Then, Proto saw a car about to hit someone—someone other than him.

  It was a tall man with dirty blond hair. He was reading an e-mail or something on his phone and stepping into the street.

  The car shooting toward him was fully electric and near-silent. The driver had her head turned as though to make a lane change.

  Proto perceived all this in a split second.

  Over the next split second, he wondered if this had happened in the original timeline. Was he supposed to see this? Was he supposed to do something? Was he—?

  Action interrupted thought. Proto found himself diving at the tall man and slamming into him.

  The man didn’t fall, but he stumbled aside and dropped his phone. It hit the pavement, and the screen shattered. The car missed the man and his phone—and Proto—by a couple inches.

  And that was that.

  The man had been absorbed in his phone. Now, he spent a few seconds blinking and taking in what just had happened.

  Meanwhile, Proto brushed himself off and glanced at the man he’d saved. At the sight of that dirty blond hair and those pale eyes, he, too, blinked in surprise. The face was oddly familiar.

  Then, Proto felt a sinking feeling. A memory flashed through his recollection:

  “Afternoon.” The man’s voice was wary but not fearful. He had dirty blond hair and was about five days unshaven. He stood a foot taller than the woman at his side. His pale eyes were as narrow as hers were wide. “You . . . out for a jog?”

  Proto remembered the dream clearly. And he remembered when the dreamer had introduced herself, as well as this very man: “I’m Genevieve. Or Jen. And this is Archibald.”

  “Or Arch.” The man inclined an eyebrow at her, and she patted his back with a smile.

  Staring now at Proto, Arch looked much as he had in the dream that Proto had visited.

  He forced himself back into the moment. “Sorry.” He winced at Arch’s broken smartphone. “I saw that car, and saw you were looking down, so—”

  “Sorry?” Arch interrupted. “You might’ve just saved my life. Thanks, man. I . . . ” His lips pressed, and he looked both happy and wistful at the same time. “I’m lucky. I mean, I’m grateful.”

  The man’s reaction was odd, but Proto wasn’t focused on that. Instead, he felt overwhelmed by dread. He’d just intervened drastically in Arch’s life.

  Proto’s first thought was that the dream visit where he’d meet Arch now would go completely differently, because Arch would recognize him. There’s no way he would forget his savior.

  Wait, no. That doesn’t make sense. It was Jen’s dream, not Arch’s. The fake Arch in her dream wouldn’t remember Proto.

  But that just raised an even more vexing question: What had happened to Arch in the original timeline—had he been hit by the car? How would this change affect Jen’s future? Would she even have the dream she’d had before, with those Prototypes and Sealed Doors and that crazed little girl with the machete?

  “Yeah,” Arch was musing, apparently to himself. “This is why you gotta do what you wanna do today and not tomorrow. Because tomorrow might never come.”

  Proto couldn’t help but smile sadly. How right you are.

  But he didn’t say that. Instead, he just nodded, briefly managing to silence the cacophony of thoughts in his head. “Stay safe, alright? And sorry again about the phone.”

  “Dude, screw the phone. I owe you ten phones,” said Arch. “But thanks, I’ll try to stay safe. Just not too safe. That’s what I’ve always done, and look where it got me.”

  Part of Proto wanted to pause here and ask what Arch meant. But he had somewhere to be, and quite a lot was riding on him being there.

  So, he just chuckled politely, waved, and jogged off.

  As he left the downtown behind him, he tried to enjoy the music, but Arch’s last words kept bouncing about his mind: “Not too safe. That’s what I’ve always done, and look where it got me.”

  What was Arch going to do differently? How would it change the future? He knew that brooding on this wouldn’t accomplish anything, but he couldn’t help it.

  This little concern grew into a bigger one: What if this episode with Arch had disrupted the chain of events that would’ve led to Proto’s car accident?

  Indeed, Proto didn’t even know if he was running the same route as in the original timeline. What if he wasn’t? Or what if his timing was off by a few minutes? Or a few seconds? Would his car accident simply not happen?

  As he pondered, he felt like he was on the verge of understanding something vast—like he was feeling out some forgotten truth by the shape of its absence from his memory.

  But before he could finish doing so, more questions jolted him out of that reverie: What if I do get hit, but Yemos doesn’t find me? What if I just die?

  As he brooded on these questions, however, a reassuring voice echoed through his recollection: “The future’s not an endlessly branching set of possibilities. No, it’s a set of roads,” Somnus had said. “The roads are laid by Fate.”

  Somnus’ point hadn’t exactly been crystal clear—it never was—but Proto thought he got the gist of it. Basically, a car on a drive can make different stops and lane changes and still end up at its destination on time.

  Proto, likewise, didn’t need to do exactly what he’d done in the original timeline to have his car accident. Going on a run and being on Cherry Blossom Lane at roughly the right time should be enough. Fate would take care of the rest.

  Or so he hoped.

  Hoped. Funny word. Was he “hoping” to have his body obliterated in a car crash? Was that this black feeling of bleak necessity—hope? Things were getting awfully macabre.

  “Excuse me! I seem to have taken a wrong turn,” wheezed an elder in a warbling voice.

  Blinking out of his reverie, Proto turned and faced the man. What little hair he had atop his head was white, as was his belt-length beard. He wore a white lab coat. His eyes were icy blue, but his cheeks had warm dimples. Day’s glare reflected off his ashen pallor. On the whole, he looked like he might be the Ghost of Pi Day Past.

  The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

  “Might you tell me the way to Promethean Hall?” the man went on. “Can’t see a whit without my specs.”

  Oh, no. Proto stared at the familiar face. No no no.

  It was Fyrir—the scientist whose dream Proto had visited, whose research involving the Elements ultimately was responsible for stirring them into fiery rage.

  Well, not “was,” but “would be,” he absently corrected.

  This was a man whose actions would steer the future. Anything Proto said could alter the course of history. Should he just turn and walk away before he did any further damage?

  Maybe not. If he’d run into Fyrir here in the original timeline, he wouldn’t have just ignored the man’s question. Maybe his lack of an answer would be what changed the future.

  Speaking of which, had this even happened in the original timeline? Proto didn’t recall it. This wasn’t among the memories that Somnus had shown him. Then again, Somnus hadn’t shown him much at all.

  “Not sure about Promethean Hall,” Proto found himself answering honestly. “But the University is that way.” He pointed.

  “Ah! I’d have gone the other way,” mused Fyrir. “And I’m already late for an important meeting. One that will affect the course of the future, I daresay! Hmph. A few months away, and I forget the campus I lived on for forty years. Can you tell I’m eighty?”

  Now, Proto was speechless with distress. He didn’t even try to answer further. What could he do but make things worse?

  “Anyhow, cheers, lad,” the elder went on. “I assume lad, by the voice. Can’t see a blasted thing without those specs. No offense. I always seem to be offending someone, these days. That’s why I live in Dubai now. Finally move to a warm place in my old age, and alas, I’m pale as a ghost, living underground, busier than ever, and forgetful.” He strolled off.

  First Arch, now Fyrir. So much for his placid day. His safe and predictable day.

  Then, he looked up at Heaven. Do you think this is funny? “‘A calm interlude between saving the future and saving the world isn’t so bad,’ he says. Well, we’ll show him!” It’s not enough that, in less than an hour, I’ll be blasted to smithereens by a 212 horsepower automobile, huh? Need just a little more stress, huh?

  In response to Proto’s heavenly accusations came the voice of Somnus mingled with a middle-aged and lawyerly Proto: I quite agree. Couldn’t have put it better myself. But then, that’s why he’s the Chaos Progeny, and I’m merely the angel hovering over his shoulder, offering good counsel.

  Miss Beatrice’s voice broke in: Oh, angel? Are you sure? Is that a horn there?

  Aye, the angel hovering over his shoulder, Somnus-Proto Lawyer reaffirmed stoutly. A guardian angel. A Gabriel, if you will, here as a herald for this hero among men. This champion of the race of man! This savior of mankind!

  Normally, I’d correct your use of gendered language, Miss Beatrice replied. But I think Proto’s approach to relationships is already dubious enough, without me calling him the savior of womankind too.

  I’m a just a guy in a tough position! protested Proto.

  Sure, suffering horribly, no doubt, retorted Miss Beatrice. Like a customer at the Bae Buffet, you’re suffering!

  Bae? You’ve kept up with the kids’ slang, Miss Beatrice, he replied. But then, you haven’t aged a day either.

  Oh, don’t even start with me, Young Man! she admonished. It won’t lead anywhere you’ll like. But she sounded rather pleased too. Stay safe, won’t you, Proto?

  As safe as one can stay, added Somnus-Proto Lawyer, when Fate has ordained that, in mere minutes, his body will be as blasted as Fyrir’s missing specs—

  Alright already! Proto cut him off.

  He turned up his earbuds. The Bleeding Heart Show was about halfway finished, and next up was Sleeping Lessons. They were both favorites of his—songs that he and Black often had listened to, during their brief teenage romance.

  By now, the sun was waning westward. It was glaring in his eyes.

  What time is it anyway? He checked his watch—and his eyes blinked wide. Shit!

  The voice in his head had been right. He did have only minutes left!

  Proto had estimated that the car would hit him around 4:15 p.m., judging by the sun’s height in his memory. He’d timed his run based on that. And he’d have gotten to the proper place in plenty of time, if he hadn’t stopped for Arch and Fyrir. But now?

  Grimacing, he redoubled his pace. Cherry Blossom Lane was close by. But 4:15 was even closer.

  Shit! So much for my safe and predictable day.

  Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to speed up further. He was nearly sprinting now. Indeed, he was so absorbed in pumping his arms up and down, flinging each leg in front of the other, that he hardly noticed the yard sale sign on the telephone pole, or the laced-together pair of sneakers slung over the power line.

  What if the car already had come and gone? 4:15 was just an estimate. Maybe it drove by at 4:00. Was he screwed?

  Well, whatever. There was nothing for it but to keep running.

  It’s like Pascal said: “You might as well believe you’re not screwed, because if you are, you’re screwed either way!”

  Or something like that. Proto’s only philosophy class had been a 100-level survey.

  Finally, he rounded the corner onto Cherry Blossom Lane. Flurries of pink petals welcomed him ahead. They swirled about in strange patterns, borne aloft by lively breezes.

  At the sight, he glanced at his watch—4:14—and allowed himself to slow to a jog.

  Wow. He had gotten here quickly. If he’d run like this a few weeks ago, he might’ve gotten a silver medal!

  He was breathing heavily but felt good as he advanced onto his childhood street. The sounds of cars soon faded behind him, as he jogged to the beat of Sleeping Lessons. He was immersed in familiar sights—houses and yards he’d come to know intimately in childhood, in that exquisitely detailed way that children memorize their early surroundings.

  It felt good. Peaceful, pastoral even. His tracksuit let through just enough of the brisk breeze to stay cool. And that breeze often bore with it pink petals from the many sakura trees reaching over the road.

  Ah, there was Yemos’ house. He saw it through the swirling petals. It looked dreamy.

  Well, soon it would be like a dream for Proto—just a memory from a world he’d left behind.

  He was glad he’d met up with Yemos and the gang a few times this week. It hadn’t been much—some games, some food and drinks, some fireworks. But it made his life here feel a little more complete.

  On paper, he hadn’t had that much of a life. Late twenties. Dull desk job. Tiny house. Lots of video games. A bronze race medal. No girlfriend.

  Oh, don’t even! scoffed Miss Beatrice.

  Proto’s lips quirked up. Yes, it wasn’t much, on paper. But it was a lot for him. He’d even asked out Starbucks Barista Girl!

  She asked you out, Casanova! corrected Miss Beatrice. Hmph, men these days. Boys, I should say. It wasn’t enough that we had to do 90%—now, we do the 10% too!

  Miss Beatrice, there’s something I’d like to ask you, he replied. I’ve been waiting a long time.

  Don’t even start with me, Young Man! she chastised. Not till you’re at least thirty.

  Smiling, Proto ran through the whirling petalscape of pink and white. He savored what he had today and wouldn’t have tomorrow.

  It was then that Proto saw the red rock in the road, dull and about palm-sized.

  All thoughts and feelings dropped away.

  “Not possible . . . ” he mouthed, slowing to a walk and lifting it up.

  Indeed, it wasn’t possible. Upon grabbing the red rock, he saw that it wasn’t absorbing light, unlike Mercune’s unearthly artifact. It was just a lava rock from someone’s garden.

  His lips curved up into a smirk. Sometimes, a stone’s a stone, Proto.

  That’s when he saw the slip of paper that had been lying beneath the rock—a fortune from a Chinese fortune cookie. Frowning, he lifted it and read the text:

  “You can keep what you love, if you give up everything else.”

  And now, he was well and truly stupefied.

  Sakura petals swirled in the periphery of his gaze. Their tantalizing patterns hinted at meaning, then whirled away, always just beyond his grasp.

  But at the center of his prospect was that fortune: “You can keep what you love, if you give up everything else.”

  A thousand things he’d pondered earlier swirled through his mind, like cherry blossoms in the Spring—about his future, and his Possibilities, and all the times he’d dwelt upon that strange quote. That fortune.

  “I don’t understand,” he murmured, staring at the slip of paper, as Sleeping Lessons blared from his earbuds. “Why now? Why tell me this now? And who? Who’s telling me? Is it—”

  —immense impact. His mind failed utterly to wrap itself around what his body felt. But he did perceive that he was tumbling through the air, watching a whirling collage of pink and green and grey, and something red speeding away.

  Motion abruptly stopped. Brightness battered at his eyes. Was that the sun? Or . . . ? He tried to discern if his eyelids were closed, and he couldn’t tell. So bright.

  Time passed. Then: “Proto! Proto!” A familiar voice. The light dimmed. Someone was leaning over him. He couldn’t see the face, but he was close to recalling that voice. He struggled to remember.