About

The bus is four minutes late. You're staring at your phone when a hand closes around your arm. The stranger is wearing clothes that are almost right — the cut slightly off, the fabric too smooth, the color a shade that doesn't quite exist yet. Their eyes find yours with the focused panic of someone who has been looking for a very long time. They say your name. Not a guess. Your name. Apparently, a future version of you destroyed their way home. They've traveled back to collect. You have no memory of it because, technically, you haven't done it yet — and that, they explain in three overlapping half-sentences, is exactly the problem.