Zoe’s lying in the tub with the shower’s spray directly above her head. It drips down onto her blue hair and over her limp body, the water mixing with the blood and turning pink before washing down the drain. There’s more blood on the wall where the water doesn’t reach, and bullet holes in the tile behind her. My mind processes all of this and files it away before I can react, before I drop to my knees beside her and clutch my head, hyperventilating and making little gasping sounds.

I squeeze my eyes shut, wishing I could scrub the image of her body from my brain. I already saw it once in the photos, but it’s a thousand times worse in person. I didn’t know Zoe long, but in those few short hours, she became my friend. She proved to be braver than I originally thought when she convinced Wombat to help us and later when she crawled through those ducts and set off the smoke bomb. She wanted to go to art school and to be reunited with her little sister and give her a better life. But I failed her and now she’s dead like Trent.

Maybe Future-Adam was right, and we can’t change the future. Maybe, no matter what happens, our fate is already written and we’re just puppets being pulled along by strings. And by traveling to the future, the five of us are forced to relive this loop over and over.

I switch off the water and briefly touch her blue hair to say good-bye. I might have failed Zoe and Trent, but I still have a few hours until my own clock runs out. I can still escape, get out of the city, try to flee my fate.

But what about Chris? He has a kid on the way—I can’t abandon him. I need to tell him the others are dead at the very least, but he won’t answer my calls.

I have to track him down in person.

Downey Automotive is a hole-in-the-wall mechanic shop that fixes banged-up cars that were in accidents and fender benders. They’re scattered across the lot behind a chain-link fence. As I approach, a big black dog barks at me from the other side. A guy looks up from the hood of one of the cars, but he’s not Chris.

The inside of the shop is hot enough to melt your skin off, with one wimpy fan blowing in the corner. Sweat rolls down my back, hot and slick under my tank top. Behind the counter is a guy in his twenties who’s completely covered in tattoos, even along his neck and hands. Three days ago he totally would have been my type.