I felt tears come to my eyes, which was silly, really. This was only the possibility of Friday, not the actual one.

“Don’t cry, Mum. I’ll see you when I get up tomorrow—and you know I’m going to sleep in, right?”

He hugged me again, and in an instant he was gone. I wandered through to the kitchen and rested my hand on Landen’s back as he poured some milk in my tea. We sat at the kitchen table until, untold trillions years in the future, time came to a halt. There was no erasure of history, no distant thunder, no “we interrupt this broadcast” on the wireless—nothing. The technology had gone for good and the ChronoGuard with it. Strictly speaking, neither of them had ever been. But as our Friday pointed out the following day, they were still there, echoes from the past that would make themselves known as anachronisms in ancient texts and artifacts that were out of place and out of time. The most celebrated of these would be the discovery of a fossilized 1956 Volkswagen Beetle preserved in Precambrian rock strata. In the glove box, they would find the remains of the following day’s paper featuring the car’s discovery—and a very worthwhile tip for the winner of the three-thirty at Kempton Park.

“Well, that’s it,” I said after we had waited for another five minutes and found ourselves still in a state of pleasantly welcome existence. “The ChronoGuard has shut itself down, and time travel is as it should be: technically, logically and theoretically…impossible.”

“Good thing, too,” replied Landen. “It always made my head ache. In fact, I was thinking of doing a self-help book for SF novelists eager to write about time travel. It would consist of a single word: Don’t.”

I laughed, and we heard a key turn in the front door. It turned out to be Friday, and I recoiled in shock when he walked into the kitchen. He had short hair and was wearing a suit and tie.

As I stood there with my mouth open, he said, “Good evening, Mother. Good evening, Father. I trust I am not too late for some sustenance?”

“Oh, my God!” I cried in horror. “They replaced you!”

Neither Landen nor Friday could hold it in for long, and they both collapsed into a sea of giggles. He hadn’t been replaced at all—he’d just had a haircut.

“Oh, very funny,” I said, arms folded and severely unamused. “Next you’ll be telling me Jenny is a mindworm or something.”

“She is,” said Landen, and it was my turn to burst out laughing at the ridiculousness of the suggestion. They didn’t find it at all funny. Honestly, some people have no sense of humor.

A Woman Named
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