“As a matter of fact . . . don’t.” Roman had been studying her very carefully and now his eyes narrowed. “I think I can live without knowing whatever is happening inside your head to make your face look like that. Come on, let’s get you somewhere safe.”

The night was moonless and blurred at the edges. The distant sound of a motor cut through the air and then faded into nothing. Milky, gray fog clung to the surface of the water, making Dorothy feel like she was floating on a cloud.

Roman led her down the docks and around to the back of the Fairmont. “When are you from?” he asked when they reached the back door.

“A few days from now,” Dorothy said. Wind picked at her hair as Roman opened the door and ushered her inside. She counted the days back in her head and said, “Six, I think?”

“Six days,” Roman murmured, and Dorothy knew he was wondering what could’ve happened in less than a week that was so terrible it had sent her traveling back in time to fix it. He flashed a cautious, nervy smile. “So, I suppose it’s not going to be a very good week, is it?”

“Don’t be silly, it’s fabulous.” Dorothy had to work hard to keep her voice light. “I only came back to tell you that we save the city. Electricity for all, new medications, an end to disease. We’re being hailed as heroes. Parties every night, that sort of thing.”

Roman lifted an eyebrow. “And do I finally meet a nice girl and settle down?”

“Indeed you do. Eliza, would you believe it? It’s all anyone can talk about.”

“God, I hope you’re joking about that,” Roman said, grimacing.

“You don’t think Eliza’s pretty?”

“She’s pretty all right just . . . prickly. I think she’d sooner arm wrestle me than kiss me.”

“Aw, young romance.”

They’d reached Roman’s floor. He poked his head out of the stairwell and, seeing that it was empty, ushered her down the hall and into his room.

As soon as Dorothy stepped inside, she felt a rush of déjà vu. There were Roman’s books, haphazardly stacked on top of his dresser just as they’d been this morning, when she’d come in here looking for cash. There were his spare boots, kicked off and forgotten in the corner, and there was the dirty shirt he’d tossed over the back of his desk chair.

She felt a strange twist in her gut, looking at that shirt. He wouldn’t put it away before he’d died.

“What are you here to do, really?” Roman asked, closing the door firmly behind him.