There was something over by the door, a shape in the gloom. Like a man, standing very still. Conor squinted at it, then turned his head, looked at it out of the corner of his eye. No matter how he viewed the thing, this coat or this shadow or whatever it was, it still looked like a man. A tall man. In a hat.

Conor frowned at it.

“Hello, Conor,” said the man.

A bolt of fear and fright shot from Conor’s belly to his chest, but his body remained still. Would his legs even work if he tried to jump up? He’d been sitting here for so long he doubted it.

Conor’s mouth was dry. How long had it been since he’d taken a drink of water? His voice cracked. The question he asked was not Who are you? or What do you want?, two questions he felt needed answers, but rather, “How long have you been standing there?”

“Just a few minutes,” said the man. He had a reassuring voice. It was smooth. “You didn’t hear me come in. You were otherwise occupied. What is that you’ve got there?”

“You can’t have it,” said Conor. “If you want to rob me, rob me. I have a little money somewhere. But you can’t have this.”

“I’m not here to rob you,” said the man. “What happens if you press that button, Conor?”

The pressure on his bladder, the dryness of his mouth, the emptiness of his belly, and now a headache, rising slowly from the heat that was stinging his skin and making him sweat. He felt sick. He was sick. He needed to lie down.

“I don’t know,” said Conor.

The tall man in the hat moved his head ever so slightly. “You don’t know what it does? But you made it, didn’t you?”

Conor nodded.

“How did you know what to do?”

“I’ve always known,” said Conor. “My whole life I’ve known. I had these images in my head. But I couldn’t see them clear enough until… sorry, what date is it?”

“The twenty-first,” said the tall man. “Four days before Christmas.”

Conor frowned. “That can’t be right. It was the eighth just… just a few days ago.”

“Time got away from you,” said another voice in the gloom, somewhere over by the window. It was a girl’s voice.

“Who are you?” Conor asked at last.

“No one in particular,” said the man. “We have a job to do, that’s all. We help people.”

“I don’t need your help.”

“You may not,” said the girl, “but everyone else does.” She walked forward a bit, until the peripheral glow from the lamp could pick out her features. She was pretty, with dark hair. Wearing black. Seventeen or eighteen, no older. “What does the button do?” she asked.

“I told you,” said Conor. “I don’t know.”