It was like he was hovering in my blind spot, always nearby, but out of range. Just the waiting would’ve been enough to push my buttons, but future Altair…

The guy was getting handsy. As if I needed to watch our potential make-out sessions.

They weren’t happening in real life. Not ever. Even if they were possible, I wasn’t going there. Love wasn’t something I got to have.

Plus all the kissy-facing was blocking the important stuff. I needed to know Altair’s plan and his juicy secrets, not his go-to bedroom moves.

I squinted as I concentrated on the feathery edges of the future, looking for a way out of this waiting game. A window of opportunity. Anything.

Altair slips my bra strap aside, pressing a kiss to my collarbone; Nagi inspects a tray of culture plates; Altair turns a binder page, eyes pinched behind his glasses; Darren tosses dumbbells in the gym, trying to catch the eye of a pretty new staffer; Altair lifts a plastic gun, sizing up a target in the sim—

Yes. That was my window.

Akua would be here any second with my breakfast and I knew exactly how to play her to get what I wanted. I sat at the table and waited, tapping my toes until the door slid open.

“Good morning, Quanta.” Akua set a tray of sugary Technicolor breakfast cereal in front of me before retreating to her post at the wall.

“We need to talk.”

“Yes?” Her voice lifted an octave.

Thanks to all the distractions, I hadn’t thrown a tantrum in days. She must be bracing for one. “Where’s my cupcake?”

She tugged at her coat, twitchier than usual. “I made a special order with your chef.”

“And?” I tapped my spoon against the tray, faking impatience.

“He needs more time to requisition the ingredients. Unless you want a printed one…?”

“Gross.” Machines could be handy for some things, but they weren’t to be trusted with buttercream. I was horrified she’d suggest it at this point. Didn’t she know who she was dealing with?

Akua winced. I propped my elbows on the table and let my eyes go out of focus as I sifted through the timeghosts layering around her shoulders. As long as I didn’t focus on seeing something specific, her highlights jumped to the front of the line.

Little Akua clutches the robot she just assembled to her chest, beaming—she’s passed the Trials and is about to have the life she always dreamed; teen Akua checks her messages and crumples to the floor at the news of her mother’s death; at the funeral, she stares blankly over the jar of ashes, heartbroken that she wasn’t there—that she couldn’t help; Akua, almost as she appears now, holding out her arm as she receives her Blue Helix tattoo.