Before my fingers even touch the metal, there is a bright flash and I’m standing in a familiar hallway. I’m on Mount Olympus and it feels different than when I was here a few days ago. It feels . . . old.

I glance up at the big gilded clock that hangs above the mosaic at the far end of the hall. It’s a few minutes after two. Just a short time before the moment that changed everything.

Is it possible? Am I really here, ten years ago? Can I really prevent myself from screwing up so many lives?

Until this instant I never stopped to think about how I would do it, how I would stop things. I just thought I’d . . . you know, stop them. But can I walk up to my seven-year-old self and say, “Hey, this is a bad idea. Quit it”?

Will it break my brain?

A door at the other end of the hall swings open, and suddenly I don’t have time for strategy. I spin around just as little Nicole and Griffin slip out of the storage closet—a bottle of ambrosia clutched in my tiny hands, a golden cup in his—and scurry down the hall. Giggling and laughing at the prospect of the fun they’re about to have.

I’m frozen, watching the last moments of innocent joy I ever remember feeling. After this, everything changed. Life could never be fun again. I got a harsh reality lesson at a very young age. I’m witnessing—rewitnessing—the most important moment in my life.

It’s a little overwhelming.

Instinct takes over and I press my back up against the cool marble wall, trying to make myself invisible as they pass by.

It works. They don’t notice me, and soon they’re rounding the corner and making fast for the nursery.

“Crap.” I ball my hands into fists. “I came here to stop us. Not to cower and hide.”

Pushing away from my hiding spot, I race after them—me—us. I follow the hallway, winding around corner after corner. Over the clomping sound of my combat boots on the marble floor, I can hear their—my—our—laughter, always a turn ahead of me.

Finally, I come around the last bend, skidding to a stop in the hallway that leads to the nursery. Little Nicole and Griffin are standing outside the door, arguing over who is going to get to feed the ambrosia to Hera’s son.

I’d forgotten that part.

Memory resurfaces as I watch my younger self make a pouty face at Griffin as he snatches the bottle from her hand. With a smirk, he turns and reaches for the door handle.

“No!” I shout, sprinting the distance to the nursery door.

They don’t react.