And as she began to play, everything around me muted. The cocktail chatter, the clink of glasses. All I heard was the music she made with that piano. I'll never forget the feeling of being with this beautiful stranger and the overwhelming sense that her music was weaving the story of our future life together. This is the memory I have on forever repeat. Kate was brightness and effervescent in a time when everything in my life was barely slogging along. Nothing I wrote seemed ready or good. My word count dwindled and I began erasing sentence after sentence of my work in progress. Unhappy with a paragraph, doubting the adjectives. I'd take hours on one scene because the words weren't flowing. I'd begun to think that I'd lost all my storytelling abilities and that I was doomed to find another career. But I couldn't fathom what that might be. I'd scared myself by looking at job listings and realizing I'm not qualified for anything else but the thing I could no longer seem to do. My last girlfriend had dumped me four months earlier, saying I was depressing and no longer fun. She was right. My every emotion hinged on whether my writing was going well, how book sales were going, what my royalty statements looked like, or the state of my reviews on Goodreads and Amazon. And since those things were miserable, then I drank too much and generally moped around my apartment, unable to find the motivation to do much of anything except write.

After our get-to-know-you first date, Kate was on my mind even when we weren't together. And when we were, I felt my heart leaping out of my chest. It's a cliche to say that I never felt more alive, but that's the only way to describe it. When I was with her, I became fun again. In our five days together, we made pasta at 2:00 in the morning and tried paddle boarding at Mondo's Beach. We got drunk in the tasting room of a craft winery in town and dried out while listening to Puccini and eating sushi in her living room. I smiled all the time because I couldn't believe something this good was happening to me. My writing flowed. Day after day, I'd bang out 2,000 words, far more than my usual. It felt as though I was summoning a story from another realm. And the music, it floated through her apartment all the time. Cool jazz, elegant string quartets, homesick blues, solemn Gregorian chants, big sweeping concertos, gut-wrenching opera. Some of it I loved, and much of it felt strange and new, even though it had been around for centuries. But all of it was crazy and wonderful when I was with her. 5 days later, we were walking on sundrenched Faria Beach, and I told her that I was falling for her. Who falls for a girl in less than a week? That's the stuff of romance novels, not real life. Before meeting Kate, I'd thought love and romance were commodities manufactured to sell books, songs on Apple Music, and greeting cards. I'd have scoffed at anyone who told me they felt this way about someone after only knowing them a few days. I was utterly wrong about that. And this part I remember with crystal clarity. "I'm falling for you, too," she said as she wrapped her arms around my neck, enveloping me in her jasmine scent as the tide rolled in beneath our feet.

I thought we were becoming a couple until she didn't show up for the picnic she'd planned for Emma Wood State Beach on August 26th. At first, I thought I'd misunderstood the date or the time. I even walked 30 minutes up the coast to Salomar Beach in case I was in the wrong place. She wasn't there either. Then she didn't respond to any texts or calls. Emails went unanswered. Our relationship was new enough that I didn't know how to contact any of her friends. Sometimes I'd panic and think that our whirlwind romance was as imaginary as the characters I wrote about in my novels. I'd flip through the dozens of photos of us on my phone to remind myself that what we had was real. Weeks sped by and I found myself filled with the ache of missing her, wondering what happened, but feeling powerless to do anything about it. I imagined her calling to say that she'd been in an accident and was laid up in a hospital somewhere. So, I answered every call, even the ones that were obviously spam. She never reached out.

"Face it, Andy. You've been ghosted. Happens to the best of us," my friend Jonathan had said. After that, I went for therapy sessions, trying to get over her. How hard could that be? I had only known her for 5 days. "We're wired for love," my therapist had said. "What you're feeling is just a cocktail of happy hormones, dopamine, oxytocin, serotonin, which create a sensation that's a bit like a hit of cocaine. That's why it's so difficult to break the addiction to her. These feelings will fade the more time you're not together anymore." I tried to make that be true. Really tried. I tossed away any reminders of her, even the striped t-shirt she'd left in my apartment, which still smelled of her perfume. I'd stopped listening to sad breakup songs. I hung out with friends, threw myself into my writing, and spent a week on a beach in Mexico. But none of that made me forget her. I'd always find myself wondering if I'd done something different. Would we still be together? Eventually, I used those feelings of desperation and addiction and loneliness to bang out a novel that ended up being a smash success, hitting all the bestseller lists in English-speaking countries before being translated around the rest of the world. He's Gone was unlike anything I'd written before. A thriller based on a true story that played out a mile from my apartment the winter after Kate disappeared. A dead body washed up at the pier in Ventura, California. In real life, the discovery of the decomposed, bloated body with a gunshot wound to his neck sent a shock wave through Sleepy Ventura. In a place best known for its easygoing beach lifestyle, finding a dead body was unimaginable. Something you might expect in a fedded corner of a big city. Not here. The police couldn't make any identification of the man or come up with any suspects. In my novel, a cop who'd been dumped by the one investigates the crime and realizes he's living vicariously through the details he uncovers about the dead man's love life. And unlike the rest of my novels with their happily ever after romantic endings, this one didn't end with the cop finding a new love. I was done with romance forever, but instead closed with a gruesome twist that readers loved. The success of the book gave me more opportunities to meet women at book signings and readings. I'd tried my hand at dating or something that resembles that. I quickly tired of the first date and the more daunting second date. I just couldn't power through the awkward introduction phase. It had been so easy with Kate. I thought I'd deleted everything that could remind me of us. Then I found some photos on my phone and flipped through them. We were so happy.

Now standing in front of her apartment building, the memories fade. I pinch myself. If I'm lucky, I'm about to experience being with her again. To anyone else, the six-story monolith coated in a smooth light gray stucco looks like just another apartment complex along this palm-lined street. But to me, it's filled with our memories, as if the things that happened here are stored in its walls and windows, and I can play them back. My eyes fall on the arched doorway framed by decorative tiles out front. And the memories come rushing in. Our first kiss beneath its sheltering canopy well after midnight. The morning I surprised her on the doorstep with Great Expectations, a novel she'd told me she'd always wanted to read. My head spins and the tears come fast, stinging my eyes. Everyone cries within the first minutes of their jump. But these tears aren't just a side effect. I glance up at her apartment building. Golden light filters from her second-floor window. White curtains flutter in the summer breeze, reaching into the night. An invitation, it seems. I watch her shadow pass by the window and my throat tightens. The first time around, we'd spent five days together, practically inseparable. Tonight, she doesn't know me. We're back at square one, and all my plans feel like a blur of hairbrained ideas that will never work. Without Jonathan's party, how will I get her to talk to me?

Chapter 3. Logan.

I feel dangerous today. I'm rising to the occasion. Nothing can stop me. Today is the day I'll make happen. If my boss will shut the hell up. My phone pings with a notification that my auto driver will be here in 3 minutes to take me across town. And this is the very moment my loudmouthed supervisor decides to rant about my AON expeditions trip. In the 6 months since I was selected, the guy never yakked about the trip once. Sure, he complained about me getting to work late and put me down for taking too long to help customers, but mostly the guy seemed to forget I even existed. Now, with the seconds winding down to the big moment, he stands over me while I finish up at my desk. A deliberate power move to make me feel small.

"Where'd you get the money anyway? You got a side hustle going on I should know about?"

"I have ways." I shrug like it was easy to come up with the money even though the truth is I've tapped most of my savings and maxed out two credit cards for this trip.

"Waste of money," he says. "Five figures for what? 60 minutes in the past? That's some there." My phone pings again. The auto driver is out front.

"Ray John, stay focused." I make a move toward the elevator, but he blocks my way. "They're using you, Logan. You're a guinea pig."

"You don't know what you're talking about," I say with conviction. Inside the elevator, my confidence fades. My boss is a blowhard who drinks too much Jim Beam, talks too much about conspiracy theories, and mocks anyone who disagrees with him. But he's right about this one thing. I am broken. And why they've chosen me out of the millions of applicants makes no sense. First off, I answered yes on three health eligibility questions. Even one yes usually meant an automatic rejection. "Do you have a chronic medical condition, including a history of mental illness? Have you ever had a concussion, brain injury, or any brain or spine surgery? Have you ever had any dependency on drugs, alcohol, or tobacco?" And I failed the fitness requirement of being able to climb seven flights of stairs in 90 seconds. Not surprisingly, my application was declined. I called in sick to my job at the courier company and spent the day sulking and scrolling through story after story of successful jumps. Every single one of them flaunting how the experience changed their lives. My anger and jealousy fueled a couple of half-baked ideas to convince Aon Expeditions to change their minds. I didn't have to put any of them into play because two days later an email swooped into my inbox that said, "Your AON Expeditions trip application has been moderated and approved."

Now I'm lying inside a ginormous machine AON Expeditions has named the SAM 5000 that looks like an MRI on steroids married a cement mill. Because of what my boss said, I'm thinking about guinea pigs. Specifically, the guinea pig I had when I was eight. Rocco took a big risk, busted out of his cage, got trapped in the toilet, and died. Hope that isn't my fate here. The room is meat locker cold, and not even the stack of heated blankets they heap on me can stop my teeth from chattering. Traveled to the past is not yet an exact science. They can't yet control into what time we jump. We could find ourselves in the middle of having our diaper changed, reciting our wedding vows, or slogging through an hour-long algebra exam. I heard about one guy who jumped and found himself on the crapper in an outhouse in Mexico on a family vacation. He had food poisoning and spent the entire 60 minutes in misery. He asked for his money back, but Aon refused. Nothing's guaranteed.

The lights dim, then blink out. It's pitch dark before I jump. My heart thumps in the presence of such darkness. My eyes open wide to collect light. And when not a single particle of light penetrates, my brain makes up light stuff. Flickers of white light pulse at the fringes of what is my vision. These grow into simple geometric patterns, then images floating around the room. There's a bathtub being steered by an old man in a metal helmet. A parade of squirrels wearing backpacks and snowshoes marches across a snowy field. The hallucinations are so consuming they look and feel like my brain has exploded. And there's a smell. Spices, fresh fruit, vegetables, scents that thicken to the point where they feel like I can touch them. Some travelers believe that if you think about when you want to go to during this pre-jump sequence, you'll jump to that time. The scientists say this isn't possible. This isn't a simulation. You're not walking through your memories. Your consciousness is traveling back in time into your own body. I don't really understand most of it, but the way the engineers explained it, our consciousness is converted into a signal that can be moved through space-time without the energy requirements it would take to move our bodies. In the same way we use signals to communicate to our machines on Mars, our consciousness, complete with all our memories and emotions can travel into our bodies in the past. At first, only the billionaires and a few major celebrities did it. Movie stars, basketball champions, tech giants. The price tag was so steep that no one else could afford it. When every one of them returned safely from the first AON expeditions jumps, investors rushed to finance it. The tech improved, costs dropped, and for the first time, mere mortals like me could dream about being selected to take a trip.

The machine lurches and spins for a moment. At least it feels like that, even though in reality, it hasn't moved at all. My consciousness is the only thing moving. Bang! Inside my head is a loud sound like fireworks going off. And then I'm impossibly hot, as if the temperature shot up 200° in 5 seconds. Then I feel the worst pain in my chest as my body feels like it weighs 1,000 lbs. A massive stone hurtling through space and slamming into what? I blink my eyes open and I'm at a street corner standing. I feel the frenetic beating of my heart. All of this is impossible. That's what my brain says. It's before sunrise and the air is crisp and cool. The horizon is lit up neon orange, giving the rugged mountain range in the distance an iridescent glow. The mountain peaks seem to touch the sky, reaching toward the heavens. It's so quiet that I can hear the steady buzz of a neon sign behind me. I turn to look. Motel, Mount Whitney. I've hit the jackpot. I am at most a 15-minute drive away from the trail head to the highest mountain in the United States, Mount Whitney. I draw in a deep breath of the dry mountain air, a mixture of pine needles and sage, and choke up in disbelief. I'm dizzy with wonder. I notice a small group of people gathered down the block, backpacks slung over their shoulders. I'm wearing one, too. Then the details rush in. I'm about to get on a bus to take me to the trail head to Mount Whitney's 14,55 ft peak. I walk a few steps toward the group. I feel like I'm walking on air. My steps light and unsteady as if I might float away any moment. A quick glance at my legs and my hiking boot-clad shoes and I start to cry. Big hysterical blubbering sobs that make me stop in my tracks. I am walking. I'm someone who rarely cries. So these thick tears are foreign and yet strangely inevitable at the same time. They've been locked inside since the old me died on August 25th, 2025. The day I became paralyzed. I'm racing down the street toward the bus, my legs pumping as fast and as hard as my body will take me. My feet hit the pavement. The bracing mountain air whips through my hair. And a single intoxicating thought slips into my head. I am running. Rage on. I scurry up the stairs onto the bus. Some dude has chucked his backpack in the aisle, so I leap over it. A feat that after three years of being unable to run or jump feels like utter magic. I head down the aisle and scan the faces of the passengers. One woman with short blonde hair scans the tattoos on my arms and neck, eyes me suspiciously, then quickly looks back at her phone. I'm used to people ignoring me, especially girls. Living in a wheelchair, strangers looked past me, often straight through me, not seeing that I was still someone who wanted the same things they did. Even my old friends have begun to look past me. Moving on. Too busy to make time for me anymore. I slide next to a guy about my age with brown hair pulled into a sad knot at the back of his head. His heavy eyelids make me think he partied too much last night.

A crime that he'll pay for on this morning's hike. Hey, I say. What's the date? Saturday, he says. What month? What day? Is this a test or something? He shrugs. August 20th. Then it hits me like a ton of bricks. This is the last big hike of my life.

The bus races along the highway in the dawn light, hurtling me miles away from the jump in. Crap. I can't go too far because we're not supposed to go more than 10 miles from where we are jumped. That's to ensure that Aon expeditions can bring us back. They have to locate our life signature, a signal unique to each of us, not unlike a fingerprint, but on a subatomic level. The technology is in the early stages, so finding that digital fingerprint is like sifting through octillions of grains of sand on a beach. We're easier to find if we stay close to where we came in. In the orientation, they told us that we'd experience excruciating pain if we went more than 10 miles from the jumpin point.

I yanked the cord above my head. Can I get off here? I shout. Several other hikers turned to stare at me. We're in the middle of the dusty scrub and chaparel, still miles from the trail head. Only a crazy person would ask to be dropped off here. Only stop is the trail head, the driver shouts back. I brace myself for the pain. Can it be worse than the trauma of being in a broken body? Of being exhausted or sensing strange things that aren't actually happening to my legs? Could it be worse than feeling like I'm in an ice block from the waist down?

We get closer to the trail head and I feel that familiar flutter of excitement in my chest that I get every time I'm about to start a hike or a swim or a ride. But no pain. They lied to us. Holy I didn't expect this. It's 5 in the morning and I'm on the hike to Mount Whitney on one of the bazillion switchbacks that will ultimately lead me up to Whitney's summit. It's surreal looking out from the pitch black trail in the middle of the night and seeing lots of tiny little lights and a line spiraling up the mountain. This is because many people start their day hikes to Whitney early and the whole trail is more like a party bus than a wilderness hike in solitude. Ahead of us are a couple of hours of steep climbs and descents that will pummel even the most experienced hikers and require near constant decision-making to navigate an endless gauntlet of rocks and chunks of granite.

I didn't dare dream that I'd get to relive this trip. I'd have been happy if I were swimming in a pool or riding a wave on my surfboard. Even a stroll down the street would have been better than where I was. Problem is, my body is a bundle of misery. I've got acute mountain sickness, nausea, dizziness, and a pounding headache. And the only ways to get over it is to slow down or leave this line and hike down 1,000 ft or so. My legs, my stellar physical fitness. None of that matters because even Olympic athletes get AMS.

You doing okay? The guy behind me asks. I turn around and in the pre-dawn light, I can't make out anything but his red flannel shirt illuminated by his flashlight. You're slowing down a lot? Yeah, I say. AMS flare up. He withdraws a metal canister from his pack. Here, take a couple of hits of oxygen. I placed the plastic mask over my mouth, pressed the lever, and a few seconds of cool oxygen fill my lungs, refreshing me with each breath. Still, my body feels heavy, like I have a hangover. Hate to say this, but if you're already feeling like crap, you shouldn't go any further.

I'm sick of people telling me all the things I shouldn't do. Why do others assume anything about me? In the future, I'll lose a kidney and suffer a dislocated left clavicle, eight broken ribs, and a severed spine. All of which will leave me in intensive care for 33 days, and in rehab for another 70. I'll spend months wallowing in dark places, cursing and screaming at my broken body, fighting for my life and limbs and organs, visualizing again and again my body slicing through the waves in the ocean. My feet scaling a mountain and my legs cranking through a 100mile bike ride in a day. Some stranger with an oxygen can isn't going to gaslight me out of this. I'm fine.

When I'd completed this hike the first time around, I'd been the first in the group to sum it, blasting my way there and back in under five hours. But the way I'm feeling, I've got to take it easy. I slowed down so much that eventually I'm toward the back of the line where all I can do is concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other, avoiding rock scree, my every step deliberate and precise. I practice gathering my energy and letting it go. Gather, release, gather, release. This is the trick that works for me, even in a wheelchair. Then I try to act like I'm going to battle against this mountain to fight something mean. It's working. And in my haze of relief, another feeling floats through. Amazement. They haven't extracted me. More than an hour has zipped by, and I'm still here with full use of my legs.

Hey. A woman's voice behind me says, "You have any idea how much farther it is to the top?" My head whips around and a girl around my age is talking to me. Sweat glistens on her face, but she smiles through it. She wears a down jacket with the hood pulled over her head. And hiking pants, the kind the athletic wear stores sell as performance and style, but they're flimsy and won't last for more than a hike or two. Maybe 80 or 90 more, I say, hoping that's minutes, not miles. She sigh. I'm terrible at this hiking stuff. No one can be terrible at hiking. She may think she's terrible at hiking, but I suck at this small talk stuff. Still, she laughs. Yes, they can. And you've met her. I'm Haley. She puts out her hand and shakes mine. Starving? Should have brought more snacks. You got anything to share? I've got some chocolate that might help the next mile or so go easier. Belgian chocolate. I look up at her. You think I'm on Mount Whitney with Belgian chocolate? She laughs. I'll take whatever you got.

I shrug off my backpack and dig to the bottom, moving aside the lightweight foldable saw I always carry and pass the baggie of dried birch bark I used as a fire starter on longer hikes and pull out the bar of Hershey's chocolate. I'm blown away she's talking to me. She's not looking past me like so many girls do when they see me in a wheelchair. And she's not giving me a look of pity or talking to me like I'm a child. I break off a piece and hand it to her. Let's get you caught up to the rest of the group. Don't want you falling further behind. That might not be so terrible, she says. After years of being invisible in a wheelchair, I don't know what to make of her comment. Is it a compliment? A joke? An owl hoots from high above a nearby fur tree. See, even the owl agrees with me. She smiles at me, straight white teeth. Why don't I smile back or at least laugh? I'm no good at small talk. I don't think I'm going to make it to the summit, she says. Give it time, and your feet will find their own way on the path, I say, softening my tone. You have to let go of the pain and the fear that you won't make it. Thanks, Yoda.

I turn to look at her and in the soft morning light I'm captured by her face. It feels like I've just woken from a long nightmare and I'm seeing things, everything for the first time. The last 3 years in the chair, I'd given up hope that I'd ever know what it was like to have a girl like me again. The few times I hung out at a bar or party, it was as if I existed in a separate dimension from everyone else. It had been almost impossible to talk to anyone, much less date anyone. I was making a Star Wars joke, she says. Yeah, I get it. It's just that you sound mighty wise about this hiking thing. You got a name? She asks. Logan Sandival. She pushes her hands into her jacket pockets. You walk like you were born in these mountains. Not exactly. I hike a lot though. Bike and swim, too. How about you? Absolutely none of that. None of that? Then what brings you here? She sucks in a deep breath. I'm on a kick to do things that scare the heck out of me, and a hike where there'll be coyotes and mountain lions in the dark kind of fits the bill. We're up too high to see any coyotes. Probably not going to run into any mountain lions either. Well, they exist in my imagination, she says with a laugh. And how I convinced myself to do this hike was that if I made it back alive, I would kiss the beautiful flat cement sidewalk at the entrance. And then I'll treat myself to my favorite food. Belgian chocolate. Tacos. Tacos are kind of my love language. Mine, too. She smiles at me. Will you look at that? I do have something in common with a mountain man. The way she says mountain man sounds like she might be into me. I'd forgotten what it feels like to be attractive to anyone. I'm liking this more than I expected. Now I'm just gazing at her and letting the silence grow. Say something. See, you took your mind off that incline, I manage. And now we're almost there.

Her eyes widen and she stares over my shoulder. Will you look at that? She whispers. I turn around and maybe 20 ft away is a deer grazing on the chaperel. He looks up at us briefly, then goes back to his meal, like we're not even there. The rest of the hiking group is too far ahead of us to see him, so it feels like he's giving a little show just for the two of us. "I've never seen a deer this close," she says. "Truth is, I've seen many deer up close like this, but experiencing it with her, I can't even describe the feeling. Like the closest thing to magic." Did you know that deer have great night vision because they have tissue in their eyes that acts like a mirror and magnifies light? My smile comes easily now. Who are you? Steve Irwin's daughter or something? I kind of binge watch the Discovery Channel. The wind picks up then rushing past our ears and whistling through the rocks. The deer takes off, disappearing into the brush. I think seeing a deer in the wild just shot to the top of my favorite things list, she says as we start hiking again, pressing against the wind. How about you? What's on your favorite things list? Waiting in line at the DMV, I say a lame attempt at making a joke. Funny, she says. Although, did you know there's a secret DMV office across the street from the capital in Sacramento? It's for lawmakers only, room 121. How do you know random stuff like that? I'm a bartender at Celeststeine in Ventura. People tell you crazy stuff when they've had a few drinks. Most things I ignore, like their dreams about Freddy Krueger or the guy who claimed he installed all the locks at the White House. But some of what they say is interesting, and I file it away. So, what else is on your favorites list? I ask. Jigsaw puzzles. Big ones. You into that? Haven't done a puzzle since I was in elementary school. Didn't think so. someone who hikes in the mountains like you do. Well, you look like this is where you belong. She's right about me, but suddenly the thought of doing a puzzle with her seems attractive, very. And the way she's paying attention to me helps me take a big step out of my comfort zone. I might want to try my hand at it. Her expression shifts like she's maybe imagining us doing a puzzle together and liking the idea.

In the distance, we hear cheering and joyful shouts echoing against the sky. Some of the group has already summited, but I'm not disappointed that we're so far behind. Haley points ahead to the trail that's all but disappeared in the steep and craggy incline. I don't know if I can make it, she says, her chest heaving. The air is colder here, and her exhales are accompanied by visible puffs of steam. My heart is already jumping out of my chest. I hold out my hand to her. You'll make it. I'll make sure of it. She hesitates a moment, then slips her hand in mine. Even through our gloves, her hand feels buzzy and warm. My heartbeat, already pounding from the altitude, quickens even more. The last 30 yards are practically a straight incline. Then we get to the part that's known as the shoot to the summit, which requires us to use our hands and feet up a narrow gully. I hike up a few steps, then extend my hands to her, offering her a firm grip to pull up on. My muscles are burning and my lungs are straining to breathe the impossibly thin air, so I know it must be hard on her, too. But somehow, she channels her inner mountain goat and makes it to the summit. The view takes my breath away. It's hard to know where to look. There are panoramic views of vast forests of pine and fur with jagged mountain peaks rising high in the sky in every direction. In the distance, some of the mountains have patches of snow and ice, even in August. My eyes scan across the smooth surface of Lone Pine Lake. And the feeling of awe is indescribable, even though I've done this hike before. I'm never going to forget this," she whispers. I turn to look at her and feel like I've taken a cheap shot to the chest. She's removed her hood and she's beautiful. The first time around, I didn't even notice her on the trail. I've been so caught up with pushing to be the first to summit Mount Whitney that I'd missed out on all of this. Sometimes I'm an idiot. If we make it back down the mountain, want to have tacos with me? She asks. We'll make it down the mountain. Is that a yes? You sure you want to have tacos with me? I mean, I don't want to get in the way of your victory celebration and that kiss with the sidewalk you're planning. She laughs. You gave me chocolate. Of course I do.

Chapter 4. Brooke. I am half alive. Any sense I've ever had of being a person someone might love has vanished. Sometimes I feel like a zombie that's been stabbed in the heart with a pitchfork. But rather than dying, I just stagger about aimlessly. I want to disappear from the present where I can walk in daylight's brightest gold, but all I feel is muted shades of gray. That's what I wrote as part of my application. One of millions that Aon Expeditions receives each year. Most people hoping for a shot at 60 Minutes in the past write long, well-crafted essays about tragedies and loss, longing and nostalgia. A cottage industry of coaches will help you polish your essay to help improve your odds of being chosen. Because even if you can afford the cost, you still must become one of the 0.001% accepted. I was rejected and not just because my essay was Modellin. The notice read, "Your application was non-compliant with our acceptance policies, specifically for the following reason. We currently do not permit travelers who have served time in prison. I knew my 900day stint in jail made me ineligible, but I'd hoped my story would be compelling enough for them to reconsider. Unfortunately, a rejection was permanent with no possibility for appeal. Or so the email said. Yet a week and 2 days after my rejection, I received a notice indicating that my status had been modified. Congratulations, your AON expeditions trip application has been moderated and approved. I searched online and couldn't find anyone who'd admitted to being rejected, then was later approved. It had to be a mistake, but I wanted to see how far I could push it before AON expeditions caught on. I clicked accept. I worried my way through every one of the orientation sessions, anxious that someone on the admissions committee would discover the error and demand that I leave. I had crazy dreams where men in uniform removed me from the meetings while all the other travelers looked on in shock. None of that happened. I'd sailed through the training sessions without anyone questioning my eligibility.

Now I'm sitting beneath a cascading crystal chandelier in AON Expedition's elegant lavender scented lobby. A video of AON founder Mark Saunders plays on one of the large monitors. Here at AON Expeditions, he says, "We don't change time, but time changes us. What will you discover when you look back with fresh eyes? The most important part of your journey happens after your hour is over. My heart races as I realize I'm less than 30 minutes away from my jump. If I can successfully get through the final questions with the admissions representative, Jordan. Have you taken any medications in the last 24 hours? She asks. No, I answer softly. It wasn't easy. Without my sleeping pills, I'd only managed to eek out 2 hours of sleep. Jordan tilts her head and stares at her screen. She pushes a lock of beachy blonde hair away from her face. Huh? The system won't allow me to submit your responses. My heart pounds a thousand times a minute. This is when they're going to find out. This is when they kick you out. She taps a few more keys, frowning, and looks at me through red framed glasses over sharp blue eyes. Something's not right. Is my trip canled? Oh, I get it now, she says finally. It looks like you haven't indicated your designated driver. I sigh with relief. We need a live human driver, not an auto driver for the ride home because every traveler is seriously disoriented when they return. So much so that early travelers had gotten lost in the quite standard bathrooms on the premises and had to call the travel coaches to help them find the way out. Some jumpers had insisted they were fine, driven out of the parking lot and promptly crashed their cars. "James Dalton," I answer. "My husband," I say brightly. Although James isn't thrilled that I'm embarking on this trip, he thinks we have more pressing things to work on together, and he's right. But an AON expedition's trip is so difficult to obtain and non-ransferable that he ultimately agreed I had to take it. Jordan confirms his contact information, then presents me with a white plastic bracelet printed with a scannable code. She snaps it on my wrist. Congratulations. You're on your way. For the first time in a very long while, I'm filled with anticipation and excitement about what's ahead. My hopes aren't too grand. All I want is one hour of relief. One hour where I can escape the pain and the guilt and numbness of being me. Popular wisdom says that rehashing the past keeps you stuck there. But Aon's research disagrees. Underneath the tagline, revisiting the past is the way to move forward, AON publishes glowing testimonials from people who say their lives got better after their jump. I want that. This is an expensive and at best temporary fix. My therapist had warned me. It might even be dangerous for you. There are other treatments that will help you. I tried them and nothing worked for very long. cognitive behavioral therapy, EMDR. I'd experimented with Amazonian Iawaska. I'd played the drums to reach a trance. None of them dulled the persistent hopelessness. Sure, they softened my anger and irritability and smoothed out my mood swings, but nothing could change the reality that I'm nothing less than a monster. How could I be capable of something so unforgivable?

A feeling of unease settles on me as Jordan escorts me into the dimly lit, sterile environment where my jump will take place. The machine is a monstrous cylindrical beast with a tunnel so narrow that I've read that it has even induced claustrophobia in submarine veterans who are accustomed to tight spaces. A technician in blue scrubs instructs me to lie down on the metal table. And with an efficient click, the table slides into the gaping maw of the machine. Seconds later, the technician exits, his reassuring presence replaced by a roaring silence. My heart pounds. The giant vault of a room slams into darkness. All color has vanished and I am staring into complete and utter blackness. The machine roars to life, emitting bone rattling thuds, screeches, and a high-pitched whine. Suddenly, I feel like an invisible vice is clamped around my neck. My body is trembling like it did when I was in labor, and my heart feels like it's going to explode out of my chest. Something is wrong. I feel like I'm going to die. The room spins. Or perhaps I'm the one spinning. I cannot tell up from down. All sounds have disappeared. I feel the rhythmic clenching of my heart and my lungs ballooning inside my ribs. I am dying. In front of my eyes are abstract patterns, bright amiebas, yellow clouds, and animal prints. hallucinations. Even when I squeeze my eyes shut, I still see them. A drop of what I think is water falls from above and touches my forehead, and I flinch as if I've been hit by a hammer.

I blink and I'm sitting on a soft leather couch. I'm in the living room of my home on Hillrest Drive. It's a beautiful space with cathedral ceilings, a limestone fireplace, and a forged iron chandelier soaring above. I'm surrounded by dozens of people dressed for some happy occasion. Judging from the short sleeves and summer tans, it's late summer in California. A woman in red is playing the piano. I glance at my phone on the coffee table. August 20th, 2025. I've come 3 years into the past where I'm hosting my end of summer party. Our last gathering before school and work schedules scatter us all. A surge of anxiety and disappointment. I'd longed to jump to a time where my mistakes were years ahead of me, but they are less than 5 days away. The man next to me on the couch is wearing a silky blue shirt. Armani. He has thick wavy hair and handsome features. Eyes a steelely blue. In his right hand is a glass of whiskey on the rocks, untouched. He's the boyfriend of someone here, but I can't remember who. I also can't hear what he's saying. I think he says something about a dragon, but that doesn't make sense. This could be because the room is crowded with so many people. I also sense that my hearing is hushed as though every sound is being piped through a metal straw. Aon expeditions warned us that it takes a few moments for everything to settle in. Some jumpers have trouble with their eyesight or hearing. Others struggle with balance. Everyone has a tough time speaking in the first few minutes. They urge us to say just a couple of words when we arrive. Baby steps. Not too fast or you'll sound like you're drunk or having a stroke. I feel someone touch me on the shoulder and I turn to see my friend Isabella handing me a glass of white wine. "You look like you need this," she says with a smile, then disappears back into the party. I set the wine down. In my present state, I don't dare take even a sip. I'm a stranger in my own body. I glance at my hands and they look like they always have down to the freckles on my left wrist, but they don't feel like me. My mouth feels dry, my face flushed, as if I'm running a fever. And yet, I feel like myself again, myself. After 3 years of profound sadness and the lowest depths of self-loathing, I feel normal. The perpetual knot in my stomach, the tension in my forearms, the nausea, all of it is gone. I don't have to wait for the meds to kick in or slog through an hour with my therapist to banish the deep vein of shame. My spirits sore. I am me again.

Suddenly, the sounds rush in. The man in front of me is telling me about a sushi place he's just discovered, not a dragon. The woman at the piano is playing a Frank Sinatra song. Fly me to the moon. In the corner by the window, a group of friends are laughing about something my friend Amy is saying. How I love the sounds of a party. My eyes scan the room past the faces of my friends gathered here, sharing jokes, gossiping, and catching up on each other's news until I find the ones I've been aching to see. My husband James is sitting next to my daughter, their faces warmed by the soft evening light filtering through the bay window. She's only eight here, wearing the pink floral dress my friend Alba made for her and whispering something into James' ear that's making him smile. My heart squeezes. This is what it's like to be with them before. A choked moan escapes my lips and then I feel the sting of tears on my cheeks. I'm told this happens to every single jumper. Uncontrollable tears, a side effect of the journey, but it's more than that for me. I see my life as it was and I realize I had everything. My friends insist on making plans. A dinner party at the new Italian restaurant to celebrate Clare and Steve's 20th wedding anniversary. A girl's only trip to Santa Barbara. As my 60 minutes ticks away, I make plans for a future I won't be living. It's difficult to relive years in the past. I don't always remember what happened in the days before this party. Most of us have incomplete memories of the things we've said to our friends or any plans we've made or problems we might have shared. These simple details are the things we forget. The fluff of life that our minds discard in favor of memories with more significance. My friends run down their weekly efforts to stay in shape, debating the merits of gym memberships, personal trainers, and pelatons. and their voices rise when they chronicle their mammogs, colonoscopies, and hearing tests. We're grateful for everything good that happens to us, and proud. We're holding down jobs while raising kids, taking care of meals, doctor's appointments, meetings with teachers, and braving the monotony of the driving to and from soccer practice or music lessons. We don't dwell talking about monotony. Not when there are parties ahead and so much to dish about. There's the wine soaked end of summer party Brad and Megan Kaplan always throw at their beach house, which has now become a compound because they bought the house next door, too. And don't forget Lisa's party on the 25th, my friend Juliet says, sending a chill through my body. August 25th is the last day I'll know what happiness feels like. She prattles on, but I'm barely listening. My heart is pounding, aching, and painful with the knowledge of what lies ahead. She hired the owner of Firestone Walker Brewery to bring a selection of craft beers for a tasting. Craft beer is on trend. I think you'll be there. She stops, expecting an answer. I don't think so, I say. But how will I explain why I want to skip a party for a friend I've known for 20 years? James and I have other plans. She looks at me in surprise. From across the room, I see Olivia yawn and slip out of the living room. "Would you excuse me?" I ask, putting a stop to any questions. "I want to put Olivia to bed." I hurried to catch up with Olivia, winding my way through the party and murmuring to my guests along the way. Good to see you. I'm so glad you're here. We need to catch up soon. I'm putting on an act for all of them. Pretending everything is fine, even though I know that 5 days from now, August 25th, I'll do something that will shock every one of them.

I finally managed to slip out of the living room, drifting through the rest of the house. A decade of happiness is here in the hushed dining room where James and I hosted countless brunches and Thanksgiving dinners at the long fruitwood table that once belonged to my grandparents. We'd bring in branzino, rockfish, and salmon from the restaurant I own, and present course after course of oysters, chowers, salads, and pastas until well after midnight when Olivia and our friends protested that they couldn't eat another morsel. And the reason we bought this house was the kitchen, a dream space for someone like me who'd always wanted to open a restaurant someday. A sleek new oven with a steam function for baking bread. a pantry the size of a bathroom. This is where I taught Olivia to bake her first cake, where she brought her friends to make lemonade from the meer lemons we grew in the backyard. And this is where the dream of opening a restaurant began. First with a few recipes I'd created and perfected, then later with blueprints and designs that James and I rolled out on these marble countertops and marked up until we finally landed on the layout of a thoroughly modern cheerstyle bar area to attract the younger crowd, but also a section of cozy booths where families and friends could linger. I rush upstairs and pass by the small office that overlooks the garden. The scent of mint wafts through an open window, and I stop in my tracks, sinking into my life in the past. I glance over the framed photos of my life with James and Olivia that lined the sideboard beneath the window, and can't help but marvel at who I was when I'd lived this life. Someone who was determined to get what she wanted. A married life, a child, a dream restaurant, and a beautiful home. someone who was loved by so many. There's a photo of me with James and Olivia snapped on a beach in Hawaii. Our sun-kissed faces aren't looking at the camera, but at each other, laughing about something I can't remember. I always feel the reality of time's undertoe in this photo. In the brief instant the photographer snapped it, I knew I would look back on this moment someday and wish to relive it. We led idyllic lives. Then in the evenings, we walked with Olivia on this quiet residential block of single family homes. We passed out cookies baked at the restaurant to neighbors. On Sunday mornings, Olivia would set up a lemonade or ice cream stand with her friends. Then we rounded them up and headed a few blocks to the beach where they built sand castles until the sunset.

Everyone's wondering where you went, my friend Isabella says. I whirl around to see her standing in the doorway. I'm on my way to find Olivia, to tuck her in. James just carried her up to her bedroom, she says. She kept nodding off, even though she really wants to stay awake. I raced down the hall to find her. My daughter is beautiful. It's not because of her big blue eyes or her freckles, the last glimmer of her childhood sprinkled across her cheeks. It's the way she's looking at me, as if I'm her favorite person. I've forgotten what it feels like for her to gaze at me without disappointment or confusion, but with trust in her eyes. Ila and I built a sand castle on the beach today, she says as I help her get into her pink pajamas. It was this high, she says, pointing to her knees. This is what we do, the two of us. I listen as she tells me about any moments she spent away from me. She wants to make sure I know every detail, as if the moments don't count unless I know about them. I glance at one of her clay art pieces lying on her floor next to the half-finished Lego house and the hamper piled high with her paint stained clothing. The first time I'd lived this moment, I'd straightened everything, put it all in its place, and made plans to push my exhaustion aside and tackle the laundry late at night. Now I see them as they are, masterpieces of the fleeting moments of childhood. It's beautiful, I say. What you're making is beautiful. And now I'm crying at how much I have and how much I lost. As she arranges her stuffed animals at the foot of the bed, I close my eyes for just an instant and the memory flashes before me. August 25th, the night everything changed. I see the curved stretch of the two-lane Pacific Coast Highway. On my right side was the ocean. Normally the moon illuminates the foam on the waves, but that night it was pitch black. On the other side were stands of stately trees that screened the highway from the railroad tracks and the hills in the distance. I was driving the posted 45 mph as the narrow lanes bent and curved, following the contours of the beach. A pale flash flicked across my vision, catching me off guard. Was it a person? An animal? a shadow? I had no idea. Panic surged through my veins and my reflexes kicked into overdrive. I jerked the wheel, veering into the bike lane. As I fought to regain control of the vehicle, I heard the screech of my tires and a thump thump against the side of my car. I wrenched the steering wheel with all my might and guided the car back onto the empty highway. I slowed but didn't stop. It was dangerous for a woman to be alone on the empty highway at this late hour. By the time I returned home, my breath was coming in rapid gasps, and I was trembling at the idea of what I might have done. I poured myself a glass of wine to calm my nerves and considered going out to the garage to look at the damage to the car, but I couldn't bring myself to go out there. The next morning, James returned home from a business trip to San Francisco, discovered the bent front fender and the crushed headlight, and asked me what happened. I lost control of the car and clipped something. An animal, I think, I said, fighting back tears. I didn't think it was anything more than that. He inspected the crumpled front panel and looked up at me with concern. You're okay, though? I'm okay, I'd said. But what was roiling inside me was worse than any physical pain. I went into the bathroom, closed the door, and threw up. What had I done? Later that day, the Ventura County Star reported that one man had been found dead and another was injured on the Pacific Coast Highway in what appeared to be a hit-and-run. The California Highway Patrol was searching for the driver. A feeling of dread unspooled in my stomach. Did I do this? I remembered the impact and then I lost a few minutes in my memory. The thump thump was the last thing I could recall. The rest was hazy, pure shock. James texted me the story. Bad night on the PCH. That's a dangerous stretch of road. I texted back. Then I wrote a couple of sentences about my plans to petition the city council to fix the problem. I'd convinced myself that what I was saying was true. It wasn't easy saying nothing, doing nothing. It began to creep into my mind that maybe I was responsible. I squatchched that anxiety by throwing myself into restaurant work, creating elaborate meals for James and Olivia, and telling myself that I really did hit an animal. Someone else was to blame for the hit and run. I didn't know about the cameras. The motion activated night vision watchful eyes on the beach house by the accident site. The cameras captured a car driving by, hitting two figures and disappearing into darkness. The local ABC affiliate reported that the California Highway Patrol was searching for the driver. I thought about coming forward. confessing. I wanted to start by telling James, but every time I'd get the nerve to say it, my body would freeze up and I couldn't go through with it. I knew it would ruin James and Olivia's lives if I confessed to leaving the scene of an accident that cost one person his life and seriously injured another. I'd convinced myself that my silence was protecting them. I erased my search history on my laptop. That was my only real cover up. I didn't want police to see that I'd consistently scoured the internet with keywords like hit and run and Pacific Coast Highway. I didn't take the car out of the garage. I walked or used an auto driver and I panicked anytime James raised the garage door to get his car out, fearful that neighbors might catch a glimpse of my wrecked front end and ask about it. I told James I was scheduling the car for repair, but didn't follow through. I could never escape what I'd done. Even the simple mention of a car or an accident or a friend talking about the Pacific Coast Highway would trigger a brutal wave of guilt. 3 days later, two uniformed officers from the California Highway Patrol arrived on my doorstep at 8:35 on a Friday morning. They asked an avalanche of questions and photographed the car. I cried to James about my exhaustion from being interrogated for something I didn't do. We talked about hiring a defense attorney friend to fight this. I created a lengthy narrative of my innocence to my friends. The night vision cameras had captured a nearperfect photo of my license plate and eventually I confessed. I was convicted of involuntary manslaughter and sentenced to serve 900 days in the county jail. When Olivia found out, she broke down. "Why did you do this?" she cried, her words separated by choked sobs. I went to take her in my arms and soothe her, but she pushed me away and ran out of the room. I collapsed as if someone had punched me in the gut. I wrote her letters from prison nearly every day, but she rarely answered. I asked for video chats, and she turned those down, too. She didn't want to visit me. When I missed school events, she told her friends that I was sick. She couldn't admit I was in prison. I was devastated, but I couldn't deny the shame and embarrassment I'd brought into her life and James's. I was released from prison two months before this AON expeditions trip. But what I'd done continued to haunt me. I rarely left my home. And when I did, I drove slowly and uncertainly. I'd see vague figures in the road slam on the brakes and realized that nobody was there. A bug hitting the windshield made my panic bloom. And then there was this ghostly voice that I'd been hearing inside me since the day of the accident. You may think you're a good person, but when it comes down to it, I looked for books to guide me through this, but there are no self-help books or support groups for those who have unintentionally killed someone and injured another. To kill someone, even in an accident, is taboo. The perpetrator, there is no better word, is responsible for the accident, no matter our benign intentions. I sought out therapists, but the first one I met with ended the session by saying that she wasn't set up to deal with something like this. Eventually, I found one who put me to work writing letters to the two victims. letters our attorney would never let me send to express my feelings about what happened. There was an impossible chasm between me and James. We were polite but trapped in silence. Our conversations limited to coordinating meals and managing Olivia's schedule. What happened had not only taken my breath away, but my words. It was shocking how much Olivia changed in the three years I was in prison. She was a full 5 in taller and wo her hair into a French braid all on her own. She'd moved on from wanting to play simple games like hopscotch with me to more serious pursuits like reading and playing soccer. I'd missed out on all the milestones and the daily joys and struggles of being her mom. I was unsure how I fit into her life anymore. I was also frozen out of friendships that once seemed unbreakable. The truth had come out and none of my friends cared what my intentions were. I'd killed someone. I'd paralyzed another. They mistakenly believed they had to choose a side in such a tragedy, and they chose the victims over me. I wanted them to understand the depths of my pain, but all they could see was the mistake. On the darkest nights, I'd hear that voice again and think that I'd be better off dead. Certainly, James and Olivia's lives would be easier if I wasn't around. I'd thought about ways to make that happen, but I was never brave enough to follow through with them. The AON Expeditions application, like buying a lottery ticket, felt like the only possibility of relief.

The cookies, the ones with the cinnamon, they were really good, Olivia says, bringing me back to the moment. She settles under the covers. "Will you lie down with me?" "Of course," I say eagerly. I tuck her in, then crawl through the sentinel of dolls lined up at the foot of her bed and snuggle beside her on her soft flower print sheets. The orange stuffed kitten sheep named Luna nestles in her arms. I flick out the bedside lamp and the soft light from the dollhouse in the corner casts a warm glow throughout the room. "Would you sing me a song?" she asks. I draw a deep trembling breath, certain that I'll sound like I'm crying, and she will ask why. "Let me think," I say, buying time. Her princess clock, the one she made from a kit my sister gave her, tick tick ticks off the seconds we have left together. I look out the window, trying to hold the tears at bay. The sweet scent of night jasmine floats into the room, my breath shaky, I begin to sing. Sleep, my child, and peace attend thee all through the night. "Are you crying, Mommy?" she asks. "No, I just have something in my throat," I say. Then continue. "Guardian angels, God will send thee all through the night. You're crying. She says you're definitely crying. Okay, I'm crying because I'm so happy to be here with you. Me, too. She grasps my hand in the dark and a wave of warmth pulses inside my chest. It's a long time before I can sing again. Soft the drowsy hours are creeping hill and fail and slumber sleeping. by my loving vial keeping all through the night. I'm no longer strands of guilt and hurt stumbling through life. I'm a mother holding her child, singing her to sleep. Then this perfect wondrous moment slips away like quicks and she is asleep, her chest gently rising and falling. Lying here with her is to remember who I was before my life changed in a split second. I glance at my watch. More than 60 minutes have flown by. I'm sure of it. Have I miscalculated? How can this be? I do the math again and my heart pounds with joy. It's been 85 minutes and I'm still here in the past.

Chapter 5. Elizabeth. My second jump has been delayed. A few of the readings are out of range, an engineer says through the intercom. I shift in the duncoled mammoth machine in a room so cold that my teeth are chattering even though there is a device delivering warm air through a blanket that surrounds me. We're working to correct the problem, he continues. By we, he means a control room of 25 engineers who manage and monitor every aspect of our jumps. There's no room for error. Even a minor miscalculation or a lapse in concentration could kill us. My ex developed AON expeditions with some former colleagues who were also engineers at NASA's Jet Propulsion Laboratory. So AON's control room is modeled after the same one that JPL uses to launch rovers to Mars as well as deep space telescopes and infrared observatories that orbit the sun. The space is off limits to jumpers, but thanks to Mark, I'd visited the dimly lit room with rows of computer stations arranged in a semicircle facing an enormous screen. The atmosphere inside is tense and formal. Most of the engineers are too nervous to even sit down. When there's a problem, there's no shouting or upheaval. As the crawl of numbers on all their screens turns crimson, a red alarm, the brightest minds in the world will buckle down and focus on solutions quietly. In the early years, Mark never even mentioned he was working on time travel, just that it was a technology to harness recently discovered closed time curves in space. I didn't grasp what that meant, but I could see that Mark was obsessed. Soon he was trotting around the globe raising billions and consulting with the world's best physicists, neuroscientists, and engineers. He was in China when I was thrown in the hospital with pneumonia and in India during Sam's high school graduation. A year before Sam died, Mark was giddy with excitement when a fleet of trucks, their cargo wrapped tightly under multiple tarps, made their journey from somewhere deep in the mountains of Colorado to a set of hangers. his company had built just outside of the Camaro, California airport. Even then, he didn't say what they were creating. Later, he would say that he didn't want me to hold the burden of keeping a tremendous secret like this. The official announcement of AON Expedition's launch came one week after Sam died. The groundbreaking invention received a massive amount of global media attention. Public interest exploded to the point that time travel, or jumping, as the media called it, was all anyone talked about. I didn't care. Sam's death made me feel like I was sick with an incurable disease that was silently, slowly suffocating me. I was visiting every kind of doctor, trying every pill, and exploring every therapy from

Acupuncture to yoga, but nothing took the breath-stealing ache away. While Mark was meeting with experts in physics and engineering, confirming the technology's safety and feasibility to a zealous media and fanatical public, all I could do was try to remain standing. If I remembered to breathe, that was an accomplishment.

"We'll get through this," Mark had said, as if we would ever be the same again. I resented him for his ability to move forward when I was waiting out my life, counting the days until some event I didn't care about came and went, as if I was enduring a checklist of things you do when your life has ended. But you're still breathing.

Our relationship took an irreversible turn. We no longer knew what to say to each other. The only person in the world who could possibly understand my pain couldn't share his own grief and didn't have time for me to share mine. My grief snowballed into rage one Friday night when he called to say he wasn't coming home, but was instead boarding a plane to New York to meet with a group of Nobel Prize winners in electrochemistry, physics, cognitive science, and a whole host of other specialties. I shouted into the phone, "I wish you had died instead of Sam." Later, I regretted those vicious words, but in the moment, I felt the power and the relief in expressing the horror of my bottomless grief. I asked him for a divorce a week later. He fought it, begged me to consider grief and marriage counseling for the two of us, but I resisted every one of those ideas. Losing Sam had transformed us into opposites, and it felt like our marriage was over.

"All great discoveries demand sacrifices in exchange for uncertain outcomes," Mark had said at the unveiling of Aon Expeditions. "Our marriage was one of those sacrifices."

"The lights blink out and that jump sequence finally begins. Something is wrong. Everything is different from my first jump. There's a low rumble I hadn't heard before, a metallic taste in my mouth. I hear someone screaming, and it isn't until I feel my hands on my throat that I realize the screams are my own. After that, the hallucinations take over. Processions of eyeglasses filing down a street, thousands of empty oyster shells, fighter planes buzzing around. What seems like seconds later, my vision fills with gray static and my blood pounds in my ears. Then I'm standing at my kitchen sink. My hands are covered in soap suds as I rinse off a juice glass beneath a stream of cool water from the faucet. The refrigerator hums in the background. I look up and the sun is hanging low in the sky above smooth ocean waves. 'Mom, have you seen my sandals?'"

I whirl around. Sam is standing in front of me, and all the love I've ever had for him swells in my heart. That's the only way to describe this sensation. He's in his early 20s here, tall and slender. And except for the thick waves of black hair that grows so quickly he can't keep it in check, he's a near carbon copy of Mark. The small child I met again a few hours ago has disappeared, and in his place is a young man. I am lost in this sensation. Sam's voice, his very physical presence just inches from me. I turn to look at him and start to cry and crumple to my knees.

"You okay?" He reaches for my hand and helps me up. His eyes search mine for an explanation, but all I can do is choke up with more tears. My words are sloppy, like I'm drunk, a side effect of the time travel. "I just got a cramp in my leg, is all." Sam helps me to the kitchen table and pulls out a chair. I'm in a silent battle with my body to adapt to this new time. "Hurry. There isn't a second to lose."

As I watch him move around the kitchen to get me a glass of water, I'm filled with sudden emotion. Clarity. I am in awe to have been part of his birth, his emergence into the physical world. The years spent being his mother have been the most awesome gift. Without the darkness and weight of grief, the feeling is heightened. Light. I want to say, "I will always love you, Sam." I resist the urge to blurt out my feelings. He would find that strange. He hands me a glass of water. "Better."

I try to figure out when this is. His face is clean-shaven, so he's no longer in college. He shaved his scraggy beard a few weeks before graduation in preparation for job interviews. From the way the golden sunset dances through the windows and onto the dark wood of the kitchen floor, it looks and feels like the end of summer. I notice an iPad on the table and tap the screen. August 20th. My eyes fill with tears. We are in the last few days of Sam's life. This hour in the past is everything I'd hoped it would be.

Sam and I are walking Main Street with our Australian Shepherd, Sting, and I'm listening to him talk. How many days and nights had my grief consumed me? How many times had I longed for this simple feeling? The sun has set and the moon is hidden behind thick clouds, so the only light is the soft glow of the old-fashioned street lamps. The streets are hushed and empty. We've talked about his job search and the interviews he's been on, along with how many revisions he's made to his resume. He shares his anxiety that it's August and he hasn't landed a job yet. "An awesome job offer is coming your way," I say, because it's true. I love hearing him talk. Not just the timbre and cadence of his voice, but also the way he thinks through problems aloud. This is going to sound wrong, but I hope this feeling lasts because it's only in this pain that I understand how much I have. How blessed I am to be in this body and in this moment and in this time with him. I hope this feeling holds and that I won't forget the beauty, the air filling my lungs when I'm with him, and the joy of being with him. When you know how easily things can be taken away from you, you appreciate them more.

A man rushes by carrying two champagne bottles and a third one tucked under his arm. "Beautiful dog," he says to Sting, who looks back at him like he loves being admired. When the man is farther down the block, Sam says, "There's something you're not telling me." His words settle in the cool night air and swirl around us.

"What do you mean?"

"You're... You're not sick or anything, are you?" My voice shakes.

"No, I'm not sick." Although I feel like it. This second trip has been hard on my body. My face is hot, like it's blistered with sunburn, but an earlier glance in the mirror showed blotchy redness, but no blisters. The right side of my head throbs with a headache, but I assume this is just an aftereffect of the travel. "And everything is okay with Dad?"

"Yes, of course," I say. But I don't know. His father is somewhere in Ohio right now, working round the clock with his team of engineers to iron out the final kinks in the technology that will eventually become Aon Expeditions. I've missed this Sam so much. The soft-hearted young man who was always worried about everyone else. When he was six, he found an injured bird on the beach and brought it home. He nursed that little bird with the blue head and red chest back to life, making it a nest of soft fabrics inside a cardboard box and feeding it around the clock. More than once, I found him outside in the middle of the night, sitting by the box on the patio table, engaged in lengthy pep talks with the ailing bird. Eventually, the bird was strong enough to fly away, and Sam mourned the loss of him for days. I can't help but be in awe at this chance to be with him and his soft heart again.

"If there is something, you know, going on. You can tell me," he says. "I'm not a kid anymore." I consider telling him that I'm from the future, but what good would it do for him to know that all his plans, the job, the apartment, the car, will never come to pass.

"Why do you think something's wrong?"

He shrugs. "I don't know. I guess it's the way you look at me. Like you want to tell me something." I glance at my watch. More than an hour has passed and I haven't been extracted. Can that be right? My mind races, recalculating the elapsed time. It's been 85 minutes. Then a new thought emerges. This gifted time, whether it's seconds or minutes, presents an opportunity that I hadn't grasped until now. Maybe I can say all the things I wish I'd said the night he died. I placed my hand on his shoulder. "Let's go home."

We're sitting in my kitchen now, the two of us, and it's nearly midnight. My eyes are heavy, but I don't dare sleep because any minute I'm worried Aon will fix whatever problem they're having and whisk me away from Sam and into the despair that is my life in the future. I notice the pumpkin pie, his favorite, on the counter. I must have purchased it in the last few days. "I'm starving," I say. And it's true. It's the first time in a long while that I've had any real appetite.

"Would you like some pie?"

"Sure," he says. I take my time preparing it, knowing this will be the last time I'll make anything for him. I immerse myself in the sacredness of the moment, the gift of being able to do this for him. Even as my heart is heavy, I try to keep my actions light and quick, as if it's perfectly ordinary to be cutting a pumpkin pie at this late hour. I notice things I never did. The way the light falls on his face, a lock of hair over his right eye. I'm aware of the softness of the air, the way the kitchen smells of pumpkin and cinnamon. Then I pray, "Bring him love. Bring him life. Bring him joy." The words feel bigger now, bigger than this room, bigger than my heart.

I turn around and my mind is a jumble of emotions and words. I preface all of them by saying that I'm not sick or dying. I just want him to hear what's on my mind. I know I'm looking at him differently. I can't hide it. I'm thinking there's a way you look at someone when you know you're never going to see them again. Your eyes widen and linger on their face, memorizing every detail. I draw a deep breath and tell him that I've loved him from the day I knew I was pregnant with him. How long I prayed for him and dreamed I'd become a mother, his mother. How proud I am of all the pieces of his heart that make him who he is. With tear-stained laughter, I forgive him for throwing a baseball at me and smashing the living room window back in third grade when he was angry because I took away his video games. I tell him not to feel bad for disappointing me with his grades in middle school or for our regular appointments with his high school principal because he wasn't always doing his English homework. I ask him to forgive me for the times I was impatient and frustrated with him. I tell him that I think he's beautiful and that it would break my heart if he ever thought he wasn't good enough or smart enough. I tell him that my life being his mom is my dream come true. That he is more than enough. As a matter of fact, he is everything. Then he starts crying, tears brimming in his eyes before he brushes them away. It haunts me that I never made time to tell him these things when he was alive.

"This is maybe my best day ever," he says softly. As I place my hand over his, a new thought emerges. "If Aon Expeditions doesn't bring me back, if I'm somehow able to stay here a little longer, can I experience what life is like if he doesn't die?"

Chapter 6. Andy.

The liquor store clerk thinks I'm shady. He has the permanent frown of someone who's seen it all. And I'm yet another troublemaker. I don't think he believes my story that I'm buying three chilled bottles of Dom Pérignon champagne at $230 each for a friend who's proposing to his girlfriend. He thinks I'm scamming him. The total cost is over $700, and I pay with cash. I've always had a habit of carrying a chunk of cash to help me keep a handle on my spending habits. But this much cash seems suspicious to him. I grow impatient as he inspects every bill like he's a counterfeit money expert. There's so little time. After he's checked them all beneath a bright light and compared the $50 bill to one he has in the register, he reluctantly hands me a receipt. I drop it on the counter and make a beeline to the door.

This champagne idea is crazy. It probably won't work, but it's my best chance. I race next door to her apartment building and stand in front of the call box. She's in apartment 218, but there's no way she'll let a stranger in. Especially not one who calls from the street at this hour. My confidence sputters. Is this the huge waste of money my parents said it was? My friend Jonathan was certain that I'd regret this trip and that I'd quickly see that Kate wasn't as into me as I'd thought. Am I about to have my heart crushed all over again? I suck in a deep breath and press the button for unit 224.

"Hello," a man answers. "I'm from Juniperos Liquor and have a delivery of a bottle of Dom Pérignon champagne for you," I improvise. "Would you come down to get it?"

"What kind of... is this?"

"It's completely legit. I hold up the bottle to the camera. I'm told to deliver it to 224 in this building."

"What the hell for?"

"New owners at Juniperos want to thank you for your loyalty," I stammer. "You want it or not? New owners."

"If you want it, please hurry," I say. "Or I've been instructed to give it to others." There's a long pause. "Then I'll be right down."

The guy who shows up at the door is short and bald, wearing a gray t-shirt that's two sizes too small. From the deep lines around his mouth, he looks about 40, but he's probably younger. "I have to deliver the rest of these in the building," I say, handing him the bottle.

"Okay, if I run up."

"Sure," he says, distracted by the silver shield logo on the bottle. Then my reptilian brain kicks into overdrive and hijacks my nervous system. My heart races, my muscles tense, and I can feel circles of sweat under each arm. I brush past him and zip up the stairs.

Piano music drifts down the hallway. Kate is playing the piano. I knock on her door. Surprisingly, it's a courteous knock, even though my heart is thudding a million times a minute. I wonder if this is what a stroke feels like. I hear someone shuffle on the other side of the door. I have the sense that she is looking at me through the peephole, so I try my best not to look wild or freaked out. Then her voice.

"Who is it?"

"I'm delivering champagne to a friend and I can't figure out what apartment he's in. Can you help?" Silence. My palms are sweaty as I try to anticipate her answer. If she won't open the door, everything is ruined. All the money I spent on the jump will have been a total waste.

"Who are you looking for?"

"David Harrison," I say, invoking a name of a kid I knew back in third grade. Random. I hear a lock turning and then a second one. The door opens a little and a sliver of her peaks past the door chain and straight at me. "I don't know him or where he lives. I'm sorry. I can't help." She begins to close the door. My heart stutters as if bracing itself to be broken all over again.

"Wait," I say. "My phone died and I have no way to get in touch with David to find him. I'm wondering if I could get a quick charge. I don't look... I swear to you I'm not some kind of creep or scammer. I'm really delivering Dom Pérignon to my friend. He needs it to propose to his girlfriend." The whole ruse isn't fair. Really? I've chosen a champagne that Kate has always desperately wanted to try.

"I know you," she says quietly. My eyes widen. "You do?"

"You're that writer, Andy Shapiro. 'Here to Stay,' right?" I nod. I sell a lot of books, but few people know my face. But on our first date, Kate had professed to loving 'Here to Stay,' then, too. She unhooks the chain. When she opens the door, my heart scatters. She is stunning. Her thick, dark hair falls to her shoulders in effortless waves. I can't see a stitch of makeup, but her skin is luminous in the soft light. "I'm Kate Montano," she says, reaching out to shake my hand. I stare at her hand touching mine, and it all feels impossible.

"Well, are you coming in or not?" she asks. I take a deep breath to calm my racing heart, then step into her apartment.

How do you hide your feelings? The only thought that comes to me in my nervous state is to minimize eye contact. "Everything lies except the eyes." Didn't Van Gogh, or maybe it was Tupac, say that? And if my eyes meet hers, she will know how I feel and she'll think it's strange. I don't know how I'll talk with her without giving away my feelings, without mentioning the details we know about each other or sharing one of our inside jokes. How do I pretend to be meeting her for the first time?

She points me to a charger next to the couch in her living room, and I plug in my phone, switching it off so she can't see that it has a full battery. Engineers have made huge leaps with travel to the past, but our phone batteries still take good old-fashioned electricity and time to recharge. I've never been more nervous in my entire life. My heart races and I feel butterflies in my stomach, a sensation that I'd always thought was something we writers made up.

"Would you like to have a seat for a minute?" she asks. I'm fixated on her lips. I have a sudden urge to stop this charade and to lean in and kiss her. I draw a deep, steadying breath instead.

"Could I interest you in sharing a bottle while I wait?" She looks at me in surprise. "You want to open a bottle of Dom Pérignon with a stranger? It's so expensive. Are you sure?"

"My friend only needs one bottle to propose to his girlfriend. I bought a second bottle because, well, because I'm curious what all the fuss is about." I notice her lips curve slightly. "Me too," she says.

"Ever since I saw Bill Pullman order it in Sleepless in Seattle," I say, "but he called it Dom Deloise." She laughs. Few people love that movie as much as Kate. It came out before she was born, and I'm pretty sure she has memorized every line. "That's another reason why she dumped him for Tom Hanks," I add. She smiles, probably surprised that anyone remembers such an obscure scene in that movie. But I have snuggled with her in this very room and watched her laugh and cry through Sleepless, and I think I know every scene that she loves.

Kate heads to the kitchen to get some glasses. While she's gone, I breathe in the warm floral perfume that lingers all around. Jasmine. Sometimes my body has these sensations that I can't put into words. Even though she is in the next room, I feel the memories of my life with her like sparks on my skin, a fingerprint on my heart. Her living room is exactly as I remember it. Vibrant paintings and cold, gray photographs grace the walls, over the fireplace, and above shelves sagging with books. A baby grand piano is covered with sheet music, even though she has the same scores on her iPad. She would rather turn the pages than swipe a screen. I peek into the kitchen and see her illuminated by the open fridge. She is perfect in this light, all alabaster skin and soft angles. I can't let her see my expression or she'll wonder why a stranger is gazing at her with such familiarity. I pinch myself again, hard. I'm actually here.

She returns with two champagne flutes and I can't speak. It's as if the photos of her that I've been gazing at all these years have suddenly come alive. I swallow the lump in my throat. "Did I hear you playing Bach earlier?"

"Yes," she says. "Do you play?"

I shake my head. "Just a listener."

"Were you playing one of the Goldberg Variations?" She snaps her head away from setting the champagne glasses on the coffee table and looks at me in surprise. "How did you know? Most people wouldn't recognize that piece." I'm no classical music expert. When we knew each other the first time, she'd told me she had practiced her way through most of Bach's 30 Goldberg Variations and played several for me. Then she showed me how she struggled with variation 23 because of its wicked hand crossings. I know so much about her, but I've got to stop saying it aloud.

I pop the cork on the champagne and pour some for her. "Then let's toast to Bach and to you for lending me some of your electricity." We clink our glasses and I watch her close her eyes and take a sip. "Delicious," she says. "Better than I'd dreamed." When she opens her eyes, she catches me gazing at her.

"Would you play some more?" I ask. Listening to her play is one of many things I miss about her. I've always felt as though the stories of her heart were woven into her playing. Wonder, desire, questioning, love. They were always there, or whether she was playing Scott Joplin or Beethoven.

"Are you sure?" she asks. She's only being polite. "She loves to play. She has a day job at Pottery Barn and plays piano for small private events around the city."

"Positive," I say, then settle into the couch. I've lived this before, listening to her play, but I'm surprised at how new it feels to be with her and how easily we've slipped into an easy conversation. She plays a piece so filled with longing that it feels like it was written for me. For the next 3 minutes, the whole room shimmers with the magic she spins with the music. Tears prick the corners of my eyes. I try to stop them, but that only seems to make it worse. I am tasting life with her twice. That is something surely worth crying over.

"My fingers are a bit rusty," she says, finishing. "I wish it had been better."

"It sounded amazing to me," I say. She leaves the piano bench and sits beside me on the couch. Everything about her distracts me.

"What are you working on now?" she asks. My mind goes blank. The last thing I want to do is talk about my writing. I want to hear her speak. I long to listen to her tell me about her day. Anything, even ordinary stuff. What did she have for breakfast? What are her plans for the evening? Then my thoughts are hijacked by memories. I remember her standing in this room, her hands encased in blue oven mitts, holding a deflated but still good loaf of bread we'd made together. I remember returning from an art show, a collection of paintings of snow scenes from around the world, and wolfing down crackers, cheese, and a Sauvignon Blanc while she played the piano.

"I hope what you're writing isn't a secret," she continues, bringing me back to the moment. I suck in a breath. Could this be an opportunity to understand why she left me? In the story I'm working on now, my main character is a young man whose girlfriend disappears the day after he tells her he loves her. I have all kinds of ideas on how he'll look for her, all the wrong turns he'll take, but I can't come up with any reason his girlfriend would leave him.

"Maybe the boyfriend is dangerous or abusive like the protagonist in your book 'Night Watch,' who leaves her husband in the middle of the night."

"No, the boyfriend in this story isn't dangerous. If you were the girlfriend in this story, why might you leave?" Her eyes flash. "Maybe I don't have feelings for him." Her words send a sudden chill through me. This has always been my biggest fear. That she didn't feel the same way about me. She'd ghosted me.

"If you didn't feel the same way, would you tell him?" She eyes me over her glass. "Maybe not if I'm hiding secrets."

Secrets. She sets her glass down, gathers her thoughts. "Something I don't want him to know about me. Something he'd find out if we were together longer." I glance at my watch and realize there's only a few minutes left. I fiddle with my champagne glass, trying to ignore my racing pulse, hoping I look normal. Any second, Aon will extract me back to the future where I won't be able to sit with her like this. I'm staring down the last moments with her. And like a kid who feels the roller coaster ride is going to end, I want to eke out the last seconds of this precious ride.

"Can I be honest with you?" She leans forward, curious. "Haven't you been honest with me all evening?" My mouth goes dry. She makes me feel guilty, as if those inquisitive eyes of hers can see right through the charade about the champagne and the dead phone.

"I want to save it in the future." What comes out isn't that at all. What I want to say is that even though we've just met, it feels as if I've known you longer than that. This has never happened to me before. It's nice. Nice. I think of myself as pretty good with words, but they utterly fail me here. Her eyes find mine briefly and her cheeks flush. She doesn't answer.

"Maybe it's the champagne talking."

"I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable," I add.

"No, don't be," she says softly. Her eyes meet mine again. "It's strange how the world works. We meet by complete accident and yet it seems like... I don't know, like I'm supposed to meet you." I choke up. How can I not? This is why I haven't been able to move on. Because being with Kate has always felt like this, meant to be. If the future has taught me anything, it's that I won't ever feel this way about anyone else. I sneak a glance at my watch and my stomach sinks when I realize my 60 minutes are up. As the seconds slip by, Kate is waiting for me to respond. I can't hide my feelings any longer, and I've got nothing to lose.

"I think you're the one in a million, Kate." We'd been warned that the extraction from the past is painful. It will feel like your whole body is being squeezed into a straw. I brace myself to be hurdled back to the present. Nothing happens. Kate grows silent and looks at me with curiosity. She opens her mouth and then closes it.

"You hardly know me," she says softly. "I'm ruining things." Now I'm gripped with terror because I've always been most afraid of this possibility: that she wouldn't like me in the same way, that she won't ever fall for me the second time around. Was it the magical ingredients of our first meeting, a party, piano music, Frank Sinatra, that sparked our relationship? Maybe it would be impossible to recreate the magical, spontaneous connection we shared. Maybe we can't replicate the past.

"I know we just met," I say, and my heart slams into my chest. "But that doesn't change how I feel." Her cheeks flame red, and the way she's looking at me makes me think... well, I don't know what to think. I'm just a giant sack of emotions right now. Maybe I'm imagining it, but there is something there. A spark of something that would have otherwise been invisible if I didn't already know her so well.

"Maybe," she says slightly, pouring me some more champagne. "You should get to know me a little more. Then you can see if you change your mind about that." By the time we finish the bottle, we are laughing and sharing stories, many I'd never heard before. Then she brings out another bottle of some wine her friend bought in Paso Robles. We end up talking through the night, drifting off to sleep, then waking to talk again. We did not kiss or make love. It was enough to feel her next to me as we collapsed on her bed and fell asleep in the early hours of the morning. Yet, as I lie awake before dawn, she is beside me in her bed, her breathing slow. Blame it on the champagne and on me for blurting out my feelings. She's been in my dreams often these past months. Sometimes we are standing by the ocean together, and other times we're snuggled together on the couch watching a movie, or we might be doing mundane things like cooking dinner together. Only somehow they feel bigger and more important. Other times we're making love. And when I wake up, I can still feel the warmth of her body next to mine in the bed. But she is never there. Now she is.

As silvery morning light filters through the window, she stirs. Whatever she's dreaming has put a smile on her face. But I'm filled with dread. I've already been here 12 hours. It's only a matter of time before Aon Expeditions locates my life signature and takes me away from her. The Aon coaches had briefly mentioned what to do if the return jump doesn't begin in 60 minutes. They rushed through it, much like flight attendants briskly mentioning the seat cushion as a flotation device because it's something that rarely happens. In Aon Expedition's case, never of the tens of thousands who've jumped each year, every single person has returned within the allotted hour. The protocol is simple. Stay calm and wait. Not that I want to be extracted. I say a silent prayer that they don't fix whatever problem they're having and they don't find me. Let me be the one jumper they can't retrieve. If that happens, I won't waste a single moment of this gifted time with Kate. I will make each day with her unforgettable.

Then, as it always does, my mind returns to the last day I spent with her. That morning, piles of yellow-tinted clouds spiraled upward and made our walk on the beach feel like we were walking through a Renaissance painting. We were watching a pod of dolphins leap the foamy waves when it seemed so natural to tell her how I felt about her. I got kind of dizzy because I was overwhelmed by how clearly I could feel our future together. It dawned on me that I could marry her someday. It was so easy, not the least bit scary.

"I hope this doesn't sound too fast, but I think I'm falling for you." There were other words, many of them, that tumbled out as if I'd planned them, though I hadn't.

"I'm falling for you, too," she'd said softly. Our relationship was so new that I hadn't yet met her parents. Didn't know many of her friends. I didn't know any of the boring things like whether she had mountains of debt or even important things like whether she wanted to have kids someday. I just knew I wanted to figure it out with her. All of it.

Then her phone dinged in her pocket. She looked at it and said, "I'm sorry. I have to go."

"Everything okay?" I asked.

"I need to take care of something."

"Can I go with you? Maybe I can help."

"I'm fine, really." She looked like she was going to cry. Then she wrapped her arms around my waist. "I'll see you tomorrow," she said, kissing me. Then I watched her run across the sand back to her car. When she didn't answer my texts or phone calls for weeks, my friend Jonathan pressured me to move on. "Face it, you've been ghosted," he'd said for the millionth time. "She just wasn't as into you as you thought." "I was in denial. I really believed she was going to return."

Then my cousin Justin called. He's a junior at Ventura College and the night manager at the 7-Eleven on Bristol, two blocks from the beach. I'd introduced him to Kate when the two of us raced into his store in a desperate quest for Strawberry Shortcake ice cream bars. Justin's call was unexpected. We didn't really talk very often, and his voice was nervous and breathy.

"I... I just want to tell you that I saw your girlfriend in here last week at 7-Eleven."

"When?"

"Thursday the 25th. The last day I was with her. She was with someone," he said. "A guy." I begged him to show me the security camera footage. He'd resisted, telling me he would get in a lot of trouble with his bosses. "Someone just got fired for doing that," he'd said somberly. I pummeled him with endless questions about the guy, what he looked like, what the two of them said to each other, and if they left in the same car. He didn't remember many details. Eventually, he agreed to let me peek at the footage if I came into the store at 2 in the morning when no one's usually in there.

The security camera perched over the cash register captured Kate at 9:13 p.m., 4 hours after she left me on the beach. The man with her was tall and clean-cut with dark, wavy hair. Although it kills me to say it, he was good-looking in a boy-next-door way. He paid for some things at the cash register: six bottles of water, salted nuts, crackers, then presented them to her. She accepted them like she was receiving a wonderful gift and placed them into a backpack slung over her shoulder. Then she hugged him for an eternity of 5 seconds. Yes, I counted, and they disappeared together into the night. Jonathan was right. I'd been ghosted.

Chapter 7. Logan.

After inhaling three tacos apiece at Castro's Taco Stand on the way from Mount Whitney, Haley and I catch the train back to Ventura. The altitude and 10 hours of hiking have taken a toll on us, and we settle into a comfortable silence. While I'm grateful to have the use of my feet, they hurt bad. So do my knees. We nap in fits and starts most of the way, exhausted from the 99 switchbacks and the half-mile vertical shoot, but also blown away that we'd climbed to the top of one of the tallest mountains in America. We're 5 minutes from our exit when I wake her up and ask her to go kayaking with me the next day. I'm desperately hoping that Aon can't find me and I'll still be here tomorrow. She resists at first, saying she needs more than a day to recover from the hike, but it doesn't take much to convince her to say yes. Maybe I'm reading too much into it, but if she's willing to get into a kayak with me, even when her legs and feet are aching, that's a good sign.

After I let her go, I stumble back to my apartment where I fall heavy into my bed like I've been drugged with sleep. When I wake up, I feel soft sheets beneath me and a cool breeze against my skin. The sun is warm and music from the apartment next door floats over me. I yawn, letting the haze of sleep pass over me. Then an unsettling jolt hits me. When is this? I'm dizzy as I glance at the pale curtains hanging in the windows. The ceiling fan rotates slowly above my head. My backpack from the hike is slumped on the floor where I'd left it. I'm still in the past. I cut my hand over my mouth. I'd once thought I had to go to extremes: hell-skiing, a zero-gravity flight, an expedition to the Arctic to experience euphoria. But here I am feeling the same thing while sitting in my apartment that's the size of some people's closets.

Then a thought races in. Maybe I'll never have to return. Maybe I won't have to go back to a future where I'm just a wobbly head and torso on legs that won't move. "Easy," I whisper. "Don't get your hopes up." I touch my legs, feel the weight of my hands against them. A sensation that still stuns me. And then ideas of all the things I can do with this unbroken body start buzzing in my brain. In this instant, I see the possibilities. All the thousands of choices I can make right now. And in every moment that I get to live and breathe, I could raft the Zambezi River, swim with the turtles in Ningaloo, rappel into a volcano in Iceland, summit Kilimanjaro, and skydive in Interlaken. I don't need to fear altitude sickness, storms, snow, raking winds, heat and dehydration, sprained ankles, or broken bones. These are the smallest price to pay for the freedom, danger, and poetry of using my unbroken body for every challenge and pleasure it can possibly experience.

My phone dings and a text swoops across my screen. My friend Marco writes, "You coming or are you still on Mount Whitney?" Most Sunday mornings, I'd already be in the YMCA pool knocking out a couple hours of high-intensity practice with him. At this point in time, we're both competing in US Masters swim competitions for adults, and I'm trying to slash my time on the thousand-yard freestyle to under 10 minutes, which would keep me in the top 10 in California. Marco's specialty is the backstroke, but he's had a rough go of it during the last two competitions, so he's been doubling up on practices and prodding me to join him. Not that I need the reminder. Working out is the only way I stay sober.

A few years ago, I made a living selling pills and spending my free time at tailgate parties and bars. I got canned for drinking on the job and blacked out from mixing pills with tequila at my friend's wedding, but still convinced myself I didn't have a problem. When I drank too much, I'd blame other people for getting me in that situation. When I did drugs, I'd say it was because everyone else was doing it. Those were just excuses. On the eve of my 22nd birthday, police caught me selling pills outside a food truck in LA. That kind of arrest carries with it a minimum three-year prison sentence. And that thought alone gave me full-blown panic attacks. I couldn't sleep. I stopped eating. When I found out the cop misplaced the evidence and the charges were dropped, something inside me woke up. His mistake had to be a sign, a second chance. I packed my stuff and moved far away from that LA life to Ventura, a hundred miles up the coast. I couch-surfed with some friends from high school and worked as a dishwasher at a barbecue joint until I saved up enough for a studio apartment. "Don't be afraid to dream big," I'd written on the first post-it for my bathroom mirror. "Show the world nothing is impossible." I was a walking carcass, sweating through the sheets, my skin turning gray, and my body trembling for more of all that I gave up. When the shaking finally stopped, I'd wake up every morning at 3 and run 5 miles in nearby Alamo Mountain, carrying 50 lbs on my back. I was out of my mind. After a few weeks, I morphed my dread into biking 20 miles a day and swimming at night. The fear that I'd go back to the way things were was always in me. And when that anxiety crept up on me, I'd head back into the mountains and lift five or 10 lb boulders and fling them around until my shoulders burned and the panic subsided. Then I'd pedal my bike until my heart thudded and I tasted blood in the back of my throat. When I got back home, I'd shower, apply for better jobs at places that wouldn't hire me, and then I'd repeat the whole thing all over again the next day. Even though I was getting clean, I felt like a dope fiend for exercise. If it rained and I couldn't run in the mountains, I'd go into withdrawal. I'd pace my apartment, twitching and pissed off. I wasn't training for a healthier lifestyle or for some big marathon or trek. I was training to rid myself of the demons that had control of my life.

"If I'm getting extra time with a body that works, I'm going to use it every second I still have it." I text back to Marco. "On my way." I slide out of bed, throw on some clothes with an ease that I don't think I'll ever take for granted, and head into the bathroom. I splash cool water on my face, and glance at the current posted taped to my bathroom mirror, scribbled with black Sharpie to make it feel permanent. I remember scrawling this one in the middle of the night when the world was quiet. It's a reminder of who I wanted to be before the accident. I want to be financially independent, the guy with the great Dane, someone who speaks German, a top 10 swimmer, a better person. The learning German thing was because I wanted to ski the Alps and thought it would be cool to sound European. The Great Dane idea landed on the list because I'd been on a back trail in Yosemite when up came this dude with a gray and white Great Dane. The dog didn't do much except stand there looking like the gentle giant he was at 3 feet tall. Still, everyone just stopped. Even the grizzliest, hardcore hikers were taking selfies with him. And yeah, the girls couldn't get enough of him. Laughing when he was bouncing around happy and cooing when he slumped with disappointment because he wasn't getting enough attention. These ambitions feel crazy innocent. After I was paralyzed, my goals were colossal and impossible: Push through the pain. Survive. Live.

Mist still hangs over the road and clings to the trees when I get on my bicycle. Its carbon fork is bent from a collision I had with a tree in Yosemite. That makes the steering heavy and slows me down some. But at least it's not a wheelchair. On my earbuds, I've got "Highway Star" by Deep Purple cranked high and it makes me pedal faster. When I was a kid, my dad would put "Highway Star" on an old Walkman, blasting it as he plunked me on the back of the motorcycle he'd named "The Beast." He'd park a cold Old English 800 malt liquor between his legs, then he'd launch us into the horizon until we hit what felt like the speed of sound. The song has always felt like a victory anthem. And this morning, it gives me wings to power up the hill.

I spin over to Polalmo Coffee Shop on Main Street to get some caffeine circulating in my veins before the swim workout. I breeze along the street, park my bike out front under the sycamore tree with the gnarly roots, and tear through the door. I feel invincible. Last time I was here, I had to wheel in along the narrow metal ramp and yank the door open from a wretched angle. Waiting in line meant blocking the entrance with my wheelchair, so everyone had to step around me like I was in their way. No longer a person. Time in a wheelchair also meant traveling at crotch level on the subway or getting a face full of someone's backside in line. Busy places were perilous. It's ridiculous how many times I've been smacked in the head with shopping bags or purses. Now with my 6-foot height, my eyes can sweep the room and take in everything.

While I'm standing in line, I notice a woman staring at me. She's got an Angelina Jolie thing going on with high cheekbones, but she's too old for me, maybe 50. And she's being way too obvious about looking at me. The kind of stare I might get in a bar from a girl who's had too many drinks at 1:00 in the morning. I ignore her and order. In the future, I mostly drink the office coffee, which tastes like brown water with a dash of bleach. Today, I'm going for a dark roast, black. After I pay, I have the feeling the woman is still watching me. I glance over and get a good look at her. And then I realize that's not lust in her eyes. It's tears. And I know exactly who she is.

Chapter 8. Brooke.

August 21st, 2025. What I'm seeing can't be real. He's wearing a dark blue sweatshirt and jeans, hair askew as if he's recently woken up. He smiles at the cashier, his eyes scanning the board behind her, deciding. The coffee machine hisses behind the counter. I can't stop staring. He is moving through space. Flesh and blood.

"Dark roast," I hear him say. He turns his head and notices me looking at him. He seems to recognize me. That's impossible. Everything in front of me blurs. And the fear that whispered to me every day in the future is now roaring in my ears. You might think you're a good person. But when it comes down to it, it seems like cruel fate to meet him now when I've come to the past to escape reminders of that tragic night. After my hour had passed and I hadn't been extracted, I'd rung pleasure out of everything, certain that at any moment Aon would return me to the present. I'd fought against sleep, staying with Olivia while she slumbered. Then I padded into my bedroom where James and I made love.

I couldn't get enough of the saturated energy, the charged space between our bodies, and the experience of loving him while he still trusted me. I'd stayed awake the rest of the night, soaking everything in, impatient at myself when I'd knotted off. I'd been given these bonus minutes, and I wasn't going to waste any of them.

Just before dawn, I'd tiptoed out to the garden, breathed in the scent of night jasmine, picked a few tangerines, and ate them one by one, captivated by their stunning color, their scent, and the explosion of sweetness when I bit into them. Every minute was an intoxicating brew of the sensations of being in this life, my life.

Living as if every moment could be my last is exhausting. I can only put so much energy into savoring every sensation and feeling. That's why I came to this coffee shop. The routine of it, something I've done countless times, is exhilarating. There's a quiet joy in picking up a few things I know Olivia and James will love. An Irish cream cold brew for James, a cake pop for Olivia. It's a simple task that feels more meaningful when I know all the pain that's ahead of me.

I've been on edge, worried about being extracted any second. But of all the things I was anxious about, the last thing I'd ever expected was to run into Logan Sandival. He strides over to me. "Mrs. Dalton," he says. His voice is rough and low.

It is hard to look at him. Strong with muscled shoulders, chiseled legs and bike shorts, a firm jawline. He didn't appear in court, and the only photos I ever saw of him were the ones the prosecutor presented at the trial. By that time, his legs had shrunk. He was thin and gaunt, and this warm summer tan I'm seeing had long faded. I feel dampness on my cheek and whisk away the tears.

"Brooke, Dalton," he says, emphasizing my first name. Everyone ignores us. They whirl around us, ordering and getting and drinking coffees as if this impossible meeting isn't happening. "My name is Logan Sandival. I've seen your car on the PCH. You drive a Mercedes black E-Class, right?" I nod. How does he know this about me? "Slow down on the PCH. Pay attention."

"What are you saying?" He turns on his heel, pushing through the customer standing in line. "Logan, please wait," I call out. I hurry after him, but by the time I reach the entrance, he's already on his bike, maneuvering it into the street with ease and speed, as if the bike is an extension of his body.

I am sick. A sharp pain that feels like my abdomen will burst. It's as if all my mistakes have become finely sharpened knives cutting into me. There can be no worse agony than meeting one of the people whose life you will ruin forever. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror behind the coffee bar and see the hideous person I am. In the stark light, the reflection staring back at me is modeled and red, as if the ugliness of what I'll do is already written on my face.

The lawyers my husband hired to defend me had forbidden me from reaching out to Logan because the threat of a lawsuit always loomed on the horizon. A lawsuit never transpired, but I never stopped writing dear Logan letters explaining my anguish, even if I wasn't allowed to send them. Every day, I'd have nagging questions. What would have happened if I got on the road 10 minutes earlier or 5 minutes later? If I hadn't stopped at the yellow light at Bristol, I wouldn't have put me directly where Logan and Sam were at that very moment. Why were they in the bike lane at that time of night? Had they done that so many times before that they didn't see it as dangerous? I have replayed that night over and over in my mind. Had I known what would happen, I would never have turned onto the PCH.

"Logan, your dark roast is ready," the barista calls out. My heart rate kicks up a notch. There's only one way Logan could know these things about me. He must also be a time traveler. How can there be two of us jumpers here? He can't possibly realize I'm one as well. I think about the contents of all those dear Logan letters I'd written but never sent. Could this gifted time offer an opportunity to talk with him? Maybe he can tell me why he was in the bike lane that night. Perhaps I might understand why I made my tragic mistake. I text my friend Lisa, who has the uncanny ability to find almost any information online. "Need a cell phone number for Logan Sandival Inventura ASAP."

James is finishing breakfast when I return. He's handsome in the beautiful light blue shirt I'd bought him when we were in Milan years ago. I hand him the Irish cream cold brew and his face lights up as if I'd just scoured the four corners of the earth to bring him a rare gem for me. He looks up at me, a slight wink. And in this simple glance, I feel something I haven't felt in a long time. Love. I forget about Logan for the moment and take a shortcut to happiness.

I know it's not like that for everyone who jumps, but I have never felt more loved, more desired, or more hopeful than I do right now. People who haven't traveled yet think the travel to the past thing is an induced hallucination, a dream that only feels real. But in dreams, we see things that aren't there. We believe what simply can't be true. We have wild mood swings. And when we wake up, we swiftly forget almost everything we experienced. This is no dream. I'm aware of every physical sensation. My racing heart, the rush of blood to my face, and the tingle of my skin as he draws near. I feel the steadiness of my love for him. The sense of wonder when I look at him, and the tender way he looks at me makes me feel extraordinary.

"Did you enjoy the party last night?" He murmurs, threading an arm around my waist. I breathe in the woodsy scent of his aftershave. "Yes," I say, "and everything else. It was all wonderful," he says, gently moving a lock of my hair from my face. "You're wonderful." I've always loved this about him: his British accent, the easy way he compliments me, yet it never feels like he's just saying what he thinks I want to hear. He lowers his mouth to mine. His lips are soft and searching a dreamy intimacy. He pulls away and looks at me. "Are you crying?"

"Am I?" I say, whisking away the tears. Then his lips are on mine again, soft and warm. I close my eyes and soak in its perfection. The sweet taste of cinnamon, the way his hands hold my face. I want this moment to go on forever. And there's no doubting he does, too. Anyone can see he loves me. It radiates in his blue eyes, liquid and warm. After 10 years of marriage, he still looks at me as though we're newlyweds. He pulls me into another kiss, and mixed in with growing need, I feel a rush of shame and remorse. In a few days, I will ruin all this.

Chapter 9.

Logan, August 21st, 2025.

My stomach aches hard, like there's a boulder lurching around in it. Even an intense swim session with Marco isn't enough to rein in my anger. I pound through lap after lap in the Olympic size pool. At once, grateful for my working body and angry at the woman who takes it away from me. After I knock out 22 laps at top speed, Marco says, "You're like a demon out there." The other swimmers in the pool have stopped to watch me, too, including one college kid who outpaces me most mornings. That feels kind of good.

The trim young woman who'd been puttering in the lane next to me for the last 20 minutes asks, "Hey, do you think you could train me how to swim like that?" "Not today," I say. "But sure." "I'm Kate," she says. "I'm here every Sunday morning. Catch you next week." I nod. But who knows where I'll be a week from now. I hit the lane again, even faster now, channeling my anger with every stroke.

Before today, I'd never met Brooke Dalton, but I'd read a lot about her. She owns a restaurant in town, and her husband's some badass lawyer who apparently is the go-to litigator for high-end real estate lawsuits. Badass because he wins more than 95% of his cases. And because of that, they own a mansion in town and another down south on the beach in Lagona. Rough life. Before she slammed into me with her Mercedes, she'd been celebrating some friend's birthday on the beach at a catered party, which I heard cost more than iron in a month. She told the judge she hadn't been drinking, but I'm sure she lied. Police had no way to prove whether her blood alcohol was over the limit or not because she didn't stop. After she sent my body flying 50 ft and hit another man, killing him, she didn't turn back. Instead, she left me to die on that deserted highway.

Here's what gets me. I read that while I lay unconscious on the asphalt, bones and spine broken and kidney crushed, she went home, opened her liquor cabinet, and poured herself a glass of wine, a freaking Chardonnay, like she was either channeling Lex Luthor or celebrating what she'd done. They made her pay some money for restitution, enough that my medical bills were paid off. But the way justice works, she only served time in the county jail. And then she went back to her sparkling life like nothing ever happened. I hate every version of Brooke Dalton, even the one in Polarmo who hasn't yet paralyzed me. I hate that she served 900 days in the county jail while I got to spend the rest of my life wearing a diaper in case I can't get out of my wheelchair in time to get to the bathroom. I remember sitting outside the Ventura County Hall of Justice after the verdict and staring up at the golden letters on the glass that read Hall of Justice and thinking that's a blatant lie. They might be upholding the law in there, but what they decided wasn't justice.

The Dalton woman is haunting me here, too. Somehow, she's gotten my cell number and texted me, "This is Brooke Dalton. Call me. It's important." That isn't going to happen. With my luck, she'll claim I was harassing her in the coffee shop. That's how money like that operates. Still, I can't make any sense of why she was crying. I got it all wrong. That's what I think as I watch Haley slide into the kayak with me in her striped swimsuit and jean shorts later that afternoon.

I've been thinking of time in the past, as though things only work a certain way. Use your body, idiot. Your body brings you happiness. Now I'm seeing there are choices, other ways that things can happen that might bring a different kind of joy. Strange, but they leap right at me today. I'd wanted this jump so that I could recover my legs, to live a big athletic life outside of a wheelchair. Hanging out with Haley like this scares me some because I like it too much. The solo life of swimming and mountain climbing, I'd imagined, doesn't seem quite as attractive today.

This is Haley's first time in a kayak on the Pacific Ocean, so she's gripping the paddles too tight. She's also working harder than she needs to, not realizing her legs need to get involved. I give her a quick lesson, and she adjusts, then smiles at me. And the way she's looking at me makes swimming with the turtles of Ningaloo seem less exciting, unless she was there. It's the kind of thing I imagine some old dude saying at his wedding. Everything in my life is better when I'm with her. Lame. I know guys who say things like that to make their girlfriends or wives feel good. It's just words. I've kayaked this part of the ocean a h 100 times in better weather and in more challenging swells without anyone slowing me down with their sloppy paddling techniques. But those days don't really compare to this easy kayak trip with her. Yeah, I'm going soft. Moments like this, I feel like the older version of me is trying to tell the younger version what's going to be important later on, what I'm going to care about, given all the poor choices I've made up until now. I'm listening.

On the way here, I kept worrying that maybe that hike was some kind of Cinderella thing where she accidentally saw me as some handsome prince. But when she sees me again, she won't recognize me. Now that I think of it, that's not the Cinderella story. I also thought maybe Haley was just acting like she was into me because she was scared to be alone on that hike. We do crazy things when we're afraid. Don't I know it.

"Did you know that the first kayaks were invented 4,000 years ago?" She says. "Kayak means hunter's boat. What should we go hunt?" I smile at her chatter. Sometimes she talks about strange facts like she's been preparing to be on Jeopardy, but I like hearing her voice, knowing what she's thinking. Most things I do don't involve talking. I'd scaled a limestone wall in the Canadian Rockies, and my buddies teased me afterward because I didn't utter a single word. Even the couple of times I dangled in the air to secure a better foothold, only to stare down hundreds of feet at the ground below. There's a fine line between genius and madness. And you can't ride that sharp edge if you're a talker. Now, the only way for me to be a force of nature is to get into a flow where my body and mind are perfectly lined up. I can't get into that flow if I'm talking or listening.

I feel like I can talk to her. "Should we help them?" She asks. "Help who?" "Those boys. Looks like they're having a hard time." I follow her gaze and see two middle school-age boys. Their kayak teetering on a wave and close to capsizing. "Heck no. Boys that age are a pain in the ass. They're probably rocking the kayak just to scare each other or to play pranks. No good's going to come from getting involved. They'll be all right," I say. We keep moving farther out to sea. Me paddling behind her, the water all sparkly from the sunlight. She's getting better at paddling, but I like it best when she turns around to tell me something funny. I just like looking at her, her long brown hair pulled into a messy ponytail, her slim shoulders.

"Look at them now," she says with alarm. "They're overboard." I glance over to the right, and the boys are now bobbing in the ocean, buoied by their life jackets. Their kayak has capsized. "I think they meant to do that," I say. "Should we ask if they need help?" "They'll figure it out." "Maybe we should do something," she says, her eyes meeting mine. She's stubborn like me, so there's no way I can keep saying no. Her face lights up when I turn the kayak around and head over there.

"You need help?" Haley calls out. "Nah, we're okay." The one with the freckles says they're not okay. I can see it on their faces. Their reflector white skin tells me they're tourists and all this ocean stuff is new for them. They want us to think they are okay, but the water is deep and cold and they are tired and have no idea what the hell they're doing. Inside they're freaking out. I remember being that age and always acting like I had it together. Even though inside I knew I was a poor, pathetic son of a drunk.

"You with the freckles. Here's what you do," I say. "Get toward the middle of that kayak." The freckled boy shrugs all attitude. "I know what to do. Don't need your help." The other boy, who's 30 lbs heavier with long, stringy hair hanging in his eyes, locks eyes with me and says to his friend, "He looks like maybe he knows something." "I know a thing or two," I say, thinking about all the pain I endured trying to claw back some semblance of a life after the accident. "Sometimes the that looks hard is actually the easiest. Move over there now." The freckled kid hears my tone but rolls his eyes anyway. Just to make sure I know he's tough. He swims over to the kayak. "Now climb over the kayak and pull it toward your body to turn it right side up," I tell him. He does what I tell him and turns the boat over. The look on his face is priceless, like he'd convinced himself there was no way to do it. I know that feeling. "Now put one hand on the far handle and the other one on the handle close to you and boost yourself up until your belly button is over the seat. Don't worry about how it looks. Take your time." He shades his eyes like there's no way this is going to work. Then the whole move is awkward. All skinny arms and legs flailing around like he's a fish who's dying a slow, terrible death. "Now get stable. Take your time. Easy now," I say. "When you're ready, twist your body and get your butt in the seat." He twists and sits, looking like maybe this was the biggest thing he got right all week. I motioned to the other kid. "You're next." The freckled boy is grinning like he can't wait for the heavier kid to try so he can snicker or snort or laugh. "Don't you even think about laughing at him," I say, and he wipes that stupid expression off his face.

5 minutes later, both kids are settled in the kayak and heading back to shore. I'm kind of glad Haley made me do it. And the way she's looking at me makes the whole thing worth it. "You're not just a mountain man," she says with admiration. "You're a water whisperer. Those kids are lucky you were out here." "Yeah," I say, kind of owning it. I think back to the first time around and I didn't notice this about myself at all. All I could see was that I was a Making bad decisions, getting myself in losing positions, useless, hanging in the wrong places, and so filled with rage at who I was that I couldn't see straight. We think all we are is what we see on the surface, but there's always more.

After the kayak ride, Haley and I wait in line to order tacos at a food truck down by the beach. She kisses me, not a peck like I'm her favorite puppy and not some over-the-top PDA that is supposed to let everyone around us know that I'm hers. This feels like she did it impulsively, like she can't help it. I feel her fingers graze my shirt as she leans in. And that's all it takes for me to feel warm and wanted. Then she clasps her hand in mine, and her whole face brightens into a soft smile that makes my insides melt. No one has ever looked at me like this before.

"What are you smiling about?" I ask, squeezing her hand. She's shy about answering, then finally. "Do you believe in fate?" "Not really." "Do you?" She twists her mouth. "When we met on Mount Whitney, I was supposed to be there with another guy. That's why I was there." I smile. "I'm supposed to like this story you're telling me?" "Yes. Because if he had shown up, I would never have met you." "Why didn't he show?" "He got a second interview for a teaching job at some big high school in Los Angeles." I feel a spike of jealousy. All I have is a high school degree and a crummy job at a courier company. I can't compete with a guy like that.

"Who is this guy?" I say, keeping it light. "Should I be worried about him?" "We grew up next door to each other. He was this smart kid who got straight A's and took all these AP classes, then went off to Northwestern after he graduated. I ran into him and he admitted he had this crush on me when we were in high school. He asked me to go on that hike as a get to know you kind of thing. If I hadn't agreed to go with him, I wouldn't have met you," she says. "And if I hadn't had a flare up of mountain sickness, I wouldn't have fallen behind and met you either." She beams. "See, it's fate."

"Maybe we'd have met somewhere else," I say, although I don't believe it. "Maybe I'd have walked into Celeststeine and seen you all beautiful behind the counter and gotten over my shyness and asked you out." "Would you really have done that?" She asks, her eyes glistening. In my normal life, I'm bad at eye contact. But tonight, I gaze into her eyes. "I would have wanted to, and I'd like to think I would." And now it's my turn to land a kiss on her lips. All warm and knowing, even as I wonder if I would have had the courage to talk to someone like her who's out of my league in a restaurant far outside of my natural habitat.

"I guess I should thank the guy," I say, breaking the kiss. "Because I don't see you going on that hike otherwise." "Well, now I would." She leans into me and laughs. And there's that feeling again. Her body close to mine, making me think things I don't dare feel. "Who is this guy?" I feel her eyes on my mouth like maybe she's going to kiss me again to reassure me she doesn't have feelings for this guy. "You wouldn't know him. His name is Sam Saunders." I look at her and feel dizzy. The quiet only heightens the sensation. I'd always thought that Sam's and my life only intersected once, the night on the highway when he died and I was paralyzed forever. But things are never that simple or separate. If Sam hadn't made plans to go to Mount Whitney with Haley, I would never have met her.

Chapter 10.

Andy, August 21st, 2025.

I've drifted back to sleep when I become vaguely aware that Kate has shifted away from me, taking her warmth with her. She slips out of bed. As she pads into the bathroom, my mind snaps awake. How could I have fallen asleep when I might only have minutes left with her? As I wait for her to come out of the shower, I wander around her apartment, trying to imprint every detail into my memory. It still feels impossible that I'm here, and I'm determined to remember everything. The curtains are drawn halfway, allowing the warm golden glow of summer to filter through. The cool ocean breeze drifts through the window. Sheet music is scattered across the piano. I'll remember all of it.

I look around the room for a photo of her and can't find any. No pictures of her with friends or family. Very few personal items. No momentos or souvenirs. It's as if she decorated the whole place with a few clicks on Wayfair. I glanced through the books on her shelf. A memoir by pianist Lang Lang isn't a surprise. Nor are books about the history of the Channel Islands, a series of islands off the coast of California, and some best-selling fiction, including one of my own books, Nightw Watch. She clearly has eclectic tastes because alongside a book about self-defense, there's a memoir by Matthew McConna and a worn copy of The Lord of the Rings.

The small closet by the front door is slightly a jar, so I move to close it. But before I do, I peek inside. A couple of her jackets hang from the rod. On the floor, I'm surprised to see a lightweight tent, a sleeping bag, a heavy flashlight, and a sturdy navy blue backpack. Camping gear. Kate never talked about any interest in backpacking or camping, but the serious level of this equipment makes it clear she has some experience with it. My gaze lands on a brown purse tucked behind the backpack, and it strikes me as an odd place for it, hidden and not easily accessible. I hesitate. Do I dare peek inside? What if she catches me? I can picture the hurt expression on her face if she finds me rifling through her things. Still, I reach for the purse and slowly unzip it, which sounds like a shout in the silence. Inside are the usual things: lip balm, keys, a few crumpled receipts. A twinge of guilt hits me just for looking. Then my eye falls on a card wallet. I flip it over and gaze at her driver's license photo. While most of us look like maniacs in our license pictures, Kate manages to look stunning. Her hair is a lighter shade of brown here and longer than it is now, well past her shoulders. Even in the harsh light, she radiates a soft beauty. My heart stops. The name on the license isn't Kate Montano. It's Sarah Canford. The address is in Grand Junction, Michigan. I can't process what I'm seeing. I slip a credit card out of its slot. It's also embossed with the name Sarah Canford.

I hear the shower cut off, so I scrambled to put away the purse, leaving it, I hope, the way I found it. "I'm going to run out and get us some breakfast," I call out, but my voice sounds strange. "Okay," she calls back. I race down the stairs and out the door, and in case she glances out the window, I keep walking until I'm a block away. Outside the entrance to the bakery, I stop. My fingers tremble as I type Sarah Canford into Google on my phone. The last name is unusual enough that there are only a few entries: a LinkedIn for an actress in her 40s and a college scholarship named after a school teacher in Arizona. None of them are Sarah Canford from Grand Junction, Michigan.

I go through the motions of ordering pastries at the bakery, but my mind is worrying a thousand miles a minute. Who is the person in that apartment? Is she really Kate Montano and using fake identification for Sarah Canford? or is her name Sarah Canford? The cashier hands me my order and I stare at it for a moment, wondering what I should do next. I have no idea if I have another hour or another 10 seconds with her. So, I race back to her apartment building. There's got to be a simple explanation. Maybe Kate is her nickname. My friend Douglas in school was called T by all his relatives. That could be all this is.

I press the button to 218. She doesn't answer right away. And then I'm remembering doing this very thing in the days after she ghosted me. How many times had I pressed this button, hoping she'd answer. Finally, she buzzes me in. When I reach her apartment, I hear the murmur of voices inside. I can make out a word here and there, the rise and fall of laughter. I recognize one voice is hers, but the other belongs to a man. I lean my ear closer to the door, but I can't hear what they're saying. I knock.

"Oh, good. You're back," Kate says, answering the door, her face flushed. "I brought pastries," I say, but my attempt to sound normal has made my words soft and unformed around the edges. "I got a surprise visitor while you were out." She motions to the man on the couch whose back is to me. "Andy, this is my friend Sam." The man turns to greet me and my body reacts with shock. He's the 7-Eleven hugger, the guy caught on camera with Kate.

"Sarah, whatever her name is. I freeze in place fighting to seem normal. "Hey, great to meet you," he says. "Kate says you're an author." "I am." I try to look casual like you do when you're meeting someone for the first time, but I know I'm failing. I'm staring. "How about you? What do you do, Sam?"

"Sam came by to share some amazing news," Kate says, beaming. "He just landed a job teaching astronomy at a high school in Los Angeles. I'll be teaching physics, too." I want to understand how he knows her. He looks a few years younger than she is, early 20s. What's their relationship? He glances at his phone and rises. "I gotta run. Great to meet you, Andy." "You, too," I say. "What did you say your last name was?" He smiles, polite, but distant. "I didn't," but it seers. Kate embraces him in a hug. "Thanks for stopping by and congrats again."

I watch him go and when the door shuts behind him, I place the bag on the counter. It feels like a jealous guy moved to press for more info about their relationship. I try a different approach. "Nice guy. You've known him long." "He's the first person I met when I moved here." "Oh, when was that?" "Last spring. I didn't have a piano then, so every day I'd stop by the antique store on Main Street to play the old upright there. Turns out the store belongs to his aunt and he helps now and again when he's home from college. I played the piano so many times that he ended up loaning me a piano the family had in storage." She motions toward the piano in the living room. "That's how I got that beauty. You probably told me last night, but I overdid it on the champagne. Where are you from?" She looks at me, her expression unreadable. "I'm from San Francisco." If I didn't know about her driver's license, I'd believe her.

This is where I met Kate the first time, Jonathan's party. Just like before, I arrive a few minutes past 9, and the party is already packed with friends sampling wine and paddling on about their vacations, their promotions, and the latest foodie paradise they've discovered. I already know who's here. What they'll say. Jonathan's brother, Anthony, will regail a few of us with his harrowing tale about a brush with the cartel on his trip to Colombia. We'll all give him crap about whether it's true or not, but he won't retract his story. Sophie, a childhood friend of ours, will whisper about the affair that breaks her parents apart. Me will drop a wine glass in the kitchen and she'll spend 10 red-faced minutes shoeing everyone out of there so she can sweep and vacuum up every sliver.

Kate doesn't know I'll be here. I'd mentioned that I was going to a friend's party tonight, but she didn't ask for details. It felt like it would have been awkward to drop Jonathan's name in hopes that she'd connect the dots. Like before, she's in the middle of Sinatra's Fly Me to the Moon. I walk up beside her and sing softly in what I hope is a not too terrible voice. "You are all I long for, all I worship and adore. In other words, please be true." She laughs, not missing a note. "Andy, what are you doing here?" I swing around and catch her smile. "You knew it was me." "I recognized your voice." "That bad, huh?" "I'd keep your day job if I were you," she says, her eyes sparkling. "How are you here?" "Jonathan and I have been friends since fourth grade when his homemade bubblegum rocket crashed into my head at summer camp. What's your excuse?" "He posted online that he needed a piano player. I got the gig. He's paying me to play the piano." She beams. "What would you like me to play next?" she asks, finishing Sinatra.

"Maybe something by Cadet Baker," I ask, anticipating what I already know happens. Her eyes register surprise. "Amazing that you'd suggest that." "Maybe there will never be another you," I say, settling in the chair beside the piano. "You're not actually going to sit and listen to me play, are you?" "Of course." She laughs. "You realize what you're missing, don't you? Your friend has a fortune teller in the other room and a whole wine tasting thing going on in the kitchen. Everyone's going to wonder why you're hanging out here with the newbie piano player." "My friends will see that I'm the smartest guy in the whole place." Her cheeks flush. "I'm not sure I deserve that, but thank you," she whispers. I lean in to brush a kiss on her cheek. And when I do, I notice a thick pink scar about 6 in just below her hairline. I guess I'd never seen it before because her hair normally covers that part of her forehead. She notices me staring. "Softball accident," she says softly and pushes her hair back in place. "You've got your homemade bubblegum rocket accident. I've got Brenda Macowski pitching one straight to my head." "Brenda must have had one hell of an arm." "She went on to play for Tennessee State," she says, and launches into Cadet Baker's There Will Never Be Another You. My insights twist as I do the math. High school was at least six or seven years ago for her. I'm not any kind of expert, but that scar looks newer. And there's something else I notice. She seems worried that I'd discovered it.

Chapter 11.

Logan, August 22nd, 2025.

I'm a ball of nerves as I head to Celeststeine, the restaurant where Haley works. Scaling a mountain is easy compared to figuring out how to navigate a relationship or a flirtation or whatever this is. The bar is set up as a square and three bartenders in the center take drinks and dinner orders from there. It's not too busy, so maybe she'll have time to talk to me. I see her right away and my heart twists. Her hair is pulled back in a low ponytail and she's wearing a black apron like the rest of them, but she stands out like that deer in the mountains. I can't stop looking at her. They're playing Flaming Lips. "Do You Realize?" which probably doesn't mean anything to most of the 40some patrons here, but the mellow vibe and the words feel like a soundtrack for my life right now. "Do you realize that happiness makes you cry?"

"Hey, Mountain Man," Haley says, "I've been waiting for you to show." The way she says it makes me think she might mean it. She wipes down the counter in front of me and leans over to whisper. "The fish tacos are okay here, but nothing like the ones we had yesterday. Try the fish and chips." "I'm not really here for the food," I say, giving myself points for being somewhat clever. She smiles. "You're here for the drinks, then." "Not that either." I'm openly flirting with her, and she's still smiling. She doesn't suddenly remember she has a boyfriend or mention she's about to move out of town. Since I've been in a wheelchair, I've become a grand champion at being ghosted.

"I have a ginger ale so your boss doesn't kick me out." "You got it." She fills a glass with fizzy liquid from the soda gun and presents it to me. I've never seen anything more perfect. Sure, the ginger ale looks fine, but it's her I can't stop staring at. The sharp echo of boots on the tile floor pulls me back to reality. I turned to see a stately woman stepping through the front door, dressed in black pants, sleek designer boots, and a turquoise blazer. Brooke Dalton.

"You have your growl face on," Haley says, teasing. "I have a growl face?" I ask, relaxing my mouth even as my heart is studying. "It's that look you got on the mountain when we were heading up the incline. It's like a growl. You don't bite, do you?" I try to smile at her. Really try. Then I sense Brooke moving near the door. I glance over and she's looking right at me. Holy hell. I feel the blood drain from my face. For a moment, I imagine myself going over and shoving her hard. Haley looks alarmed. "You okay?" I whisper, "Sorry."

"That woman who just came in? She's been stalking me." She nods toward Brooke, who's talking with the hostess. "You mean Brooke Dalton?" I can't keep this surprise out of my voice. "She's the owner." "Oh, hell, of course she is. Are you sure she's been stalking you?" Haley asks. "She's like 50, married, with an 8-year-old daughter." Brooke turns away from the hostess and her eyes lock with mine. She stares at me hard like she can see right through me. I stare back. We look like a couple of gunfighters in the Old West preparing to draw. She makes a beline my way.

"Logan, we really must talk," Brooks says and motions for me to follow her. A dark pulse of anger courses through me as I follow her to the back of the restaurant. How could it be that I've come face to face twice with the person I've hated since the moment I learned her name? "Come in," she says softly, opening the office door. "The place smells of vanilla and other sweet stuff. A shipment of boxes, crowds one corner, but otherwise the room is decorated like something you'd see in an Instagram photo of rich people's homes. All creamy whites and beiges and soft textures. Expensive. Not what I expected from the monster who paralyzed me and killed Sam."

When she closes the door, I whirl around to face her. "What do you want from me?" She motions for me to sit. And after I do, she drops in the chair across from me. The couch is so soft, it feels like it's going to swallow me whole. She leans forward. "My manager texted me you were here." "Your manager. I gave him your description and instructions to call me if you came in." "You're expecting me to come here. Haven't you been getting my texts? I've been asking you to stop by or text back." "What for?" "You're a jumper, aren't you?" My mind reels. How does she know I'm from the future when time travel hasn't been invented yet? Then it all clicks in. She's a time traveler, too. "Are you?" "I've been here almost two days." Holy heck. What are the chances that two of us would be stranded at the same time and in the same place?

I don't hold back. "Meeting you. This is hell." She looks at her hands. "I understand why you feel that way." I'm shocked at how normal she seems. I'd imagined her as a privileged drunk, part sociopath and a singular force of evil. I dreamed many times of how I would like to physically hurt her, and the temptation rises. "I know an apology doesn't mean a whole lot." "Save it. You were drunk and you mowed me down." "That isn't true. I didn't have a drop of alcohol at the party." "That's always been your story. But if you'd stopped and called the police after you sent me and Sam flying, we'd know for sure if you were drunk or not. But you didn't stop. You left me there to suffer, and all you can say is you're sorry." A sob escapes her throat. Not the quiet, repressed sounds of sadness, but the anguished cry of a child. I've been waiting for this moment, wanting desperately to see that she was in pain for what she did.

"I'm really sorry, Logan. If you'd give me a moment," my voice trembles. "You should be sorry. Do you realize that I'll never walk again? I'll never stand upright on a surfboard. I will never swim, never stand up in the shower or my wedding or some future kid's soccer games. I'll never forget all you took from me." Her face turns white. "I want you to know that I'm haunted by it. Every day I'll live with the terrible knowledge of what I did to you." "Did you rehearse that?" "Feels like it. I've been writing Dear Logan letters since I realized what I'd done." I shrug. "I never got anything from you." "The lawyers wouldn't let me send them." I scoff. "The lawyers. People like you always have excuses." Her voice is small. "Do you want to know what the letters said?" "Not really. No." She tells me anyway. They were all different. But they said the same thing. The accident changed me forever and I think about you every day and will continue to do that for the rest of my life. I am so sorry, Logan. I feel like I can't breathe. I can feel her regret, but I can't find a way to accept her apology and never will. I stand, my heart hammering. "I have to go." She holds up her hand. "Wait, please." I turn to look at her. Her bony hands are clasped so tight together that her knuckles have turned white. She waits before speaking. "Don't you think it's strange that the two of us are stranded here?" I sigh. "What's your point?" "Maybe it's an opportunity." "An opportunity for what?" "Maybe we can change what happens on August 25th." "We can't change the future. We both know that." She looks down at her hands. "No. But if we're stranded here, as it seems we are, we can live it out differently, can't we? I could stay off the PCH that night and so could you." And then I raise my voice. "And then what?" "Eventually we'll be extracted back to our present lives where I'm still paralyzed." "If we aren't extracted though," she says softly. "We could experience the other possibilities that August 25th held. I wouldn't be a murderer. You wouldn't be paralyzed." My throat feels raw. Her idea intrigues me honestly, but there is no way I'm going to let Brooke Dalton think I have any respect for her, that I'm even close to forgiving her, or that I want to be part of any plan she's thinking of.

Chapter 12.

Elizabeth, August 22nd, 2025.

I wake in a panic. I open my eyes and scan the room and whoosh out a breath. I'm still in the past. I know that because I'm wearing the same clothes I had on last night when I dropped exhausted into bed. I know it because the white linen curtains on the windows aren't the blue and white striped drapes I'll install in a few years. But something is wrong. I can feel it. I have this sense that Sam isn't here. I pad to his room, my heart thumping, hoping I'm wrong, overreacting. I'm not. Sam's bed is a rumpled mess, but he's not in his room.

"Sam," I call out, my voice raw with fear. No answer. I try to remember what happened on this day, the first time around, but I don't have the kind of memory that remembers every hour of every day 3 years in the past. I text him, "Good morning. Where you off to?" A few minutes later, his text swoops across my screen with a friend. "Back soon." I'm relieved, but my hand still hovers over the phone. The urge to call Mark gnaws at me. It's what I always did when he was away on business. Decades of marriage has etched this ritual into our lives. I tell him about the sunset or the dolphins breaching the waves that he's missing at the beach. He tells me what hurdles the company is attempting to overcome, the looming deadlines. But I'm frozen. 20 years of marriage and now I'm afraid to speak to my own husband. Mark has an uncanny ability to decipher my every expression. He'll hear the hollowness in my voice, the slight pause between words, and he'll notice something is wrong. He'll ask about it. How can I hide the fact that I've lived through Sam's death and our divorce? Even worse, what if he decides to return home? He'd see all of it. There's a look that accompanies devastating loss. I've seen it staring back at me in the mirror. A light that's gone out behind my eyes, leaving them dull and flat. This Mark, the one from 3 years ago, doesn't know any of what's ahead. He's still proud of Sam's achievements in college, looking forward to the future. Is it fair to burden him with a future he's powerless to change?

As my finger hovers over his name on the screen, I'm surprised by how much I long to hear his voice. Not my emotionally distant ex-husband's, but this Mark, the one who still looks at me with love. This simple realization surprises me. Beneath the layers of grief and resentment, could it be that I still have feelings for him? It's heartbreaking to consider that a part of me still loves the man I'm destined to lose. I set the phone down on the counter. The only choice is to not call him, to shield him from the pain of our future, even if it means carrying this heartache alone.

While I wait for Sam to return, I walk through my home, letting my pulse settle. After Sam died, it had been impossible to be alone in this house with all its painful reminders of him. I remember walking through the living room and coming upon his shoes, a low-profile black pair he put on each time he headed out for a hike. I stopped, bent down to pick them up, and started to cry. I'd look at the objects from Sam's life and remember the things Sam said and did with them, as if the things themselves were transmitting the memories. Now I see the extraordinary in all of it. The random things in life that I once took for granted take on new meaning. The first time I'd lived this life, I'd rushed through it, ignoring the details around me. I'd looked at the things in my life without really seeing them at all. Today, it's the little things I latch on to. There are a pair of blue parrot candlesticks Mark and I bought, thinking them absolutely ridiculous, but finding that they soon became our favorites. How many dinners and special occasions had we placed those candlesticks on the table and shared a laugh about our unexpected love of them? On a shelf above Sam's desk, long forgotten by him, I'm sure, I discover his treasured collection of Lego mini figures along with a toy car and army man figures. I feel a surge of love as I remember his little voice and the way his eyes would light up with excitement each time he added a mini figure to his collection. I breathe it all in, experiencing it with fresh eyes.

Then my eye falls on a credit card bill on Sam's desk. Although I don't feel good about it, I snoop. I slide open the envelope and glance at the bill. The first time around, I'd ignored the charges for Dick's sporting goods because the cost was under $50. Seeing it now makes the question start creeping in. What is this charge? If I knew more about his life, if I'd learned more about what he spent his time doing, could I erase the hollowness in my heart that taunts me every day? You could have stopped him from dying.

I head to the safe and open it. The cash that I'd discovered was missing after Sam's death is still there. But the gun is missing. Suddenly, I hear the front door open and Sam bursts in. "I got the job, Mom." "I can't believe it," he says, his face flushed with excitement.

I remember this, of course. Sam received an email on a Saturday, no less, that he'd been offered a teaching position at a prominent high school in Los Angeles. When I found out the first time, I should have been proud, excited even. Instead, I'd worried about him living 90 minutes away in a harsh and unforgiving city like LA. I wanted him to be safe. I never imagined his life would end in the haven of safety and friendliness of Ventura. I'd skated past this big moment, consumed with worry, and squandered the chance to embrace what surely was one of the happiest moments of his life. I'd assumed, like we all do, that we'd have more time. I see this moment for what it is, an opportunity to do it differently, to embrace and celebrate his achievements without reservation. "I'm so proud of you," I say, wrapping him in a hug. "This is an amazing opportunity."

"I can't believe they said yes so quickly after the second interview," he says. "In so many ways, Sam reminds me of Mark. It's not just the physical resemblance, the thick mop of wavy dark hair and brown eyes that slope downward, but also in the way that his eyes become sharp and bright, almost as if he can see through things, when things go the way he wants them to." His smile fades and his eyes focus on the open safe. "Everything okay?"

"Yeah, fine," I say slowly. Only I notice the gun is missing. He looks up at me with big brown eyes. "Oh, I forgot to tell you. I've been practicing at the gun range. I've been storing it there so I don't have to carry it back and forth."

"Why are you practicing at the gun range?" He flicks his eyes away and I know he's lying. "Just something to blow off steam while I waited for job offers." The answer is plausible enough, but something is off. "Hey, I'm starving," he says. "Want to celebrate over lunch?" "Of course," I say brightly. "I'm getting my do-over." Although I have pressing questions about what he took from the safe, I'm determined not to miss a chance to revel in this moment with him.

As we walk toward Main Street, a warm breeze blows from the ocean, carrying the scent of salt water and brine. Sam points out the unusual orange tint in the sky. "That's from the fires in central California. It's kind of like Mars," he says, his eyes lighting up. "The reason Mars looks red is because there are so many dust particles in the atmosphere." I lay my hand on his shoulder, trying not to cry. I've missed him so. As a boy, Sam was always curious about everything. When he was five, he begged for a telescope, determined to see Saturn's rings and the craters on the moon. Throughout elementary school, our home was a revolving laboratory of volcano kits, bottle rockets, and exploding chemistry sets. In high school, he was devouring science fiction novels and comic books, taking mechanical things apart, only to tinker them back together again. It's no wonder to me now that he'd be passionate about teaching science.

The Italian restaurant with the deep dish pizza that's been his favorite for years has a line out the door. So, we stroll down Main Street to find another spot. The next thing I know, we're walking up to Celestine and Sam is checking in with the hostess at a table outside. An icy wave of dread washes over me. "How about we go somewhere else?" I suggest. "Why? You always liked this restaurant." I want to tell him that the woman who owns Celestine will end his life in 3 days. That it feels perverse to allow her to profit from us now or ever. But I can't make my mouth form the words. Before I know it, the hostess seats us in a booth. I look around and wonder if I'll see Brooke Dalton here. And if I do, will I be able to control my anger about something she hasn't yet done? I'm not a violent person, but for a moment, I imagine what it might feel like to unleash my anger at her.

"Remember Haley Reinhardt who lived next door when I was in middle school?" Sam asks, bringing me back to the moment. He nods in the direction of the bar. "That's her." I look over at a willowy young woman with blonde hair and deep blue eyes. "That's Haley?" I ask, trying to sound normal, but failing. "Last time I saw her, she had a mouth full of braces."

"We were supposed to go hiking together on Mount Whitney," he says. "But I had to bail because of the second interview at Summit Ridge High." I watch Haley place a beer mug on the counter in front of a young man in a denim shirt. She's smiling at him, flirting. He turns his face slightly and I notice his eyes and then the tattoo on the back of his neck. With a sick feeling, I realize who he is. Logan Sandal, the man who will be with Sam the night he dies. My chest heaves as I try to get my racing heartbeat under control. I had searched for Logan in the months after Sam's death, desperate to discover why Sam spent his final moments with him, but he'd never responded to my letters or emails. Still, I did uncover details about his troubled past, including a post on the Los Angeles County Sheriff's website. A log entry from two years prior revealed Logan had been arrested for selling fentanyl outside a food truck in Los Angeles, though the charges were later dropped when evidence disappeared. Locating him proved impossible. And yet, here he is, 20 ft away from me. The rest of the world is operating like everything's normal except me.

"Who's Haley talking to?" I say, my voice quivering. "He looks familiar." Sam glances at Logan and shakes his head. "No idea. I think his name is Logan." My head feels heavy, dizzy. "His last name is Sandal. I think you know him." "No idea who he is." "Are you sure?" "Never saw him before." His words land like a punch in the gut. Why is Sam lying to me?

Chapter 13. Logan. August 22nd, 2025. I march out of Brooke's office like I'm escaping a fire. I feel the heat leeching through my skin and the sweat breaking out on my back. My legs ache as if I have a fever. I'm sitting at the bar now, hoping for Haley's attention. At the same time, I'm trying to come up with some believable story that'll explain to Haley why Brooke wanted to talk to me. I think about saying that Brooke wants me to do some work for her. "What kind of work?" Haley notices me and comes over, sliding a fresh ginger ale my way. "So, was my boss stalking you?" she whispers. "She just wants me to give her daughter swimming lessons," I say with surprising conviction. "You teach swimming? That explains why you were so great with the boys who fell off their kayak. You going to do it?" I shrug. "Could be fun, actually." Two women nursing a couple of cosmos get Haley's attention, and off she goes again. I watch her helping them, smiling at something one of them is saying. Just beyond them in a booth near the door, I see a face I recognize. Sam Saunders. I blink. It feels like I'm being haunted. Everywhere I look is a reminder of the night I lost my legs. I'm guessing from the gray streaks in her hair that the woman with Sam is his mom. She hunches over the table like she's carrying a heavy burden and then glances over at me with disappointment. "Pats do that to some." Then again, maybe her angry look has nothing to do with me. Could be that the service is crummy and I just happen to be in her line of sight. But I know him. Or at least I will meet him briefly. He looks different here. Happy, like he's celebrating something big. I've got blank spots in my memories before the crash. But I can't forget there was terror in his eyes.

Chapter 14. Elizabeth, August 22nd, 2025. What to do about Logan Sandal, who's sitting at the bar fewer than 20 ft away. This is the man who somehow convinced Sam to be on the highway that night. He's the person who will erase motherhood from my life. The fierce mama bear in me imagines walking over and confronting him. It would feel crazy good to unleash my anger. I wonder if I could do it.

"You okay, Mom?" Sam asks, bringing me back to the moment. "You look kind of pale." "I think it's a little hot in here," I say, then make a show of taking a few gulps of water. My heart is pounding as I turn my attention back to Sam. What if this is the last time we'll sit together? The last time we'll talk. I live every moment with a sense of impending doom, worried that AON expeditions will solve whatever trouble it's having. And this, the hiss of the coffee machine behind the bar, the murmur of people talking, the clatter of dishes, Sam sitting in front of me, will all be over. I miss being his mom. Even when I think of his childhood and managing the exhausting sleepovers, juggling the endless to-do list of shoes and clothes that needed buying or washing or folding, and that dropping everything because he has a fever days. I know that being his mom always will be the greatest honor of my life.

Logan's presence does, however, give me an idea. I know I cannot change the future that I will return to. Scientists at AON have made clear that there's a reset when we return. The future remains unchanged by what we do here. But what if AON can't bring me back to the future? If I'm stranded here for even a few more days, do I dare hope for that? I can make it so that Sam isn't on the PCH with Logan when Brooke Dalton barrels through that curve. I can prevent the accident from happening. I'll get to be his mom for as long as I'm stranded here. I can live a different life.

The waitress comes by and asks us if we need anything else, and I answer absently. My mind is elsewhere, developing a plan. Whatever Logan will do to persuade Sam to meet him on that stretch of highway, I will stop it. I can't shake the feeling this is a fool's errand, an impossible mission that only a heartbroken mother would undertake. It's irrational and illogical and goes against everything I'd ever done before. I'm following Logan home. After we finished lunch, I'd spotted him leaving Celestine and told Sam that I'd catch up with him at home because I needed to check on my friend Alba, who'd broken her foot. Well, it was true that Alba had broken her foot. I have no intention of stopping by her home. Instead, I've put in my earbuds, pretending to listen to music while following Logan for block after block. First along Main Street, past its busy restaurants and home decor and clothing storefronts. Then through leafy streets lined with cute beach cottages and cozy bungalows until we get to a neighborhood of two-story apartment buildings that look like they haven't been renovated since the '70s. Luckily, Logan's too busy looking at his phone to notice that I'm a block behind, keeping pace with him. I think about calling out to him and talking to him right here instead of acting like I'm a gumshoe detective on a stakeout, but I am curious about where he lives, how his life became entwined with Sam's. Suddenly, I realize that Logan and I are alone on the street. My pulse pounds, and I weigh the pros and cons of continuing to follow him. The obvious risk is that he could turn around any second, notice that I've been trailing him and confront me. He might have had too much to drink and be belligerent, angry. My mouth goes dry and suddenly I'm not sure if I can go through with this, but I'll never know why Sam was with Logan that night unless I talk to him now. I watch him go into his apartment building, a stucco box painted in a bleak color, every window disfigured by the same yellowed plastic vertical blinds. The barely-there landscaping looks like the landlord hasn't visited in years. I head up concrete steps painted bright blue, then find his last name scrolled in black ink on the old-fashioned doorbell panel. I press the button. A male voice squawks through the speaker. "Can I help you?" My stomach quakes, but I sound surprisingly calm. "My name is Elizabeth Saunders. I'm looking for Logan Sandal." "What for?" "I'd like to talk to him." It's a lousy introduction, so I'm surprised when a few seconds later, the door buzzes, letting me in. I grab the handle and step inside the hallway. The hall light is out, giving the place a gloomy feel. Then the apartment door in front of me swings open, and Logan stands before me. All the vim and vinegar I've been summoning suddenly whooshes out of my body. He's much more imposing up close than he seemed in the restaurant. All broad shoulders, thick thighs, and a wide stance. The heavy metal music he's playing on his earbuds is loud enough that I can hear. "I'm Logan," he says, removing an earbud. His voice is softer than I'd imagined, as if all the sinew and mass is an elaborate cover for a gentle man. "Elizabeth Saunders," I start, repeating myself. "I think you know my son Sam." He stares at me like I'm a strange bird. "What's this about? Maybe he's one of your friends. Or..." I trail off. His sheer size makes me nervous about accusing him of selling drugs to Sam. He steps forward, cowering over me. "Why are you here?" The way he says it makes me snap to attention, like he might know me, yet I'm sure we've never met. "I want to ask you about Sam." He stares at me incredulous. "I saw you at Celestine earlier. Did you follow me home?" My voice sounds bolder than I feel. "This is going to sound crazy. I know it will. In 3 days, you'll be in an accident on the PCH. Sam will be there with you. Sam will die. And you... you will be paralyzed." The minute I say it, I regret every word. I've broken every AON rule and I sound like a lunatic. I expect him to look at me like I'm raving mad. Surely he'll close the door. Instead, he pushes it open. "I think you should come in." "Seriously?" "I'm pretty sure you're a jumper like me."

>> Chapter 15. Logan. August 22nd, 2025. My body vibrates with shock. This is impossible. Elizabeth's presence here means there are three of us stranded, not just me and Brooke. Three of us connected to the night that my life is wrecked forever. Elizabeth steps into my apartment and looks around the room. And the desperation of the life I'm living is on full display. A cheap coffee table from IKEA and a worn-out couch I'd retrieved from the parkway. Only thing decent in the room is the TV, which I fought for in a Black Friday sale. Her hair is tied away from her face, making her look frail and tired. Her cheeks are deep red. Side effect of the time travel, I'm guessing. "How long have you been here?" she asks. "30 hours, give or take." "You the same. Did you follow me home because you already knew I was a jumper?" "I followed you because I need to know why Sam was with you on that highway on the night of the accident." I'm surprised by her question. "Sam wasn't with me." Her mouth twists in anger. "Why are you lying? Why are you both lying about this?" "I didn't... I don't even know Sam." "But he was... They found his body there with you." "Look, I was at a party my friend EMTT was throwing. I was minding my own business, pacing in the bike lane, my AirPods at full volume when I'm not buying that. Why would you be pacing in the bike lane at 11:30 at night?" "I don't owe you any explanations. Why were you there?" She sighs. "Help me understand what happened that night." I draw a deep breath. "A half hour earlier, around 11:00, some college kids rolled up in their dad's Lexus. They were high on Molly ecstasy. They brought out some other pills and started passing them out. That's when I bailed. I've been trying to stay clean and when other people are drinking and getting high and I feel the urge to join them, I hightail it outdoors. Sometimes I'll sprint until my lungs hurt and I can't catch my breath. Other times I'll do some ridiculous number of push-ups. That's how I burn off the hunger for that stuff." The police talked to the guy who hosted the party, EMTT. He told them that Sam wasn't a guest, that he didn't know him. That leaves only one possibility. That Sam was there to meet you. "What for? Drugs? Something else?" The "something else" lingers in the room. "He wasn't there to meet me." "Then why was he there?" "I don't know." Tears are leaking out of her eyes and she doesn't bother wiping them away. "Why are you lying to me?" "I'm not." "Tell me," she says, real soft. "Tell me why Sam was on the highway with you." I shake my head. "I turned around and there he was. A split second later, I was flying." I think about telling her that Sam looked horrified, panicked, but her eyes are flooded with tears. No sound escapes her lips. She buries her face in her hands. Got no idea what to do. Should I say something? Leave the room? Maybe bring her a tissue? I loosen my grip on the arm of my chair, thinking I should get her a glass of water. The next thing I know, my hand is on her shoulder, gentle. "We both lost something that night, and we're both here trying to get it back."

Chapter 16. Elizabeth, August 22nd, 2025. "We're not the only ones," Logan says, handing me a glass of ice water. My heart skips. There are other jumpers. Brooke Dalton is here, too. The name hits hard, sending a wave of unease through me. Logan's face is pale, his eyes fixed on mine, and the air between us grows impossibly thick with everything we're not saying. "It can't be a coincidence, can it?" Logan says finally, his voice tight. "Three people sent back to relive the worst day of their lives. That's no accident." "And doesn't have the technology to send us to a specific date. We heard that in every orientation session," I say, though doubt starts creeping in. "They lied about the safe zone. Could be lying about this, too." I set the glass down with a shaky hand. "What do you mean?" "They told us we'd feel pain if we went more than 10 miles out of the safe zone. I got on a bus, did just that. Nothing. No pain." "That can't be. The engineers were specific." "So sure, but now I wonder. They didn't tell us everything. Maybe they can jump us to specific dates." My mind spins. "Look, my ex-husband is Mark Saunders." Logan freezes, his eyes widening. "Wait, the founder of Aon? He's your ex?" "What does he say about what's happening to us?" My voice falters. "I haven't talked to him." His eyebrows shoot up. "Why not?" I hesitate, weighing how much I should reveal. If I talk to him, he'll ask about the future. He'll want to know what's coming. And what do I say? That his son dies? That we divorce? All of that would destroy him. "You could lie," he says. But even he doesn't sound convinced. I shake my head slowly. After more than 20 years of marriage, he knows me too well. He'd see straight through the lie. He stands, running a hand through his hair, clearly frustrated. "Okay, but if they can send us to a specific date, and it looks like they do, why would they send us to relive the worst day of our lives? Why do that?" I stare at the floor, my thoughts spinning. "I don't know. Maybe it's some kind of glitch. A mistake?" "Mistake?" His voice drops low and heavy. "So, we could be stuck here forever. Would that be so terrible? Do you even want to go back to the future?" The question hangs in the air. He manages a single word. "No." For a long moment, neither of us says anything. Then his voice cuts through the silence. "But if we're here, even for a while, we have a shot at something big. We can change what happens on August 25th." The date rings in my ears, the memories crashing down on me. The phone call from the sheriff, Sam's broken body. "We can talk to Brooke," he says, his voice steady. "Keep her off the PCH." My stomach twists. "I can't talk to Brooke," I say, my voice barely audible. "I can't talk to the woman who killed my son. I can't do it." His jaw tightens and a flush creeps up his neck. "If we keep her off the PCH, Sam lives. I get to keep my legs. We get the lives we've always wanted." The air suddenly feels electric, charged with something I haven't felt in years. I've been trapped in grief for so long, I've forgotten what hope feels like. But here it is. "Okay. Tell her I'll meet with her." There's a chance, a real chance to stop this. We can save Sam. Save ourselves.

Chapter 17. Andy, August 23rd, 2025. I'm trying to cram everything into one day. All the things we did the first time around. I don't have the benefit of knowing how much more time I'll have with her. So, I arranged the activities like I'm assembling a giant jigsaw puzzle. We went paddleboarding on Mondo's Beach in the morning, then wolfed down lunch at an Indian restaurant nearby. After that, I took her for a tasting at a local craft winery. And like before, we overdid it and had to dry out in her apartment, putting back strong coffee and listening to Puccini and Verdi operas all afternoon. By evening, neither of us had an ounce of energy to go out for dinner and karaoke, so we decide to do that another time. I don't know if we'll get another day together. So the next morning, I arrive early at her apartment and take her to the batting cages where she shows off some of her softball skills from high school. Then we walk Hobson Beach, not under the silvery moonlight like before, but on a sun-drenched summer afternoon with dozens of families and kids and dogs all around us playing in the surf and building sand castles. As I watch her join in on a game of Frisbee, my heart squeezes. I've lived this once before, so you might think the novelty would have worn off, but I still feel like I'm in a state of constant discovery. I keep promising myself I'll ask about the name on her driver's license or quiz her about the scar on her forehead. But falling for someone is like an unchoreographed dance. Things flow. We're drawn together. We share laughs, swap stories, and the joy of discovering each other's quirks takes over any impulse to dig for facts. By the time the sun sets, we're both slowing down some. So, we order Thai food from the restaurant down the street. And when it arrives, we eat it while relaxing on her living room floor. A slow, mournful orchestral piece comes on her HomePod, and suddenly she jumps up and races to the wall, flicking off the lights and plunging the room into darkness. "What are you doing?" I ask. "In the dark is the only way to listen to this," she whispers, then settles again beside me. She turns up the volume and lets the plaintive melody fill our darkened sanctuary. As we listen together, I felt an undeniable pull between us. Time seems to slow and I realize I'm experiencing a new moment with her that I'll probably remember forever. "This is a song about Orpheus," she says softly. "He's deeply in love with Eurydice, and when she dies, he can't stop thinking about her. He can't figure out how he'll live without her. He's so desperate that he travels to the underworld and sings this melody to Hades, the god of the underworld, to plead with him to let him take Eurydice back with him." "Does it work?" I ask, desperate for hope that you can be reunited with someone you've lost. "Not exactly. Hades makes a bargain that if Orpheus doesn't look back at Eurydice on his walk out of the underworld, he'll let her stay with Orpheus in the land of the living. But Orpheus doubts himself. He doubts Hades. He turns around to look at her and and he loses her forever. He does. So his trip to the underworld was pointless." She turns to me. "Or you could see it another way. Because of Orpheus, the two were reunited, however briefly. That's something."

An hour later, we're looking at vases in the antique shop on Main Street. This store has been here since I was a kid and hasn't changed any since then. The low hum of an old photograph playing scratchy jazz records fills the air. The same stark fluorescent lights hang overhead. Dusty shelves are lined with antique clocks and pocket watches, silver tea sets, and advertising memorabilia from decades ago. A not-so-great upright piano stands in the corner. A relic that's been there since I was in middle school. "This is the piano I played when I came to Ventura," she tells me, running her fingers over the keys. I don't think Kate has a passion for antiques, but she examines every one of the vases in detail as if she does. China, porcelain, glass. She holds one iridescent specimen to the light and examines it closely. But it feels like she's pretending to be interested. It wasn't my idea to come in here. After dinner, we're walking down Main Street to get some gelato when she suddenly grabs my arm. "Let's go in here," she said tersely. Then we slipped inside the store and she made a beeline toward the vase collection in the back. "Can I help you find something?" the bald guy behind the counter asks. "Just looking," she says. As she glances through another shelf of vases, I notice things that I didn't before. The first time around, I'd been falling for her, and other details just sailed by. For starters, her eyes dart to the door every few minutes. It's a subtle tick, and anyone else might think she's just looking around, but there's a nervous energy to it. And she keeps up a steady pattern, noticing that her hands are trembling slightly. "Look," she says lightly, showing me a vase with a strange reptilian creature painted on one side. "Who would ever have something like this in their home? There's got to be a story behind this." I look at the price tag. "Someone who's got $80 to burn." She smiles and then the bell over the front door dings and her gaze swings to the door again. A trio of women, their faces tinged with sunburn, walk in seemingly excited about a vintage lamp in the window display. Kate's shoulders relax, but her eyes stay on the door as if she's expecting someone else to walk in. "You still have sale stuff on the patio?" she asks the shopkeeper. He nods. "Yes, just a reminder. We're closing in 10 minutes." I follow her out the back door and into a tented patio area with a couple of folding tables jammed with vintage computer equipment, old 45s, and boxes filled with vintage mirrors. She lifts a 45, inspecting it. "Would you mind if we head back to my place?" "You want to skip gelato?" She blows out a breath. "Honestly, I'm kind of beat." She reaches for my hand as we step off the patio. Then we head into the narrow alley that meanders behind the bustling chaos of Main Street stores. "Can I show you a shortcut?" she asks. "Lead the way." The route she chooses has us winding around overflowing dumpsters and hurrying past tall mounds of black trash bags. In the fading evening light, she points out the quirky architectural details, a huge plastic flower display dumped into a parking area, the brief place where asphalt becomes cobblestones, the row of potted herbs growing in repurposed coffee cans. I set aside the strangeness of the setting and see this for what it is. What I always wanted, more time with Kate. All it really takes to be happy sometimes is being with the one person who really gets you. Then she glances behind us uneasily, and I follow her gaze. No one else is in the alley or nearby. Still, she picks up the pace. "Let's go this way," she says as we hurry through the side yard of a duplex that leads to the back entrance of her building. She swipes her key card and once we've climbed the steps and we're inside her apartment, she closes the door and turns the deadbolt. It's subtle, but I can't help but feel that something has spooked her. I'm quiet for a moment, giving her a chance to catch her breath, not wanting to add pressure. "It felt like we were running from something or someone back there," I say. "Or was I imagining things?" Her eyes meet mine, wavering until they finally drop. "You're a writer. You live in your imagination, don't you?" she says with a laugh. "We weren't running from anything." "No," she says. "I thought you'd have fun alley hopping. Let me get us some water. Sparkling or flat?" "Sparkling." She leaves the room, giving me a moment to think. We are both telling each other a story. I'm pretending to be meeting her for the first time, and she's pretending that everything's normal, that we weren't running from someone or something. That's when I see a camera near the ceiling. I never noticed it before because it's white and small enough, the size of a golf ball, that it blends into the light trim. Security cameras are common even in sleepy Ventura. But I don't know anyone who has a camera inside their apartment. Why does she have it? She returns with two glasses of sparkling water and we sit on the couch together. My body is noisy with thoughts and questions. I have no idea how to act. Should I ask about the camera? Should I bring up the subject again of why we left the antique store abruptly and ran home through the alley? What is her real name? She settles beside me, touches her hand to mine, and leaves it there, knitting a bubble around us. This feeling, as if the two of us are in our own world, is what it's always felt like being with her. I know her. We end up talking about everything under the sun for a long while. And I realize I rarely stop smiling when I'm with her. We make plans to watch Sleepless in Seattle the next day. She laughs at a few of my jokes, if you can call them that, and I'm so distracted by her that I forget about all the questions I have and the things I need to understand. "Tell me about your family," she asks. "Do they all live here in Ventura?" "My parents do. My dad is a professor of engineering at UC Santa Barbara. Mom is a writer. Scholarly articles about language development in babies and things like that," I tell her. "I have no siblings but two cousins. One who's going to college here and another who's in pharmaceutical research at Pfizer in Kalamazoo, Michigan." "Michigan. Maybe this is how I can ask her about Michigan." "I'm visiting him this fall," I continue. "His name is Mitchell. Have you ever been to Michigan?" She glances out the window. "Not yet. Someday maybe," she says with such conviction that I almost think I'd misread her driver's license. "Where's the most exotic place you've ever been?" I ask. She hesitates for a moment, choosing her words carefully, then tells me about the time she visited the French Quarter in New Orleans. Her story about her endless quest for fried green tomatoes is funny, but she leaves out any mention of anyone who was with her or when she was there. I'm beginning to see that much of what she says stays in a safe zone, as if she's uncomfortable revealing too much. "Whatever happened with your friend?" she asks, turning the questions back to me. "David Harrison." I shoot her a blank stare and then remember the champagne. "David Harrison's bottle is still chilling in her refrigerator." She laughs. "Isn't he mad that you never brought it to him? Did he propose to his fiancée without the domino?" "Busted. He thinks I'm a terrible friend, but he'll forgive me when I tell him how I met you." She turns to look at me, serious now. "Was there really a David Harrison or was that a ruse?" I stammer through my answer. "There was... is a David Harrison. Meeting you made me forget all about him." Her face flushes. "I just want to say that the other night, having too much champagne," she says quietly. "You staying over? That's not something I ever do." I opened the door because, well, this is going to sound strange, but I felt like I already knew you. I looked at her in surprise. "You did?" "From reading your books." "What do you think you know about me from reading them?" "Well," she says, a hint of a smile playing at her lips. "I think you're an optimist, for one. I laugh. "No one would call me an optimist, but you are. Even in the darkest moments of your stories, the characters find their way through. There's a sense like you believe things can always get better." "I don't always believe that. Life has a way of proving otherwise." She holds my gaze. "Maybe, but your stories, they make me feel hopeful. Like when things fall apart, there's still something worth holding on to. They make me feel safe. And so do you." I know most guys wouldn't like to be told they're safe. The term feels like the precursor to being exiled into the friend zone. And the way she says it makes me think that's what she's looking for. Safety. Was I always the safe but brief choice for her? Had I mistaken her need for safety as romantic feelings? "That's why I invited you in. To be honest, I wouldn't have even answered the door if I didn't know you. But because of your books, you... you felt like an old friend, someone I've known for a long time." Her words make my heart race. I try taking a deep breath to get it to slow, but it's not working. For a brief instant, I consider saying something funny to diffuse the tension building between us. Then I feel a sharp pain in my bones. And then the whole world seems to be slipping away. My skin feels like it's vibrating. Damn. I'm returning to the future. I'm staring down the last moments with her. All the muscles in my body tense and I clutch her arm, panicking. "It will always be you, Kate," I say, my heart beating out of my chest. I lean in to kiss her and as quickly as it began, the pain and the rumbling stop. My body is still. From the look on her face, I've said too much again. I sound too far along in my feelings. "Do you want me to go?" I ask, my voice catching. "No," she says. "Why would you?" "Because of what I said." "I don't want you to feel like..." "No, I thought maybe I was imagining how you felt. That I was misreading what's happening between us." The memories of us swell around me, drawing me to her. "You're not imagining it." We stop and gaze at each other for a long moment. Then she leans in and her mouth grazes my cheek until it settles on my lips. The kiss is like a thunderbolt, a confession of all my feelings. It's a manifestation of the confusion and upheaval I'd held on to since she ghosted me in the future. When my lips are finished with that narration, I settle, remembering all the ways she likes to be kissed.

Chapter 18. Elizabeth, August 24th, 2025. My finger hovers over the painted seahorse doorbell button on Brooke Dalton's front door, but I can't make myself press it. After I left Logan last night, I thought I could do this. Now that the moment is here, I'm sure it's a mistake. Every minute since I committed to meeting her, I've been on edge. I'd hardly slept, and when I did, it was the kind of restless sleep where I woke up in fits and starts. On my way here, I glanced in the rearview mirror and noticed the dark hollows beneath my eyes. They looked like warning signals from my body. Don't do this. I lower my hand from the doorbell and consider walking away. Logan can talk to Brooke without me. It won't take two of us to convince her to stay off the PCH. Unless she's an idiot, which she might be, she's probably come to the same conclusion herself. At the same time, I can't deny that I'm curious about her. Is she the callous woman they portrayed in the media? The woman who came home and poured herself a Chardonnay after killing my son. Could such a person exist? Then it occurs to me that I may never have this opportunity to talk to Brooke Dalton again. Every moment is filled with possibility and meaning, even the painful ones like this one. I press the doorbell and seconds later, Brooke opens the door. Her voice is surprisingly warm. Normal. "Hello, Elizabeth. Please come in." Her home is one of the newer custom-built homes within walking distance of the harbor with soaring views of the ocean. Gigantic living room, stunning chef's kitchen with a built-in wine cellar, and a dining room that looks straight out of Interior Design magazine. Knowing that this beauty belongs to her makes it all feel like a tacky facade. She's dressed differently than I'd expected. Her clothing is kind of slouchy, sweatpants, a pink flannel shirt despite the warm weather, and scuffed tennis shoes, and she's pale, almost dead white, to the point that she looks nothing like the designer clothes source I'd seen in her online photos. Her voice trembles. "I'm so grateful you're here. I've wanted to talk to you so many times before." "But the lawyers," my tone is sharp. "The lawyers. That's the first thing you want to say to me." Her face flushes. "Logan isn't here yet. Would you like to have a seat?" She motions for me to sit on the spotless white couch in her living room. "Can I get you anything? Tea? Coffee?" "No." It feels like a betrayal to Sam if I accept anything from her. She sits across from me, looking more like a benign aunt, soft and engaged, instead of the person who murdered my son. "Nothing I do can bring him back to you," she says softly. "I want to start by telling you how sorry I am for the mistake I made." "Mistake? Is that what you call it?" I say, struggling to catch my breath. "Do you have any idea the pain you caused my family?" She turns to me, her brown eyes glistening. "I know that your life can never be the same. I'm ruined by what I did." I don't answer. What can I possibly say? I see pain reflected on her lined face, but what she's experiencing can't come close to what I've lost. "The day I drove on the PCH, I wasn't drunk or distracted," she says, looking down. "I wasn't looking at my phone or the radio. I wasn't speeding. I hadn't had a bad day. In fact, I'd been having a good day. And then the accident happened. And whatever good things I might have done in my entire life were all erased by this single moment. I took your son's life. I paralyzed Logan." "No matter how much I want to, I can never change any of that." "Why didn't you stop after you hit them? Why did you keep going?" "I don't know how to explain it." She looks away, her face crumpled. "I didn't believe that I could have hit anyone on that deserted highway so late at night. I accepted the only answer that made sense to me, that at worst it was a raccoon or a deer, not any people. Even when I found out that there had been a hit-and-run accident on the PCH, I couldn't accept that I was responsible. It just didn't seem possible that I did that." "I don't buy her story. How can she expect me to believe that she didn't know she'd hit two people? If I were in the same situation, I'm sure I'd know if I hit someone," I say. "But you weren't in the same situation," Brooke says. "So, you're either saying I'm a liar and I'm not, or you're saying I should have known something that I simply didn't see in that moment." "I'm saying that you should have seen what you'd done." "Yes. And to add insult to injury, you only served 900 days in jail for what you did. That doesn't seem fair." "I hope that made you happy." "Happy?" she says, her voice rising. "Happy? It's safe to say that that was the last day in my life that I was ever happy or ever will be happy. To be honest, I'm not sure I want to be happy. Look what happened the last time I was happy." "It's not fair," I say, my voice rough. "You get 900 days in jail, and I have to live the rest of my life without my son." "Would it have made a difference to you if I'd served a longer sentence?" "Of course it would because someone must pay for this tragedy. Someone does." Brooke blinks and doesn't respond. Her silence makes me wonder if I've got it wrong. If this was truly an accident, does she... does anyone have to pay for this tragedy? And if they do, what is the price? The doorbell rings and she rises to answer it. When she steps to the door, I'm filled once again with what feels like a never-ending sorrow. The way I felt in the weeks after Sam died. But there is a difference. A glimmer of something else pushing its way in. A feeling that surprises me. Hope? That makes no sense. Nothing this woman has said has given me any reason for hope. "Sorry I'm late," Logan says. He strides into the living room with Brooke trailing behind him. The three of us stand there a moment and none of us knows what to say. We're strangers and even the knowledge that we're time travelers and that we're stranded here and connected to the same horrifying event doesn't make it easier to figure out where to start. "The reason we're here," Logan says, clearing his throat. "Is that we can stop the accident from happening tomorrow night." "I'll make sure Sam isn't on the highway," I volunteer. "I sure as hell won't be there," Logan adds. Both of us look at Brooke, awaiting her answer. "Of course, I'll stay off the PCH. I'll do anything and everything to stop this from happening." "How did it happen?" I asked, turning my eyes to Brooke. My tone is sharp, more accusatory than I'd planned. "If you weren't, as you say, drunk or distracted or having a bad day, why did you hit Sam and Logan?" She sits across from me. "I've asked myself that question at least a thousand times." She stops then, looking at the wall behind me as if the answer might be written there. And Logan presses. "I thought I saw something beyond my headlights. One appeared as a quick flash of white, almost like a ghostly figure at the edge of my sight. The other was a dark blur." "Ghosts?" I ask, the disbelief clear in my voice. "Not ghosts, exactly?" she stammers. "Whatever they were, they sped across the highway, and I swerved to avoid them." "But you'd been drinking," Logan interrupts. "I had not been drinking and then my wheels veered into the bike lane." She lets the answer trail, waiting. "And I hit Logan and Sam." "You swerved to miss what then?" I asked incredulously. Her shoulders slump. "I don't know what I saw. It happened so fast. The police said no one else was at the scene. Just Logan," I say. "And Sam." She sighs. "I know. And when I looked in my rearview mirror afterward, I didn't see anything or anyone either." I turned to Logan. "You were there. Did you see these things she's talking about?" "I have broken memories of the accident. My head injury messed things up. But if what you say is true, Brooke, if you saw something, then maybe I didn't imagine what I think I saw." "What are you saying?" I asked, cutting him off. "You saw something, too?" He sighs. "Look, my memory of that night is filled with blank spots. I can't be sure." Brooke stares at him. "What do you think you saw?" "Two blurs, moving fast. Maybe one was wearing white. They..." I press. "Maybe it was real. Or could be that it was a trick of the headlights on Brooke's car." "Are you both saying someone else was on the highway with Sam and Logan?" I demand, my pulse racing. "I'm not sure," Logan says, shaking his head. I turn to Brooke. "If you saw something, why didn't you tell the police? Why wasn't this in the police report?" Her eyes flicker with doubt. "I don't know if what I saw was real. If there was something or..."

Someone there? Why didn't the police find them after the accident? And if it was people, humans who ran across the highway, why didn't they stop when they heard the accident? Elizabeth's right. Maybe light was playing tricks on our eyes. Logan says it's dark on that highway. Why would anyone be running across that highway at 11:30 at night? My voice is small. Maybe for the same reason Sam was there.

>> Chapter 19. Andy, August 24th, 2025.

I'm a terrible spy. For one thing, I can't sit still for very long without feeling antsy. For another, I'm not good at figuring out how to stay hidden. Plus, I'm racked with guilt. I've never spied on anyone. And yet here I'm sitting at a cafe across the street from the pottery barn on Main Street where Kate works. If she sees me here, there's no way she's going to think it's a coincidence. Even though I've brought my laptop and have all the props, notebooks, coffee, pens that make it look like I'm deep into my writing. My reasons for following her are well crummy and proof possibly that I'm overreacting. Now that I'm paying attention to everything she says and not just heartstruck, I'm seeing how many excuses she makes. When I asked her to have Sunday brunch with me, she turned me down, saying she swims at the Y every Sunday for 90 minutes. 90 minutes of actual laps, not water aerobics or water jogging laps. When I joked about her training to be an Olympic hopeful, she didn't laugh and she didn't invite me to join her. Probably a good thing because I would have dropped out after 5 minutes. Then when I asked her to go to dinner with me tonight, she told me she had some things to do after her shift at work and wouldn't be able to meet me until 9. The math didn't make sense. Her shift ends at 5, so what was she planning to do during the 4 hours after that? My mind raced with the possibilities. Maybe she wants some time to practice the piano or she really does have some errands to run. Then the darker ideas slip in. Maybe whatever she's doing is why she's using a different name. Why she has a security camera in her apartment.

About 5:15, she steps out of Pottery Barn. Gone are the black business casual clothes the employees wear. And instead she's wearing Nikes, leggings, and a gray t-shirt. Although she does a quick scan of her surroundings, she doesn't seem to notice me. Instead, she heads down the street. I'm not brave enough to follow her, but from my vantage point, I can see her stop about a block away. She heads into the training hall gym. That can't be right. Training Hall isn't a gym where average people go to work out. There are no weight machines or treadmills. This is a gym where you go for Olympic weightlifting, strongman classes, and a form of wrestling called Moss wrestling involving pulling a wooden stick from your opponent's hands. With her petite frame, I can't imagine Kate fitting in with the crowd there.

I toss a 20 on the cafe table. Quickly pack up my stuff, then head to training hall, my heart pounding a million times a minute. I open the glass door and the woman behind the counter immediately says, "I'm sorry, the class has already started. We're not allowed to let anyone join late." The door to the gym space is to her right and it's firmly closed. "What class is it?" I ask. She pushes a pamphlet across the counter. Self-defense. It's techniques you can use in the real world, she says, her pitch rising into sales mode. You can sign up beginning next week. We recommend classes twice per week to get the best results. Could I take a look at the class in session? She shakes her head. The instructor doesn't allow observers, privacy and all. 20 seconds wouldn't hurt, would it? I ask. I mean, that way I'd know if it's something I want to sign up for. My interest in signing up seems to sway her. Okay, just peek in. Don't do anything to distract anyone or the instructor will kick you out and you'll get me fired.

I step toward the doorway, turn the knob slowly and quietly, and when I have it open a few inches, I look inside. Two students are sparring in the center of the gymnasium while a small group of others look on from the sidelines. The sparring is intense. Fist punches, headlocks, kicks to the groin. It all happens in a flurry of fast, aggressive movements. Then suddenly, one of the sparring students is pushed to the floor. It's Kate. The instructor's voice booms. Get up quickly now. You must keep fighting, even if you're exhausted. Don't give in. Don't give up. Kate pulls herself back to a standing position. But her sparring partner is quick and knocks her back down. Never stop attacking, Kate. The instructor continues. Never let your guard down. No matter what happens, you've got to find your mojo to keep fighting. The instructor steps forward from the group on the sidelines and offers Kate a hand so she can stand up. Try it again and again. It has to become as natural as breathing. You see enough? The receptionist whispers, bringing me back to the moment. I close the door, my hands tingling. My heart is pounding so hard I can feel it throbbing in my ears. We're running a 20% discount this month if you want to sign up, she says.

Kate has walls up. When I see her at 9 that night, she doesn't mention the class. She's showered and changed with no sign of the exhaustion that should come from a grueling self-defense session. Even when I ask about her day, she deflects, talking instead about her twice per week swimming sessions at the Y and how she can push through 30 laps without stopping. Still, nothing about the class. Why is she avoiding it? From what I saw, this wasn't her first time. Her answers often skim the surface. She dives into the frustrations of her day job at Pottery Barn, the ridiculous complaints from customers, and the litter of kittens she discovered behind the store. But when it comes to her past, or even much of her present, she subtly shifts the conversation. I kick myself for not seeing this the first time around. Back then, I'd been so caught up in trying to be perfect for her, molding myself into whatever I thought she wanted me to be, instead of being the guy who moped around his apartment, agonizing over his writing career. I didn't see how much of herself she was hiding.

>> Chapter 20. Brooke, August 24th, 2025.

I tell James that I'm not going to Lisa's party tomorrow night, and he doesn't have any reaction to my decision. Of course, he wouldn't. He has no idea that my attendance at the party will be the catalyst to losing everything we have together and will shatter all that we're taking for granted in this easy moment. In his mind, this is just another party. I envy him for not knowing what is to come. We stand on our front porch looking out at the purple crepe myrtle trees lining the walkways of the neighborhood we've lived in since before Olivia was born. We've had 10 years of tables lined up down the middle of the street for our block parties. The first weekend in October, a decade of Nick and Clay's New Year's Day parties where we all eagerly waited for them to bring out their heavenly ham and homemade fudge, and countless Fourth of July gettogethers where we'd roll a fire pit into the street and roast marshmallows while a group of neighbors played guitar and sang classic rock songs from the 80s.

James sees my decision as an opportunity. Let's go out then, he suggests. Olivia will be at a sleepover, right? I turned down the idea of going out. No way am I going anywhere on August 25th, but I promised to cook him something amazing at home. What he doesn't know yet is that he won't be here for that dinner. In a few hours, he'll find out that he needs to fly to San Francisco for a client meeting in the morning, returning the next day. Now that I know I can prevent the accident, I'm immersing myself in the ordinary, mundane moments of life I'd once breezed past without appreciating their beauty. James tells me about the settlement he's reached on a case he's been working on for over a year. It's not an extraordinary story, just a rundown of the tactics the opposing council tried and failed. I probably look silly, laughing at his corny puns and smiling throughout. I can't help it. I love everything about him. The way he looks after a long day, his hair slightly mussed, his crisp white shirt unbuttoned at the top, sleeves rolled to his elbows. I think of days that I once wished would go on forever. My wedding day. Christmas morning when Olivia was little. Opening day at Celeststeine. An ordinary moment like this one wouldn't make the list before. Now it would. He moves closer. You seem really happy tonight, he says. I am. His hands cradle my face and he kisses me tenderly then roughly as if he can't get enough of me. How much I love these long moments with him. His arms wrapped around me when it's just the two of us and the rest of the world fades away. Time stretches and slows. There is only him. And for long moments, I let myself believe it will always be this way. For the first time in a long while, I feel truly happy. Everything is under control. I won't be on the PCH tomorrow night. I won't cause Sam's death or Logan's injury. And if I'm stranded here, whether it's for an extra hour or a decade, I'll get to live out what it feels like to keep this life. That night, I drift off to sleep like I did when I was young. I dream and sleep without pauses or restarts. I don't startle awake with a pit in my stomach, wondering how I'll slog through the years ahead of me with the shame of knowing I took someone's life and permanently injured another. That won't happen. I'm free.

Part Two. August 25th, 2025.

>> Chapter 21. Brooke 5:32 p.m.

Every time I see the date, August 25th, 2025, I feel that familiar sickening twist in my stomach. I find it hard to breathe, constantly thinking about the tragedy looming at the end of the day. Or at least it would happen if I allowed it to unfold. But I won't. The first time I was powerless, helpless as everything unraveled in seconds. But now I know what's coming and I will stop it. Just like the first time around, James's high-profile clients called and asked him to fly to San Francisco for an in-person meeting in the morning. He's in an auto driver now, slogging his way to the airport for a 7:00 flight. And like before, Olivia is at her best friend's house, thrilled for one last sleepover before school starts. I'm home alone, staying away from the PCH as I promised. But like the first time around, there are potato peels jammed in the floor sink at the restaurant, and the crew that's serving the dinner crowd can't unclog them. My manager, Eduardo, who's a Macgyver with things like this, is homesick with a 102° fever. So the call comes to me. Some bosses would just delegate the chore to someone else. But as shitty as the work is at times like this, anyone who does it year after year like I have really loves it. It's the hardest job in the world. It's like the Super Bowl all day long. I know people think owning a restaurant is sexy and consists of shaking hands and buying drinks for loyal customers. The truth is, for every Gordon Ramsay who screams on TV and bosses around a terrified legion of employees, there are thousands of owners like me who work grueling hours at their restaurants, haven't screamed at anyone, and know how to clear the potatoes from the floor sink.

I decide to go in and solve the problem with a firm plan to be back within the hour. The thought of being anywhere outside of my home on this date makes my heart race. I take a route down some side streets that adds 15 minutes to the commute. The potato peel problem takes a little longer than I expect, but I used some kitchen wizardry. Pouring a bunch of baking soda followed by white vinegar to finally get the drain unclogged. But my hands are trembling and my left foot feels numb. This has been happening all day. Something is wrong, but I have no idea what to do about it. Thinking it's low blood sugar, I snack on a chocolate chip cookie fresh from the oven. Still, the trembling continues. I step out of the kitchen, removing my apron, when I spot Sam Saunders at the entrance talking with the hostess, Emma. I can't help but stare. Why is he here? Perhaps he'd been in the restaurant the first time around, too, but I hadn't noticed him. Maybe I'd seen him, but he blended in with the blur of customers who come and go all day long. And I'd had no idea then that my future would be consumed by him. That he would mean something to me someday. How many Dear Sam letters had I written? 50? 100? All of them totally useless because they could never be sent. What will I say to him now that he's here?

I intercept Emma and ask if I can take care of the customer out front. She looks at me with worry. Why am I doing something wrong? No, I know his family. What's he here for? It's his mom's birthday and he wants to surprise her with one of our cheesecakes. Would you get one ready and I'll go out to talk to him? Okay, she says nervously. I have the feeling she still thinks she's going to get fired because I'm doing her job for a rare moment. My knees shake as I walk over to greet him. I'm Brooke, the owner. Sam, he replies, his voice full of youth and promise. We're preparing your cheesecake for your mom's birthday, I say, trying to disguise the tremble in my voice. Is it today? He nods. Yes. An awkward silence falls between us because I can't think of what else to say. I'm on the edge between anger at putting myself in this situation and staggering grief. You're a great son, I say, finding my words again. To get this for her. Now what? What can I possibly say that will have any meaning or make any difference to him? My mind flickers to sliding through the curve on the PCH and hitting Sam with my car, taking his life. You will never have this chance again. Elizabeth will love what you're doing. He narrows his eyes. You're friends with my mom. I'd like to be, I say softly. But do you know what she'd like more than cheesecake? He tilts his head. I'll bet he's thinking I'm trying to upsell him on some other dessert. Think, Brooke. Nothing comes. I am exposed. Standing before him, I'm shattered into a thousand pieces. And suddenly, the walls that had been separating me from him come crashing down. Tears slip from my eyes. "Are you okay?" he asks. "Yes," I say, brushing the wetness from my cheeks. "I'm sorry for a terrible mistake I made. Something that I can't erase." He looks at me with big brown eyes and although he has no idea what I'm talking about and isn't capable of forgiving me for something I haven't yet done. It's freeing to say these words aloud to him. I know that my words cannot take away what I did. But I wasn't being careless. I wasn't uncaring. I did the best I could in that moment. He looks at me with confusion. As painful as this moment is, I'm grateful that I get to say these words. "Okay," he says. Then Emma arrives with a cheesecake in our signature red box and hands it to him. "It's on the house," I say. "But promise me you'll stay home tonight. Be with your mom on her birthday. Spend time with her. That's what your mom wants more than anything." He gazes at me in surprise. His phone buzzes and he glances at the screen with alarm. I will, he says, distracted. I will.

>> Chapter 22. Andy. 5:32 p.m.

We're on the beach, standing in the exact place where we were the first time around. The sun warms the sand as it did before, but this time I noticed some things I hadn't before. There are dark circles under her eyes, which she conceals with makeup, and her cheeks look drawn, tired. Like before, the piles of yellow-tinted clouds spiral upward and make our walk on the beach feel like we have wandered into the heart of a Tishan masterpiece. Look, she calls out, pointing to a tide pool filled with dozens of starfish. I'd forgotten about this moment, this discovery. The storms last week must have carried these little fellows in from deeper waters, she says, crouching down to get a better look. I squat beside her and reach for one of them. Maybe we should throw them back into the ocean so they have a better chance of surviving. She grabs my wrist. Don't. Starfish are extremely fragile. They have tiny structures all over their bodies that are easily injured. She blinks as if she's close to tears. I look at her, seeing her worry for these creatures and sensing something more. Pain. As if she identifies with these lost starfish in a way that's still a mystery to me. What should we do then? I ask. They might not survive these shallow tide pools. She shakes her head, determined. Starfish can protect themselves by regrowing their limbs when they're attacked, she says softly. They take steps to protect themselves, and they're resilient in the face of danger. "We can't interfere. We have to let nature take its course." We stay there a moment, watching the starfish in the clear water. I sense there's something more she wants to say. I wait, my breath high in my throat, hoping I'm right. When the silence stretches, I ask, "Is there something you want to tell me?" She looks at me with watery eyes. I don't know what you mean. Just then, a pod of dolphins jumps through the foamy waves, maybe 20 ft away, distracting us like the first time around. Will you look at that?" she shouts, jumping to her feet, changing the subject.

As we stand inches apart, captivated by the dolphins, the space between us is charged with a quiet but unmistakable energy. She leans in, her breath warm against my skin, and presses a tender kiss to my lips. The dolphins and the world seem to fade away, leaving just the two of us on the beach. My heart racing. It seems natural to tell her how I feel about her. This thing between us, I whisper, wondering if she can feel my heartbeat pounding through my shirt. It's real for me. Her eyes meet mine. Are you even real? What do you mean? The first time we meet, I've already read two of your books, so I feel like I know you. Then you come in with a bottle of champagne that I've always wanted to try. You even quoted the Bill Pullman character in Sleepless in Seattle, one of my favorite movies. Then you recognized that I played Box Goldberg variations. No one ever does that. Sometimes it feels like you already know me, as if I'm imagining you and everything about you. I consider telling her that I'm from the future, then settle on another truth. I want to see you tomorrow and the next day and the day after that, I say, pulling her closer. Promise you won't disappear on me. She blinks at me in confusion. Why would I disappear? Sometimes I get the feeling that there are things you're not telling me. A rush of blood stains her cheeks red. "You're right," she says softly. I look at her, letting my silence do the job of my racing heart. She takes a deep, steadying breath. "I'm not from San Francisco like I said I was. I'm from Michigan and moved here 9 months ago." I don't understand. Why'd you say you were from San Francisco? She sighed. I guess I wasn't ready for questions about why I left Michigan. Why did you leave? She hesitates before answering. I didn't belong there anymore. The people I knew were either settling down and having kids or running to all-night parties in the woods.

Her phone dings in her pocket and she pulls it out. I can't see what's on the screen, only that it seems to be a video with movement, but her expression shifts suddenly. I have to go, she says briskly, shoving the phone back into her pocket. Would you finish your story first? She looks like she's going to cry. Sorry, I need to go. Let me go with you, I offer, reaching for her hand. She places a hand on my shoulder and drops a brief kiss on my lips, whispering, "Stay here. Keep an eye on the starfish for me." Then she races across the sand to her car.

5:42 p.m.

My eyes are locked on her tail lights as I trail her through the city streets. She slips through a red light and barely taps her brakes at a four-way stop. Her driving a reckless ballet that keeps me 50 yards behind. After a few blocks, she pulls into a gas station, jumps out, and opens the trunk with a quick practiced motion. Before she peers inside, her gaze sweeps around as if she senses someone watching. A leafy shrub is blocking her view of me, or so I hope. From my limited vantage point, I can't make out what's in the trunk, but it looks like she's rummaging through a duffel bag. She grabs a few items, slips on a red flannel shirt, a pair of sunglasses, and a navy blue baseball cap before snapping the trunk shut. She returns to her car, now transformed into someone unrecognizable. She accelerates out of the gas station with the skill of a race car driver weaving through traffic. I follow her, but I get trapped behind a slow-moving pickup truck, unable to pass. My heart races as I watch her white Kia make a left turn. But by the time I get to make the same turn, a dad and his young son amble into the crosswalk. Her car has disappeared from my view. Where did she go? I tear down street after street scanning for her vehicle and instruct Siri to call her phone. The voicemail picks up. Hi, it's Kate. Leave me a message. After 10 minutes of frantic searching, I'm almost ready to give up. Then a thought strikes me. She might have gone to her apartment building. I head there, but since the building has an underground garage, finding her car on the street seems unlikely. I search the area anyway. That's when I spot it. A black pickup truck idling across the street from her building. The sun's glare on the windows hides the driver's face, but I see movement inside. A chill runs down my spine. I park and leap out, glancing back at the truck. A guy with dirty blonde hair slouches in the driver's seat, his face obscured, staring at his phone. Maybe I'm being paranoid, but something about him feels off. I press the buzzer and force a smile at the camera by the door, hoping she's there. Silence. I dial her cell again. Voicemail. Hi, you've reached Kate. Leave a message. I text. I'm outside. No response. A tall woman in a gray hoodie exits the building and I quickly slip through the door before it clicks shut. I sprint up the stairs two at a time. At Kate's apartment, I stop short. The door shows signs of a struggle. Scratch marks, dents, and splintered wood around the lock. Something's very wrong. I try the handle. Locked. I knock, my heart pounding. Kate. I knock harder. It's Andy. Are you in there? Silence. Or is it? I hold my breath, convinced I hear a faint movement inside. A swish. Maybe my own breathing. I strain to listen. Why won't she answer? I knock harder. Kate, it's Andy. My voice cracks with desperation, and I hate how scared I sound. I call her number again. Voicemail. I rush back down the stairs into the front steps, glancing up at the camera and pressing the buzzer one last time, hoping she's been in the shower and only now hearing the doorbell. No answer. The black pickup truck roars to life and speeds off, leaving a cloud of dust and leaves in its wake.

6:30 p.m.

I suck at internet searches. I've looked up the name Sam Saunders on LinkedIn and there's no trace of the Sam I'm looking for. Maybe some college grads don't bother with that app. I move on to TikTok and Instagram, but there are dozens of people with his name and none of them look like him. I'm running out of options and time. Today, August 25th, 2025, is the day she disappears from my life forever. But I've got to believe that armed with what I know now, there's still a chance that I can stop that from happening. My apartment is freezing cold, so I turn on the heat. It's 75° outside, but I feel bitter cold in my bones. I'm grasping at straws. But Sam might know where Kate is. If nothing else, if everything happens as before, he'll meet her later tonight at the 7-Eleven on Bristol. But I cannot find him. In this city of a 100,000 souls, there is no way to find a 20-something guy named Sam Saunders with dark hair. There isn't.

I rise from the table and my entire foot goes numb like it's in an ice block. Pain shoots into my big toe. Damn. The pain throbs. I collapse back in the chair. Wait, wait, wait. I'm remembering one of the AON expeditions orientation sessions. The first one. The one that was essentially a big party celebrating how fortunate we all were for being accepted. The one where we got faux but beautiful gold coins commemorating our upcoming experiences. Where we signed 72 digital pages of liability waivers. And where we made our final deposits with a complex crypto lock procedure that ensures the payment can never be disputed or rescended. The splashy opening video produced by a big-name Hollywood director played on a massive screen in an auditorium that holds 200. AON Expedition's founder Mark Saunders talked about living in Ventura, California, and how his experiences living in the small town steeped in California history shaped his desire to create a way for people to experience the past. I remember thinking how cool it was that this guy lived in my same hometown. Mark wanted to name the machine after the How 9000 from his favorite movie, which was not surprisingly 2001: A Space Odyssey. The choice of name was not because the technology Saunders had developed was artificial intelligence like HAL, but because HAL 9000 was seemingly omniscient, exactly what we jumpers would be during our 60 minutes in the past. The problem was HAL 9000 was associated in customers' minds as an antagonist and a murderer. The brand experts didn't think that was a good association, especially given how much money people pay for the experience and how fearful of the technology everyone was in the beginning. Saunders decided to soften the name of the behemoth machines to Sam 5000 and publicized that it was inspired by his young son, Sam Saunders. The video showed a photo of Sam, a young boy with thick black hair. Could Sam Saunders be Mark Saunders's son, only grown up?

I type in Mark Saunders plus son. And there's a photo of the two of them at a fundraiser for a local charity. It's him. A little sleuthing helps me uncover that Mark's wife's name is Elizabeth. And then some hunting on the real estate sites shows that Elizabeth and Mark Saunders are the owners of a house on the beach here in Ventura. I scribble down the address, stamp my left foot, trying unsuccessfully to stop the buzzing and tingling, then hobble out the door.

There is power in secrets. Elizabeth answers the door and has no idea I'm a jumper from the future. She can't fathom that my very presence on her doorstep is because of her husband's future invention. My first thought after that is that she's been crying. Her eyes are puffy, sure, but there's a slackness to her skin that makes me think she's exhausted herself with tears. She's wearing a gray sweater and she wraps her arms around her chest like she's bitter cold, too. Maybe it's not just me who feels like I've walked into a refrigerator, even as the sun blazes and the temperature outside registers 78°. My name is Andy Shapiro. I'm looking for Sam. She peers at me. He's on his way back. Would you like to wait for him? Sure. I expect she'll suggest that I sit here on the steps, but instead she ushers me inside the house, then through the living room and onto a sun-drenched deck with a stunning view of the beach and the Channel Islands in the distance. "I'm surprised she's so trusting with a stranger." She motions to two beach-facing lounge chairs with thick cushions. "I'm Elizabeth," she says, shaking my hand. "Have a seat. Can I offer you some water?" I'm good, I say, settling in. I could get used to this view and the sunshine sparkling on the waves and the warmth. I'll text him to let him know you're here. I think she's going to head inside and let me wait out here by myself. But no. How do you know, Sam? She asks, producing an ice-cold bottle of water from a small refrigerator and handing it to me, even though I'd declined earlier. I met him through my girlfriend Kate. I haven't met Kate. She says it solemnly like knowing Kate is somehow important to her. They went to school together. I shake my head. I don't think so. What's her last name? The intense way she's looking at me makes me realize that she's brought me inside because she's snooping on her son's life, trying to figure out who his friends are. The questions make me think she isn't just an overanxious helicopter mom. She's worried about her son. Montana, I say. You spend a lot of time with Sam? Actually, I've only met him once. Damn. My hand trembles again and I hide it under my thigh, hoping she doesn't notice.

Inside the house, a door slams. Then a man's voice calls out. I'm home. Outside. Elizabeth answers. Your friend Andy is here. Andy? He steps out onto the deck and blinks at me in the bright light. The look on his face is one of pure shock. What are you doing here? I texted you that he was here, Elizabeth says. Sam withdraws his phone from his pocket, glances at it. Just seeing it now. What's this? Elizabeth says, pointing to the box he's carrying. For you. Happy birthday. She lifts the flaps and I can smell what it is before I even lay eyes on it. Cheesecake. Tears spring to her eyes. You remembered it was on the house. The owner of Celeststeine gave it to me. Brooke, I think her name is. She says she knows you. Elizabeth's expression falters and big glassy tears fall from her eyes. Sam seems as confused as I am. You okay, Mom? I'm fine, she whispers, wiping her eyes. She presses a kiss to his cheek. I'm just a little emotional today. He places a hand on her shoulder and turns to me. What brings you here, Andy. Kate's missing. She's not answering her calls or texts. Or the door. For how long? Sam asks. About 2 hours. Elizabeth gives me a patronizing smile. The kind you give someone who you think is having an emotional crisis. 2 hours isn't long. I'm sure your girlfriend is fine. Sam ignores his mom. You've known her for what, a few days? Sam asks suspiciously. And when she doesn't answer you for a couple of hours, you hunt down one of her friends as someone you only met once and come looking for her here. It does seem strange, Andy. Elizabeth says wearily. What's going on? I realize I must look like a crazy man in their eyes. They don't know the future. They don't know that Kate disappears from my life and from all of ours, never to be seen again. I lower my voice, trying to sound calm. I just know something is wrong. Sam, how do you know Andy's girlfriend anyway? Elizabeth asks. Did you go to high school with her? College? She came into the antique store during one of my shifts. She was playing the creaky old upright, yet somehow she made it sound amazing. We're friends. She's the one you loaned the baby grand we had in storage, Elizabeth asks. Sam nods, then something on his phone captures his attention. He glances at it, then quickly back at us. Sorry, I got to run. You just got here, Elizabeth says. and you promise to I'll be back in time for your birthday dinner," he says and heads back inside. "Wait," I call out, following him inside. "If you hear from Kate, have her call me." "Sure," he says, then rushes out the front door, letting it slam behind them. I'm about to run after him when Elizabeth calls out. "Are we having an earthquake?" I turn to look at her. Her skin has turned white and she sways unsteadily. "No," I say. No earthquake. Everything is spinning. Her eyes close and she crumples to the ground, motionless. Hey, are you okay? I rush over to her and push on her arm a few times. Her chest rises and falls, but she doesn't respond. Elizabeth dig my phone from my pocket and press 911. Moments later, the operator answers, "911, what's your emergency?" I quickly recite the address and then shout, "A woman has fallen. I can see she's breathing, but I think she's unconscious." Elizabeth lifts her hand. "Hang up, I think," she says. She's talking. "Wait a second," I tell the dispatcher. "Hang up," Elizabeth repeats. "You need an ambulance. Paramedics, hang up," she says, waving her hands as if she's trying to grab for my cell phone. Please.

>> Chapter 23. Elizabeth. 6:52 p.m.

My eyes are closed, but I swear I can see the back of my head resting on the wooden deck. Impossible. I move my fingers and I see the blue sky above. Despite my eyes being shut, I wait for the surge of pain that's surely coming. In my first extraction, searing cramps thrashed through my body like a herd of scorpions had been unleashed under my skin. Now my body shivers and trembles in a horrifying cycle that seems to have no end. The body's pain and violent reaction to the extraction is normal, temporary. Don't panic. AON reminded us again and again. I'm failing at that. Suddenly, it stops. I open my eyes. Everything is still. The sun is shining, its warm rays caressing my skin. Andy is still here, crouched beside me, his face tight with concern. "Are you okay?" he asks. I turn my head and everything spins for a moment, then stops. I think so. For the first time, I take him in. He is several years older than Sam, handsome, with soft eyes and thick lips that make me think of a young Tom Hanks. "What just happened?" he asks, his eyes narrowing as he studies me. "I'm probably just dehydrated," I say, trying to sound untroubled. I push myself into a seating position and reach for my water bottle on the table. I take a long deliberate swig trying to regain my composure. His gaze remains fixed on me, so I try to break the tension by asking, "So, what do you do for a living, Andy?" "I'm an author." "Oh, have I read anything of yours?" I head to the outdoor fridge, needing the distraction, and grab more water. My biggest hit is a book called He's Gone. I've read that one. That's the one based on the true story of that dead body that washed up on the pier here. Inspired by, he says, no one knew who the dead body was, so I made up a story about who he might have been. I swallowed some water and my pulse begins to settle. One of my favorites. I loved that the detective was jealous of the victim. His eyes latch on to mine, unblinking. You're from the future, he says, half question and half shocked statement. You must be caught off guard, I laugh. How could he possibly know I'm from the future? Don't be silly. The book you're talking about hasn't been published yet, he says. It comes out next year. My jaw drops. I must be mistaken then, I say softly. about the book. The look in his eyes tells me he doesn't believe me. I'm from the future, too.

My head starts spinning. I shouldn't be surprised. Not after meeting Logan and hearing that Brooke Dalton is also here. Still, I feel a flash of anxiety. What kind of catastrophe has happened at AON Expeditions that stranded so many of us? And not just those of us involved in the August 25th accident, but this man, too. I've been here 5 days. How about you? I ask. He stares at me with a look of intense surprise. The same. We're not the only ones. There are at least four of us stranded here in Ventura. All of us were jumped here 5 days ago. He rises, threading his fingers through his hair and pacing the deck. Okay. So, what happened back there? Was AON extracting you? Trying. I think it's their third attempt. It hasn't worked yet. Has it happened to you, too? Twice. Today, I'm having numbness in my hands and feet. Sometimes my body shakes for no reason, and I've got chills even when it's hot. My heart thunders. Are our bodies in danger because we've stayed here too long? What does your husband say? He asks. Are we okay? I haven't talked to him. He looks at me as though I've grown two heads. What? Why? He's working in Ohio and can't be disturbed. We need his help. His eyes bore into mine. He's scared. Look at us. Our bodies are breaking down. My throat is dry. Andy's right. We're running out of time. But telling Mark, I don't know how I'll look him in the eye and lie about our future. How do you hide the knowledge of what's going to happen? Everything we're going to lose. You don't understand. I don't want him to know about our future. He can't know. His voice trembles. We're falling apart minute by minute. If you don't talk to him, we may not survive this. A light rain begins to fall. Cold drops dotting my skin as my hands start to shake again. Is it just anxiety or something worse? The air feels like it's closing in on me from all sides. In the distance, a seagull cries, a sound I usually find calming, but right now it's sharp and ominous. Fine, I say, but my feet stay planted where they are. My phone sits on the table just inches away, but it might as well be on another continent. What are you waiting for? He asks, his voice laced with impatience. A knot tightens in my chest. If I don't call, I'm not sure we'll get through this. But if I do, I'll break Mark's heart.

>> Chapter 24, Brooke. 7:02 p.m.

My wipers are on full blast to keep pace with the sudden rain as I return home from the restaurant. I've switched off the radio to avoid distractions. And to the frustration of the drivers behind me, I've reduced my speed to 15 mph. My hands grip the steering wheel as I navigate the starbursts of oncoming headlights and the rain-slicked road. Avoiding the PCH is crucial. A glimpse of the entrance ramp makes a cold sweat break out on the back of my neck. I roll past the ramp, veering down the side streets again. The rain intensifies, turning the empty streets into a maze of blurred lights and shadows. In the hazy light from the shops that line the street, I spot a girl in a red shirt running down the sidewalk, her face stricken with panic. Even with my windows rolled up, I can hear her shout, "Help me!" I'm the last person who should get involved in whatever's going on. But I slide to a stop and roll down my window. You need help? She looks in my direction with fiery eyes and bolts toward the car. For a split second, I think I'm making a mistake letting her in. Her eyes are unusually bright, intense. She looks like she could be strung out on drugs. It's too late to reconsider. She yanks open the door and slides into the front seat, her face taut with terror. Floor it please," she says, visibly trembling. She slouches down in the seat so anyone looking from the outside can't see her. Her chest is heaving, and I'm so flustered by the terror on her face that I can't organize my thoughts enough to do the sequence of things to get going. Check the mirrors, lock the doors. Finally, I ram the accelerator against the floorboards, and the car roars out into the night. We fly through a stop sign. You need me to call the police? Her breath is ragged. I already did. They won't come in time. They never do. I glance in the rearview mirror to see if someone is following us. But as far as I can see, there are no cars behind us. No one on the sidewalk either. Who are we trying to get away from? He's good at hiding, she whispers, fixing me with a fearful gaze. Turn left here now. The light is already yellow, but I do as she says, gripping the steering wheel as the car slides into the turn with a tortured squeal. Her eyes never leave the passenger side mirror. What happened back there? I try. I was walking away from the ATM, she says, her voice barely above a whisper. He was there standing by my car. She breaks down crying then, her shoulders shuddering. Who was there? She doesn't answer. She looks out the window and I can see her jaw is trembling. Where am I taking you? She pushes wet hair from her face and wipes her eyes. The 7-Eleven on Bristol. You know where it is? Wouldn't the police station be safer? He's expecting me to go to the police. I've done that once before and it didn't turn out the way I needed it to. Ice floods my veins. I'm in way over my head, but I'm suddenly overcome with a fierce sense of protection and survival. Let's warm things up in here, I say, cranking up the heat. I'm Brooke, by the way. She doesn't answer. I glance over at her, and in the pale yellow glow of the dashboard, I realize I recognize her. She played the piano at my party a few days ago. I feel bad for not remembering her name. You played piano at my party the other night, didn't you?" She turns to look at me, her voice solemn. "We've never met. And if anyone ever asks about me, promise me that's what you'll say." My voice is soft. Who might ask about you? Anyone who saw me get in the car with you. I slide through a yellow light that turns red while I'm still in the intersection. Focus. I swallow hard. Are you sure you'll be safe at the 7-Eleven? I could take you to my home or My friend is meeting me there, she says with some confidence. I can call the police. I know one of the senior lead officers. Or I can take you someplace safer. Her voice catches. My friend is bringing me something that will keep me safe.

>> Chapter 25. Elizabeth, 7:04 p.m.

The accident will not happen. Sam will live. Everything is set. I've made sure of it. After Andy left, I called Sam. He said he was helping a friend for a quick moment and confirmed he'd be back before 8 for dinner and cheesecake. The pastas and salads from Mama's Osteria will arrive just before that. And after dinner, we'll settle in to watch my favorite movie, Groundhog Day, which Sam loves, too. He's promised he'll stay home tonight. With Sam's plans locked in, I turn to the task of calling Mark. Or at least that's what I know I must do. But I still have no idea how I'll answer the questions he's sure to ask about our future. I dial his number and not surprisingly, the call goes straight to voicemail. His familiar voice, warm and low, flows through the speaker. This is Mark Saunders. Please leave a message. The voicemail beeps. It's me, I say, trying to keep my voice steady. It's urgent. I need to talk with you about AON. Would you call me right away? Knowing it'll probably be hours before Mark checks his phone, I call his assistant, Paul. I get kicked to voicemail there, too. So, I leave a message asking him to have Mark return my call.

As I hang up, tears sting my eyes, catching me off guard. I was over Mark a long time ago, or so I thought. But hearing his voice and standing in our home surrounded by all the signs of our life together, I'm suddenly not so sure. This house, this life is filled with all that once was. A photo of us at a party framed with our smiles frozen in a moment of happiness. The Adirondack chair on the deck that Mark had always claimed as his own. All of it draws me back into the life I'd once shared with him. A life I'd closed the door on. I've stood in this kitchen dancing with him after Sam was born. We've played hundreds of rounds of Monopoly here, and there was the night the power went out, and the three of us sat around the table here doing Mad Libs and reading aloud, silly jokes by candlelight. My gaze shifts to the bookshelf, crammed with books the two of us have bought over the years. There was a small oil painting we'd found during a trip to Spain on one of our wedding anniversaries. A few framed photos tell more of our story. Vacations, holidays, the first day of school. In the corner is a vase that had held countless bouquets of apology roses when Mark was traveling and missed important dates. I had always imagined that moving on meant erasing the past. But here in this home filled

With echoes of our life together, I'm confronted with a new truth. Maybe my feelings for Mark aren't as gone as I thought they were.

A half hour later, I hear a car door slam, then the soft creek of the front door opening. Sam is back. Sam, I call out. Elizabeth, it's Mark. I race to the door and stare at him as though I'm seeing him for the first time. With his thick hair tled and a three-day beard, he's handsome. Then again, he's always been. There's a bright look in his eyes that I'm not sure how to describe. Is it confidence? Happiness. Why are you here? I ask finally. He leans in, dropping a soft kiss on my lips. I live here, remember?

How long have you been here? I shrugged, caught off guard by the question. All day, of course. Why are you here, though? Shouldn't you be in Ohigh? You called me and said it was urgent. You could have just called back. He shakes his head, his expression serious. I had to come. You mentioned Aon, and I haven't told anyone that's my final choice for the name. I've messed up. I said Aon. At first, I thought maybe someone on the team had told you.

He says, "They've been pressuring me to decide because we're planning to announce the company launch next week." I'm sure you told me. Then I realized I hadn't told anyone. And that made me think my words are barely audible. It made you think what? that I needed to get here right away because he trails off. I think you know about Aon Expeditions because you've used its services.

I let a silent moment go by, wondering how I'm going to word this. How could I use its services when it's not yet operational? at sometime in the future. He looks at me utterly mystified as if I'm a rare and wonderful creature he's never seen before and something has gone wrong. My lips flatten. What makes you think something has gone wrong? Because you say you've been here all day, but an hour is the longest trip that we can take safely. He knows. Either you think I'm a raving lunatic, he says, or you know what I'm talking about. I know what you're talking about, I say softly. The worried lines on his face ease a little. Then he covers his face with his hands for a long moment without speaking. When he finally lowers them, he gazes at me. Does Sam know? I shake my head. How long has your jump been? 5 days. His expression is full of bewilderment. That's impossible. When are you from? 3 years from now. 3 years. There's confusion and uncertainty in his voice now. But something is wrong there too, isn't it? What makes you think that? I don't know. Something about the way you're Mark. My chest heaves as I try to get my racing heart under control. I don't think we should. They must be okay because you're here, he says with some confidence. His eyes dart as he thinks this through. You're standing here. So that means I get aon expeditions to work. But the way you're looking at me, something is different. How am I looking at you? Like I'm a stranger. He pauses a second, thinking things over. Maybe I'm overthinking. Is everything okay between us? I exhale slowly. Everything is not okay. I've never seen such pain etched on his face before. His voice shakes. What happens? Can it be undone? The things that have happened can't be undone. It's that bad? Are we fighting? Is that what has become of us? I breathe out the answer. Divorced. He stares at me in shock, disbelief clouding his features. Then future me is an idiot. Why aren't we together? I would never let you go. It wasn't your choice. He walks over to the window and looks out at the beach for a long while. His jaw clenched. His voice is barely above a whisper. It's because of Aon, isn't it? Some what? because I'm becoming a walking cliche of a highly functional but compulsive engineer. Although what he says is true, I shake my head. He lets out a slow audible breath. I don't mean for it to get out of hand. But it does and I lose you. His shoulders slump and he sinks onto a kitchen chair. Why has this invention always been so important to you more than everything else in your life? What is it? The challenge, the money, the fame. Is that really what it looks like to you? My words land hard. That's how it looks to anyone who falls into your orbit. He meets my gaze, then rubs his eyes, retreating into himself. A deep sigh. The summer I turned 8. My brother Eli and I. We built a time machine. He begins, his voice softening. Not a real one, of course. We made this one out of cardboard, duct tape, and some extra lumber our dad had lying around. We'd step inside and pretend that we'd gone back to the time of the dinosaurs, his idea. Or to the future, where we drove flying cars, mine. He pauses, lost in the memory. By the 4th of July, they'd discovered a tumor in his brain. By Christmas, Eli was gone. After that, our time machine sat in my bedroom for months, untouched. I'd go to bed imagining that if I could invent a real one someday, even though I knew that was impossible, I'd want to travel back to those times when the two of us sat in that box, dreaming about other worlds we could visit, playing like there'd always be more tomorrows. 24 years of marriage and I knew that his brother had died, but I never heard about the pretend time machine. Yes, he was a genius and a workaholic. But there was something far deeper driving his desire to create Aon. The sun slants through the window, hitting his eyes so hard he squints. If I lose you in the process of making this thing, I have to change that here and now. My heart aches for him. He's trying to hold on to something he will lose to stop it from happening. You can't. That's not how anything works. We can't change the future. I don't know how much time I have with you, but I need you to hear me. He says, "No matter what happens to us in the future, no matter what thing I do or don't do, you'll never stop being the love of my life." Tears well up in my eyes. It's been a long time since Mark talked this way about us. Even if I'm distracted or distant or I don't know, don't say the right things when I should, you'll always be the most important person in my life, he continues. I've loved you since our very first date. Now you're exaggerating, I say, letting out a soft laugh, not exaggerating. I remember every detail of that night. I look at him with skepticism and he goes on. You had on a blue knit dress and a silver necklace with your initial. Creeds with arms wide open was playing on the radio. You talked about the sea lion you'd seen on Hopson Beach that morning. I meet his gaze, surprised at the details he remembers from that night so many years ago. The restaurant where we planned to eat had lost our reservation, he continues, then snaps his fingers. It was called the Bellweather. remember? That's when I asked you if you wanted to come to my place for dinner instead, I say. And like an idiot, I said, "Maybe." I laugh, which made me think you didn't want to come over. Oh, I wanted to, that's for sure. But I was so nervous. I remember thinking, "She's amazing. Don't blow this." That was proof that all good things begin with a maybe. The world around me stills. After we got married, this became our catchphrase. Each time we faced a tough decision or one of us wasn't sure what to do, we'd look at each other and say, "All good things begin with a maybe." Then jump in to see what maybe would bring us. After my maybe mishap, he continues, I came to your apartment and we made a chicken dish together with all the leftovers you had in your fridge. An onion and an open and very flat bottle of Chardonnay, overripe tomatoes, too. I remember we talked until 4:00 in the morning, and even then, we didn't want the evening to end, so we went for a walk in the middle of a downpour. The thunder was so loud, it was rattling the windows, and you asked me to go outside with you. That's when I realized I wanted to marry you. His retelling of a memory reawakens feelings I'd long buried. And the way he's looking at me makes me see myself and us in a different light. How did I give up on us? His voice is thick and low. Then we kissed in the entryway to your crummy apartment building. The one with the stained ceiling tiles and the fluorescent lights that always flickered. I'll never forget that. Can you? I fall back to our youth, remembering his tentative touch on my face and the blaze of our first kiss that took us both by surprise. I can't imagine my life without you, Elizabeth, he continues. So, this is me asking you to marry me again in the future. For a moment, all the world is right. I gaze into his dark brown eyes framed by wavy hair and I feel a jolt of lightness like kids on Christmas morning. But we are hardly kids and there's so much pain ahead of us. I wish I didn't know the way it all would go, the way it would end. You've always been and always will be everything to me. He says, I'm asking you to give us another chance. This is me asking you to choose us in the future. I want this to be the memory you carry into the future. My breath hitches as he pulls me into his embrace, and I feel his heart pounding next to mine. Promise me you'll give us a second chance. My vision is hazy with tears as he leans in to kiss me. Making promises about the future isn't easy. But here with him now, I remember what it feels like to be hopeful again. I give the answer only he would understand. Maybe. Everything good begins with a maybe. 7:58 p.m. We have so little time. Every second matters. I don't tell Mark about Sam's death. Most of us really don't want to know all the pain and loss we'll suffer. I won't crush his joy in this moment by telling him about the grief ahead. Instead, I tell him about the symptoms Andy and I have been experiencing, and he immediately gets on the phone with his chief health.