There was silence. It explained the sullen mood he’d been in ever since his future had arrived from the Union of Federated Timeworkers.

“My money’s on the Bomperini family,” said Landen thoughtfully. “Payback for offing the Horse, y’know.”

“Landen!” I scolded. “This is serious shit we’re talking here.”

“I beg to differ, wifey darling,” he replied emphatically, “but it’s not. You can change it. The Standard History Eventline’s not fixed. If we’ve learned anything over the past two decades, it’s precisely that. Yes, it follows a general course that remains the same, but detail can be changed. We’ve all altered the future— and the past, on occasion—and so can he.”

“I could,” replied Friday, “but I have this strange feeling that I won’t. That I’ll let it go ahead.”

There was a pause.

“Do you know who you’re going to murder on Friday?”

“Yes. It’s . . . Gavin Watkins.”

“Gavin Watkins?”

“Do you know him?” Lande asked me.

“A boy in Tuesday’s year,” I replied, “not very pleasant. He paid fifty p to see her boobs.”

“I might have to kill him myself,” said Landen. “Does that have something to do with it?” he asked Friday.

“I don’t think so,” said Friday with a shrug, “but I’m amazed she didn’t hold out for at least a pound.”

“Market forces,” I observed. “We’ve already established that the boob-flashing market isn’t what it used to be. But we can warn the Watkinses. Have him taken into protective custody or something.”

“I’ve got four days,” said Friday, “so we might learn some more before it happens. Who else did you say sent their regards to me?”

“ Jimmy-G at TJ-Maxx,” I replied. “He’s setting up a Destiny Aware Support Group for those who have been summarized, and he wanted to know if you would attend. Eight P.M. at the sports center tomorrow.”

“I’m not really into support groups,” Friday grumbled. “Are we going to get this table set or not?”

So we did, and chatted of lighter things, such as Friday’s part-time job at B&Q and whether his fellow workers actively pursued a policy of looking busy when customers needed assistance.

“It’s the first thing we learn,” he said. “But you have to remember that most customers are as dumb as pig shit and couldn’t find the floor if they fell on it, so there’s a sound reason behind it.”

Once the table was set, Friday went off to tinker with his motorbike, and Landen and I managed to have a few words in the kitchen together. Friday’s future looked bleak, but he was right— we’d changed the timeline before and could do it again.

“What do you think Gavin Watkins will do to make Friday murder him, just supposing he does?” asked Landen.

“What could a sixteen-year-old do?” I replied.

We thought for a moment.

“Do we intervene?” said Landen.

“We can try,” I said, “but the eventline can be a tricksy beast. Push it too hard and it will push back—and almost guarantee that you complete the event you were trying to avoid.”