Mrs. McIntyre slams the door of her bright red Prius hard. She’s wearing one of those Russian-style faux-fur hats that you see in old movies with a matching infinity scarf. The blacks and reds of her outfit play well off her lipstick and the slight rosiness of her cheeks.

“Are you going to stand out here and get frostbite, or are you going to get in the car?”

Claire and I stand in a silent stare down. What is she doing here? How did she find me?

“Let’s go, Andre. That isn’t a request,” she says softly, subtext heavy in her voice. She’s not demanding; she’s asking, pleading. This isn’t the same Claire McIntyre I’ve known.

And that scares me.

I study her eyes and look over in the general direction that I saw Dave and his friends walk. I have less than two minutes left. Two minutes to stop him from getting in that car. Two minutes to—

“I’m sure you have a lot of questions about why I’m here,” she says.

“Along with other things, yes, that would be a fair statement.”

“As do I. I’ll explain everything to you, but you have got to get in the car,” she urges. “Andre, if he sees you—let alone me? Do you know what that would do to time? I’m risking a great deal to save you from your own mistake.”

“I made a choice, a promise,” I insist. “I can’t just—”

“To Blake? Did he put you up to this?”

“To myself.”

“Those are the best promises, but they can be easily broken when logic comes into play. I, for all intents and purposes, am logic.” She gestures to her car again, this time with a flourish of her hand. “Please,” she whispers.

“If I don’t, what are you going to do?” I ask. “If I go and stop Dave…”

“Two things could happen: one, you succeed and change history in a way that cannot be fixed, which violates—”

“Rule number three.”

“Or two, the more likely outcome, I’ll go back in time and stop you from stopping him.”

“And you know I’ll do the same.”

She smiles, the type of grin where only a corner of her mouth lifts.

“Then we’ll just keep going back and forth until one of us slips up and creates a paradox that has bigger ramifications than either of us can resolve,” she concedes. “And I surely don’t want that. And something tells me you don’t want that either, Andre. And that you’re smart enough to know that there really is no other choice for you here.”

One minute left.

“Fine,” I concede. I circle around her car and slip into the passenger’s seat, closing the door behind me. The warmth of the leather seat sends a shiver up my spine, and the blast of dry, hot air relaxes my joints.