It wasn’t until he was crouched on the bottom of the boat, Zora leaning over him, that he noticed a dark spot of blood just below his ribs, soaking through his T-shirt. His old wound had opened up.

Coughing up a bit of water, he said, “You won’t believe what just happened.”

LOG ENTRY—JULY 31, 2074

12:16 HOURS

THE WORKSHOP

I’ve now traveled into that terrible future an additional three times, on three separate occasions.

The horrors I’ve witnessed have not altered.

I keep thinking about what’s going to happen to WCAAT. My whole life was at that school. I first saw Natasha walking across the grass between the physics building and the library, arms filled with books. And then, just two years later, we were married—in WCAAT’s courtyard, in April, when all the cherry blossoms were blooming. She waited for me outside of a graduate lecture on space time and quantum mechanics to tell me she was expecting our daughter.

And it’s not just personal stuff. WCAAT gave me my first job. The professors there helped me develop the initial concepts that eventually became the seeds to get me interested in time travel.

In just a few short years, it will all be gone.

I think I’m focusing on the school because my brain can’t process what else this will mean: the destruction of the city I’ve lived in my entire life, the death of everyone I’ve ever known and loved. It’s all too much to take.

It seems to me that what I’m witnessing is the result of a butterfly effect.

If that’s the case, then it means that in my own timeline, between the last time I traveled into the future and July 12, 2074, something changed, probably something that seemed small, at the time.

But what?

I wish Roman were here. I’ve taken it for granted, over the years, how easy it is to talk to the boy, to run my ideas past him and get feedback on where I’m making leaps in my thinking. But he’s been spending so much time elsewhere recently. I suppose I’ll just have to work it out myself.

37

Dorothy

JULY 10, 2074, NEW SEATTLE

Dorothy took Roman to a twenty-four-hour diner a few blocks from where they’d stowed the Black Crow. The Mini Star, the diner was called, and it had likely seen better days. The vinyl booths were cracked, the fluorescent lights flickering. Dorothy ordered heaps of pancakes and eggs and bacon, even though she doubted either of them would be able to eat. But the act of ordering itself brought some comfort. For a moment, at least, she allowed herself to think that her biggest problem was whether to order her eggs scrambled or fried.

She studied Roman after the waitress brought their coffee. He looked most of the way dead himself, with his gray skin and darkly shadowed eyes. He sipped his coffee without seeming to realize that he was doing it, his vacant eyes staring ahead at nothing.