Out on the road, the number 83 bus crawls past, belching soot from its back end, its cream and green livery thick with road grime. It’s the bus Will should have boarded fifteen minutes ago outside the ruins of the library. If he hadn’t been out all night, he’d be riding it to school right now, looking out of the window at the very marsh on which he now stands.

A face turns inside the bus to look at Will. It’s the hobo with the hacking cough and hoover cupboard aroma. He smiles earnestly through the murky glass and gives a shuddering thumbs up. He mouths something as the bus passes. It looks like, ‘Good lad’, or maybe ‘Good man’. Will waves back weakly and continues on his way.

He reaches Patten’s Island at the time he’d ordinarily arrive at school. Nain doesn’t answer the door, but that’s not unusual at this hour. In his distracted and exhausted state, he’s forgotten to worry about what might await inside this house like the old Will would have done.

He reaches for his key and lets himself in.

And there it is. I know who I am.

It’s so obvious, of course.

The number 83, the bus you should be on right now, is the bus I was on. When I saw Alfie beneath the tree. Too late. Far too late.

Such a harrowing memory. It was me, and the others on the bus, who raised the alarm.

I wasn’t best mates with him, like you are. Things ran differently for me. But I recognized him all the same.

But you’ve saved him. We’ve saved him. There is a long road ahead, sure, but today he lives.

And now I understand why I never see you in my memories. I know what brings us together.

Because you are wrong. This is not over.

A tragedy is still coming that involves many, many people.

And it involves you. And me.

Because we are one and the same.

I am you, dying. Very nearly dead, in fact.

We’ve done a great deal of good together. Just one last challenge remains – to head off the disaster that put me here.

One last change to the path of time.

I can see such a short distance ahead now, a day at most. Soon, surely, we will reach my now, and I’ll know exactly what took my life and so many others. And how we might stop it.

I don’t know when, but I know it’s coming.

It’s coming very soon.

I am Will Parks. And I am dying.

Holding On

‘How’s she doing?’ Will asks. He leans over the bed and kisses Nain’s clammy forehead. There is no response, of course.

‘The staff are amazed she’s still with us.’ Will’s mum squeezes Nain’s shrunken forearm. ‘Fighter, aren’t you, Mum?’