The Time is Now by Cassidy Shay (famous ebook reader TXT) 📕

box. To my cold hands, it feels warm, like sun baked concrete in the summer. The smooth monotony of the surface is interrupted by a small engraving. I crouch down and read it. “Walter Thomas invented this thing, right?”
Michael is typing something on the computer. “Yeah, in 2013, right after he had a stroke. Usually strokes damage your brain, but that didn’t happen to this guy. He came out of the hospital, built it, and they mass produced these babies. Idaho only got one, and they sent it here.” I look at him and raise an eyebrow. “I don’t know why we got it either. At the time, the population was less than seventy. So don’t ask me.”
I walk around the contraption. “This is it? It’s not some portal or laser like in all the movies? It’s a box?”
He nods. “Yeah, I was surprised too. It’s amazing how something so simple can do something so incredible.” He hits a few more keys on the computer. “We’re almost ready.”
He helps me get into the box, then goes to the corner to grab the suitcase that’s been there all day. Then, he takes the keypad on the side and starts pushing buttons. “January 16, 2032,” he mumbles. He looks at the coordinates that he has written on his arm. “Redfish Lake is 44o 6’ 35” W, 114o 51’ 11” W.” He laughs. “Hopefully we don’t end up in the water.” He sets a time for us to arrive and then double checks all the information.
“Looks like we’re good.” What happens next almost happens too fast for me to realize what’s going on. He’s about to press the “enter” button when he sneezes. Steps back a little. Trips over my foot. I try to move out of his way. Trip, and fall forward.
My shoulder hits the keypad, presses buttons. In horror, I look at the screen. “Oh, no. I changed it. And it’s going.”
I read the new coordinates out loud. “44o 112’ 54” N, 114o 56’ 12” W. January 17, 2032. And… oh, no. We’ll get there at seven. Too late to save my mom.”
He doesn’t say anything. We have no idea where we’re going now. He looks outside of the time machine, where the room has disappeared. All that there is to see is a grey fog. Then, my skin starts to tingle. My hands start to go numb, but I don’t know if it’s because of the time machine or because I’m nervous. “Michael? Is this supposed to happen?”
“How should I know?” he snaps. “I’ve never done this before.” After a second, his frown disappears. Then, “I’m sorry. This just all went wrong. I don’t know what’s going to happen. I’m scared.”
Before I can say anything to try to comfort him, or to tell him that I’m scared too, the time machine disintegrates from underneath us. We’re standing on the ground in the dark. I hear noises, like cars passing us on both sides. But I see nothing.
Slowly, our surroundings swim into focus. We’re on a road, with what looks like only two lanes. The sound that I heard actually is cars, zooming down the highway.
When I see a break in traffic, I try to move to the side of the road, but Michael is frozen. He won’t move. I try pulling him off the dotted yellow line, but his feet remain planted on the ground. His fear is as noticeable as the skin on his face.
And then I hear it. A horn. Headlights separate the darkness. The car, the only one on this strip of the road, heads straight toward us. But Michael won’t move.
At the last minute, I give up trying to get him to move. It’s useless. I stand in front of him. Maybe he’ll live, even if I don’t.
Right before the car hits us, it swerves to the right, away from us. Rolls. Lands upside down in a ditch.
A car pulls over, the driver takes out his phone. “Hey!” he yells at us. “Get out of the road!” Michael comes out of his trance and leans on me as we walk to the side of the road. More cars pull over to survey the scene.
It’s dark. If it was summer time, we’d still have almost two hours left of daylight. But in the winter, the sun is down before the clock strikes seven. In the darkness, the headlights from the other cars let off enough light for me to see the car in the ditch.
It’s a scene that is too familiar to me. A picture that I’ve seen a million times, right next to an article in the Challis Messenger, the newspaper that Stanley shares with Challis. This car, upside down, is the same car in the picture. This is my mom’s car. My mom’s body.
My lungs shrivel. I can’t breathe. I killed my mother. My hands go numb, then my whole body. I killed my mother. Suddenly, I feel something against my hand. Michael’s fingers are intertwined with mine. Despite the cold January air, his hands are warm. Just like the first time my mom died, he lends me strength.
It doesn’t take long for the flashing blue and red lights to illuminate the scene. Paramedics retrieve my mom’s limp body from the vehicle. They find her phone in the car, call the first person in her contact list. Anna.
Somewhere in Stanley, Idaho, a young girl is at home, doing homework. She picks up her phone when it rings, freezes when she hears the news. The phone drops to the floor, where it will stay for several days.
In a few minutes, that girl shows up. As she gets out of the car, she leaves the door open and stumbles to the stretcher where her mom lays. Tears stream down her face, and she grasps her mother’s hand as if it will bring her back. The paramedics back off, give the girl some space.
Keeping an eye on the girl whose hair is now cascaded over her mother’s chest, I walk over to the officer who seems to be in charge. He’s already talked to everyone else, but he missed Michael and me.
“Officer,” I say to get his attention. “I can tell you what happened.” I tell him about the time machine, and how we appeared in the road, and by the time I’m done, I’m a hysterical mess.
The man looks confused and a little scared, like he doesn’t know what do with me. “Yeah, sure. Of course you’re from the future. Because they just let people walk in and hop into the time machine.” The man’s sarcasm slaps me across the face. It tells me that I can do nothing, that there is no way to make this better. He turns and leaves me, mumbling under his breath. I sink to the ground, helpless.
Michael comes over and wraps his arms around my shoulders. His brown hair brushes my cheek. He whispers comforting words into my ear, the same things he said the last time this happened.
And then I hear a scream. I look over at the girl. Watch as the paramedics take her mom away, zip her into a black bag. Soon, her screams evolve into sobs, racking her entire body.
Along with the sirens, the voices, the radios, and the whispers, the sobs belong. It’s a beautiful, sad symphony. With a burst of sound from my own throat, I join in.
Imprint

Text: Cassie Hoene
Publication Date: 03-15-2012

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