The calculations are especially messy, stretching across the binding and continuing down the sides. Even the pencil marks themselves have a bit of a manic look to them, but with complete clarity, I remember writing them and know precisely what they mean.
I barely knew Emma at the time, but I stayed up all night calculating and weighing the risks of altering an entire day to prevent an accident and possibly save her life. Sure, I’d gone back before—five minutes here, ten minutes there, each time changing totally minor, completely insignificant events. But I’d never gone back that far or deliberately changed that many minor things. I didn’t even know if it would be possible. And even though it was, I decided I would never do it again.
But looking at the dates and calculations reminds me how I felt when it was all over and I saw the look of pure relief on Anna’s face. She practically skipped down the driveway after seeing Emma that Saturday morning—all of her various internal organs intact and the skin on her face scratch-free and perfect—and as I stared at her through the windshield, this feeling of intense pride washed over me. I had done that. I made that happen. It was the first time I’d ever felt that maybe I had been wrong about this gift of mine. It was the first time I’d wondered if maybe Dad was right.
Now I run my finger along the pages, thinking about the look on his face as we stood in the kitchen last week, watching the news on the screen. He wanted to say something, but he knew I wasn’t supposed to travel anymore. Besides, I’d told him so many times that he probably knew it was senseless to bring it up again: I don’t change things.
I wonder what he’d say if he knew that I once did.
For Emma, I’d gone back fifty-two hours. Could I go back even further?
I turn to a clean page and start scribbling some new calculations. I know I’ll never be able to answer the big ethical questions with any certainty, but a few minutes later, I’ve figured out the math. I’ll need to go back about sixty-four hours. Two and a half…almost three days. I’d have to stay back there, just like I did with Emma, and repeat those three days again to be sure that the do-over stuck, that nothing unintentional got altered along the way. I slam the notebook shut, bury it deep in my drawer again, and go back to my homework.
This is officially insane.
I’m standing in my room, zipping up my backpack. It’s heavy, filled to bursting with water bottles, Doubleshots, Red Bulls, a wad of cash, a flashlight, a smoke detector, and a fire extinguisher. I look around the room and shake my head. What am I doing?
Before I can give it another thought, I close my eyes and visualize my destination. When I open them, I’m in the alley I found on Google Maps, just one block south of the apartment complex. I’ve never been here before and already I hope I won’t have to come back again.
To describe this neighborhood as sketchy would be a massive understatement. It’s only a little after five A.M., but there are pockets of activity everywhere. A group of guys are hanging in front of a liquor store on the corner, and the doorways are filled with homeless people curled up in sleeping bags. There’s an eerie buzz around me, and I feel my guard go up as I walk down the street toward the address. I keep my eyes up, my feet moving.
I’m relieved to find the apartment and somehow feel a little bit safer as I slip into the entryway. I scan the directory on the wall, reading the last names next to each of the little black buttons until I find Walker. I check to be sure no one’s watching me.
I close my eyes and when I open them again, I’m on the other side of the main entrance. There are no lights on the lower floor and the staircase is barely visible. I reach into my backpack for my flashlight, and I shine it on the stairs as I climb the three flights that lead to 3C. Closing my eyes, I visualize the other side of the door.
In the apartment, I sneak down the hallway with my flashlight. School pictures line the walls, and for the first time tonight, I don’t question whether or not this will work, I just hope it does.
I creep around the corner, past the living room and toward the bedrooms. After I pass the bathroom, I stand frozen, facing two closed doors. I have no idea which one belongs to the kids, so I think back to the video footage of the building on fire and make the educated guess that it’s the door on the right; the one closest to the street. I twist the handle and the door creaks open.
On the far side of the room, two twin beds bookend a large window that looks out over the street below. A thin stream of light is coming in from between the curtains, casting a soft glow on the dingy carpet.
The kids are breathing, low and soft, and neither one of them moves as I remove my backpack and cross the room. I crouch down, remove the brand-new smoke detector I found buried in a box out in our garage marked HOME IMPROVEMENT, and position it as high on the wall as I can reach. Back in the hall, I grab the small fire extinguisher I snagged from under our kitchen sink and prop it against the short wall between the two bedrooms.
I close my eyes and visualize the exact same spot I was in before the fire broke out last Saturday in the early-morning hours. My bedroom.
By the time I open my eyes, the other me has already disappeared, sent back to who knows where and when, and I’m free to take his place.
The last time I was here, I had just hauled myself up from the couch downstairs. My head was still aching and my mouth was uncomfortably dry. But right now my heart is racing in a good way, and I’m so full of adrenaline I’m about to burst out of my own skin. I don’t know if I was successful or not, and I won’t know until the news comes on in a few hours, but somehow, I have a feeling it worked. This wasn’t what Brooke meant when she said I should do “something good,” but I’m pretty sure I just did.
12
The first time around, I had climbed into bed with my clothes on and fallen back into a deep sleep. But there’s no way I could have fallen asleep tonight. I’ve been sitting here for the last hour waiting to see the first signs of daylight, and thinking about what I just did.
Suddenly it dawns on me. In fact, it’s odd that I didn’t think of it until now, or factor it into my decision process as I sat in my bedroom on the Monday night I just wiped away. I’d been three days closer to returning to Anna. Now I have to do those days all over again, like I just rolled the dice and landed on the square that reads, Go back three spaces. I don’t know if this do-over will work, but one thing’s certain: it may actually be the most unselfish thing I’ve ever done in my life.
The TV is the first thing I hear, and when I turn the corner I find Dad in the exact same place he was the first time: leaning against the counter, spooning yogurt into his mouth, watching the news.
The expression on my face must look different this time, because he takes one look at me and breaks into a grin. “Well, someone’s in a good mood,” he says. “Nice trip?” My heart starts beating fast and I force myself to keep a straight face.
It’s a completely unfounded superstition, but I still feel the intense need to keep things exactly the same—at least until I know if the do-over was a success. So even though I’m not at all hungry, I head for the pantry and emerge with the same box of cereal. “The trip was great.”
“The nights must have been cold.”
It takes me a second to remember what I said last time. “No, the nights were actually really warm.”
Dad finishes his yogurt and pours his juice while I force down a spoonful of cereal. There’s the same uncomfortable silence. The only voices in the room are coming from the television. Three. Two. One.