I nod to her curtly before slipping out and letting the heavy oak door shut loudly behind me. There aren’t many students here, only those attending the summer programs for kindergarten through third grade, as well as a few students interning from other schools, hoping to bolster their applications to St. Clements or to college.

I make my way down the hallway, turn left, and weave through the school, taking a shortcut to the back parking lot, where the Camry sits. I’ve walked these halls thousands of times since coming here in ninth grade. Things were good. Like, really good.

And then? Shit hit the fan.

I stop at the wooden bench that faces the south lawn, running my fingers over the polished wood. There are three indentations on the arm, small ones, but they are the only imperfections on the bench. And they’re from me.

I remember the pain that shot through my body like a bolt of electricity. I remember gripping the wood so hard that my nails cracked, leaving those marks. I remember collapsing and some senior finding me. And then I remember waking up in the hospital.

The pain and the humiliation isn’t what I remember most. What I remember most is feeling like I didn’t have control over my life.

But now I do. And now I have an ability that I never knew was possible. What limits are there to time travel? Can I see problems around the world and fix them? Can I fix my own timeline? Right my past mistakes?

What can I do, and what can’t I do?

That’s a question that only one person can help me answer.

“Damn it.” I sigh, pulling out my phone. I find the text from Claire, tap it, and call Blake. The phone rings twice.

“Blake?”

He hesitates. “Yeah?”

“It’s Andre. Andre Cobb.” I’m not sure how he’s going to respond, so I wait. After a moment, I say, “From last night?”

“I remember you. What’s up? How did you get this number?”

“Your mom, of course.”

He sighs. “Of course.”

“Yeah, seems like she’s…”

“A lot?” he offers. “You have no idea. Or do you? Not sure how the whole transference of someone else’s organ works when it comes to memories.”

I want to tell him that’s stupid, but then I remember that my time-travel abilities are something I got from an organ, so I settle on saying, “Fair.” Then I continue, knowing that if I stop, I’ll lose steam and hang up. “I don’t know if you’re busy, but… I wanted to see if we could talk.”

“Is this about what my mom proposed last night?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“I have a few hours before practice. Come on over. I’ll make smoothies. You like berry ones, right? With Greek yogurt and just the right amount of mango?”