Regan had insisted that we make our move tonight, arguing that the longer we waited, the more we could potentially mess up the future. Because, she argued, the future hadn’t really happened yet. As of right now, all the reports were that no one knew the Academy was gone except us, Mayhem, and a few high-ranking government officials. But we knew all too well that any minute it could get out and the whole landscape of the future would shift. The sweet spot—Regan’s words, not mine—was now, when things were essentially in limbo, and we could make the jump back in time untethered by a future that was already set in stone. The problem was, how in the world were we going to make this jump?

The longer I lay there, the more my brain churned. If my thoughts were milk, they would have turned into butter a long time ago. Around me I could hear the other boys shifting restlessly in their bunks, and I knew that I wasn’t the only one who couldn’t sleep. I glanced again at the clock and groaned inwardly when I discovered that while it felt like I’d been lying here for a lifetime, it had really only been two hours. In exasperation, I threw my arms over my face, because if I stared at the stone ceiling of my bunk much longer I was going to punch it. The movement made me grimace. Every inch of me was sore from my Glitch jump today, and I had more than a few bruises and burns to show for my romp through 1911. After years of simulations that felt real but never left a mark, this was something that would definitely take some getting used to.

Finally, just when I thought I couldn’t lie there for one more second, the clock ticked to eleven p.m., and I snuck out of bed and out the door like a shadow.

As I entered the dark corridor, I felt an irrational surge of anger at my future self, and for the first time it wasn’t because Regan was my partner. It was because future me had held all the cards, known all the answers, and still chosen to only hand out bits and pieces of information, leaving almost everything up to chance and luck. I knew Regan had been the one to write the actual letter, but it was clear now that I’d known about it. That bullet point about the window had sealed that for me. There was no way Regan would have known to put that on there. But I was a detail person who left nothing to chance if I could help it. What happened to me in the future that threw all that out the window?