Injured though he was, he craved to distance himself from the sound, and tried as best he could to ascend the rudder; but he lost his grip and dropped two stories more, and heard a sickening crack that told him his bad leg was now his good leg. There was nothing left for him but to wrap his arms around a joint in the rudder and wait for the program to end.

Not very far below, off the starboard side, a dozen men struggled for footholds on the keel of an overturned lifeboat. Wireless operator Harold Bride and Second Officer Charles Lightoiler were among that dozen, Jonathan remembered. The last thing he saw before the sea closed over his shoes was Charles Joughin, the chief baker, striding toward him over the white-painted steel plates of the rounded, aftermost part of the ship.

Jonathan had lost the race to the flagstaff lantern. It was all he cared about, all he understood, as Hollis piloted Alvin toward dead New York: Joughin, not Wayville, had been the last man off the Titanic, this time….

History was going to change, Jonathan decided. So he went directly to the lower decks of third class and smashed open the gates. Then he climbed the stairs to Edith’s stateroom and found her exactly where the history books said she would be, folding her clothes neatly into drawers, closing the tops of her trunks, and generally tidying up before going to the lifeboats.

But she wasn’t really Edith Russell anymore. Her hair was red, not black; and her skin was much smoother than Edith Russell’s. Jonathan had remade her completely in the image of his own mother—perfect, exactly as he remembered her, though out there in the real world most assuredly dead, yes; but perfect nonetheless.

Edith’s window was still open. The collision had nearly thrown her to the floor, and she had poked her head outside just in time to see a wall of ice gliding past her nose.

For a moment they just stood in the stateroom, Edith and Jonathan, looking across the cold air at each other.

Edith said, “You’re running the program again.”

“It’s just a book, actually.”

Edith scowled. “Program. You’d better face up to it, Johnny. Call me what I am.”

Jonathan looked embarrassed, and a new silence fell upon the room. Edith poured herself something.

It steamed in the cold air. “Would you like a cup of tea?” she asked.

“Yes, I’d like that… Mom.”

She poured a second steaming cup and held it out to him. Their hands met and, like two mismatched holograms, passed through each other.

“Jesus Christ, Mom!” Jonathan cried. “What are you doing?”

“That’s my question, Johnny. What are you doing here? Trying to play God? Trying to create a little universe you can control? It won’t work, damn you. We can’t let it work.”

“This isn’t supposed to be happening,” Jonathan said, touching his own cheeks and ribs and feeling reassured by their solidity and warmth. “My hand passed right through yours.”