Author's Notes:

The events of this chapter are inspired by Second Chances – Imagine Dragons.

All credit is given to Imagine Dragons for the song lyrics used and referenced in this chapter.

Music filled Max's room as she lay in her bed. Dark circles were wrapped around her eyes, rife with exhaustion. Six months had passed, but it seemed like every day without Chloe was worse than the previous.

The night air filtered in through her open window, bringing the unmistakable scent of rain along with it. She tensed slightly. When the spring had first begun, anything even remotely reminiscent of rain would send her into a full-scale panic attack, but she had grown… numb to it now. She'd grown numb to just about everything, really.

She stared at the ceiling, her face illuminated by the gentle light of the moon as she listened to the words of the song playing from her hi-fi.

"Hotter than friction, subtle as sound,

There'll be no forgiveness when you come around,

Oh these days, oh these days get heavy."

Max's thoughts were focused solely on Chloe. In fact, she was the pretty much only thing her thoughts were ever focused on. Her grades had begun slipping; she'd grown apart from most of her friends. She went to her classes, barely paying attention as whatever shitty teacher taught whatever shitty lesson they had for the day before returning to her dorm and retiring to her bed, waiting futilely for sleep – or something more permanent – to finally take her.

"I get older and life fades,

But you remain."

Tears filled Max's eyes. The room around her seemed to fade as she one again felt the cold embrace of the Blackwell floor. She could almost hear Nathan's crazed ranting as she relived the scene in her mind for what must've been the millionth time. She had wanted so desperately to just reach out and save Chloe from her fate one last time, but she had somehow managed to anchor herself to her spot. She had done nothing but listen and cry as the shot rang through her ears and Chloe's lifeless body hit the floor. She felt so… guilty about it all. After everything they'd been through together – after everything Chloe had done for her – Max had just given up. She'd let her die.

Lazily rolling her head to the side, her eyes rested on a scrapbook of old pictures that she had left lying on the little table next to her sofa. Rubbing the tears – and sleep – from her eyes, she weakly rose to her feet and made her way toward it. She carefully grabbed it as she settled into her seat.

Max gingerly opened the book. She carefully turned each page so as to not bend the pictures they contained. The photos were captures of various moments in her life, mainly those she had shared with Chloe. Her and Chloe playing pirates in the yard, their first beach trip, Chloe's 8th birthday party… but as she perused the contents of the book, her eyes finally rested on a single photo. One that was a lot… lonelier. It was a selfie she had taken on her first night in Seattle. The joyous look that she had possessed in the earlier photos had been replaced with a tired, lonely look. Her reddened face was sprinkled with tears, light was reflecting off of them.

"Open up again, I believe in second chances…"

Tears were escaping her eyes once again, a single drop fell onto the page as she reminisced. A dangerous thought entered her head. A thought that she'd been entertaining quite often as of late.

Maybe I could… go back and save Chloe somehow?

Near infinite possible outcomes rushed through her mind. What if I just screw everything up again? I don't want to see Chloe in a wheelchair again…

But… I need to try. I can't keep living like this.

"Please let me in, I believe in second chances…"

Her gaze was glued to the photo. What began as an innocent trip down memory lane had begun to transform into something entirely different. The soft melody filling her dorm room began to fade away, replaced by the sound of cars, of sirens distantly howling away into the night. The photo began to shift and turn, the image and sound becoming increasingly clearer.

"I won't break you, I will not let you down…"

The song faded from her ears until it became barely but a whisper. The image and the sounds that came with it became clearer… and clearer… until her vision faded, the scene around her fading to nothing as the final words of the chorus rang through her ears.

"Open up again, I believe in second chances."

Echo. Echo? Nothing is echoing. I mean nothing is echoing. As in silence is somehow echoing. I have no idea how. It just is.

The In-Between is weird like that. The rules that bind our universe together don't exactly apply when you're outside of it.

Of course, Max can't comprehend what's happening around her. She simultaneously is and isn't at the same time. She's in one place, but also in another. And another. Infinitely many Maxes in infinitely many realities performing infinitely many actions.

Echo. Echo.

Something's happening. The nothing is growing louder. It's screaming – calling out Max's name – yet it's completely silent.

Echo. Echo.

There's a numb sensation reverberating throughout her body. She feels nothing, yet she's overcome by the weight of every version of herself in existence – even outside of existence. She can individually feel each and every one.

One is very… cold? Something heavy is pressing in around her. She feels nothing. She hears nothing. She is alone.

Echo. Echo.

Another has the rage of a thousand suns surging through her veins. There's a feeling of cold metal in her right hand, partially covered in a faux-leather strip. Her hand is raised; she's… pointing it at something? Her finger is resting on some sort of lever? Switch? … Trigger?

Echo. Echo.

Every feeling Max has ever felt or ever will feel pulses through her blood one by one as she begins to feel a slight pull, as if something – or someone – is attempting to free her from her metaphorical chains.

Echo. Echo.

"Max is home."

Click.

Max recoiled slightly at the sudden flash. Once she regained her vision, she glanced around the room, taking in her surroundings. She immediately recognized that she was in her room at her family's house in Seattle. She was back in her thirteen year old body, in her thirteen year old bedroom, just… well, without her old thirteen year old mind.

She could hear the distant sound of sirens and the occasional 'whoosh' of a car as it drove outside. The corners of her room and most of the outside world were hidden by a fluctuating orange border, oddly reminiscent of a fire clinging to its last threads of life – its smoldering embers.

She hopped out of bed and to her feet. Without hesitation, she barreled toward her laptop. Her movements were precise and determined, her newly formulated goal in mind.

If I can just get some dirt on Jefferson somehow, maybe… maybe I can prevent Chloe's death this way?

A spark of hope flashed through her veins as she skipped to her seat and plopped down. Her hands jumped for her laptop and sloppily grasped its lid, enthusiastically pulling it open.

Okay. What to search…

Pressing away at her keyboard, she navigated to Google. She momentarily thought about what to search. Her eyes widened with determination as she entered, "Mark Jefferson" and awaited the search results. Her eyes scanned the results. His personal website, some interviews... and his Wikipedia page.

Well, I've gotta start somewhere I suppose.

As she perused his Wikipedia page, she examined the various photos littered about the text. They were mostly the highlights of his seemingly endless portfolio, but there were a few scattered about from his life. One of his college graduation, one of him giving an acceptance speech at some snobby award show, but one in particular caught her eye.

"Mark Jefferson with his family. Christmas, 1988." Read the description that was located conveniently below the photo. The photo itself was a grainy colored photo of the family standing in front of a Christmas tree, adorned with sparkling ball ornaments. Beautiful gold and silver garland loosely hung from its branches, and a majestic star rested at the top as if shining its light throughout the entire household.

This supposed light, however, was not reflected on the faces of any of the photo's subjects.

What Max assumed was Jefferson's mother stood slightly slouched, standing to the right of Mark with her hand resting on his left shoulder. Her face was painted with dejection; her eyes with defeat. She appeared as though the thought of joy was naught but a distant memory; a fantasy that she could never hope to experience. She appeared to be no older than 40 years old, yet her hair was fading to gray and her face was beginning to gain wrinkles.

To the left of Jefferson was his father. The man stood tall and proud, his musclebound arms resting stiffly at his sides, a nearly depleted glass bottle of beer gripped in one of his hands. The man's face was scrunched up, his features emitting an angry, combative aura into the photo. His appearance was ungroomed, disorderly in nearly every way. His face was lightly dusted with untidy facial hair; his thick head of dark brown hair long and unkempt.

And finally, there was Mark. Poor little old Mark Jefferson, likely no older than thirteen years old, looked so broken… hopeless. The innocent spark of naïve wonder that is normally present in the eyes of children was missing, replaced with a fearful gaze, full of pain – and yet, empty at the same time. His head was aimed at his feet, his eyes weakly facing the camera. There was a blemish on the boy's cheek.

Is that... a bruise?

With how intently Max had been focusing on the photo, she failed to realize that the image had begun to shift. Its blurry confines flipped and turned, the sound of fire softly crackling and aggressive shouting beginning to fill her ears.

Once she noticed what was happening, it was too late.

Click.

The small single-room house was momentarily filled with the bright flash of a camera before fading away, leaving the dimly lit room as quickly as it came.

Max threw her eyes open. She was behind the Christmas tree, situated just behind the family. She placed a tentative hand on one of the branches and peeked around.

"Glad that shit's finally done. I never knew that a family photo could be so fucking difficult." Mark's father grumbled as he roughly shot his beer bottle to his lips and took a deep swig. Emptying the bottle, he growled before spinning toward his wife and shoving the bottle into her chest. She fell slightly back. "Get me another, woman." He hissed as he sauntered to the other side of the room and rested in a heavily blemished arm chair, its once vibrant colors fading to gray.

Tears appeared to be forming in Mark's mother's eyes.

"Did I fucking stutter? Get me a goddamn beer!" Mark's father demanded, slamming the chair's arm. His mother weakly nodded, swiftly doing a full turnaround and running to the small fridge that was situated in the far corner of the room.

The house seemed borderline uninhabitable. There was trash everywhere, the walls were stained, and there were even shards of glass scattered on the floor.

She crouched to look under the tree, but hesitated.

I... don't have a shadow?

She sprang back to her feet and span around, looking all around her.

I don't have a shadow. What the fuck?

She turned to the kitchen and froze. Mark's mom was staring right at her. Max opened her mouth to speak, mentally preparing herself to run. Before she could say anything, Mark's mother turned back to the fridge and carried on with what she had been doing.

She can't see me?

Max's gaze traveled around the house, desperately searching for any possible exits.

There was but a single window present on the walls, but even that was covered by a blanket that had been nailed around the corners. There were two entrances into the house, the front door being left open. However, the back door was missing its doorknob, instead featuring duct tape and what appeared to be a butter knife.

That's one way to fix a door. Max chuckled.

"Who the fuck is laughing?" Mark's dad growled. He shot a menacing stare toward his son. "Get over here. Right. Fucking. NOW!" He leaned forward in his seat.

I guess they can hear me? Huh.

Mark replied with a tear-filled gaze and a soft nod, lacing his fingers together in front of him as he trotted apprehensively toward his father. As he got closer, Max observed the man leaning closer to the boy and lifting one of his arms in a preparatory manner.

No… Max thought, averting her gaze just as the boy reached his father.

A loud smack filled the room, followed by the distinct sound of tears being released by the child.

Okay… Fuck. This. Max thought. She analyzed the room, trying to find a way that she could help. Her gaze finally landed on a rotary phone resting on a small table next to the open door. She darted across the room with near silent footfalls and quickly began to turn the dial on the phone, careful not to make any noise.

As she began spinning the dial, she hesitated.

Nothing good has ever happened when I change the past. Should I do this?

As if listening to her thoughts, she heard Mark let out a notably loud sob.

I… as much as the Jefferson absolutely disgusts me, I can't just… sit here and watch this. No child deserves this, regardless of if they grow up to be a psychopath.

She lightly shook her head and continued with what she had been doing.

She snuck outside with the phone in hand, walking to as safe of a distance as the wire would permit before bringing the phone to her ear.

"Information. What city and state, please?"

"Arcadia Bay, Oregon." There was a pause, then a click. "Hello? Yes please, what's the number for Child Protective Services?"

Echo. Echo.

There's a sound this time. A whisper, being carried by the nonexistent wind into Max's unconscious ears.

"Max…" The voice hesitates, a soft sigh twirling through the void. "Be careful… for her."

The image of a doe flashes through the mist.

Echo. Echo.

Silence.

"Shit!" Max gasped. She flung herself to a sitting position and threw her eyes open. Her vision was blurry and split. Tears were gathering at the base of her eyelids. She blinked them away and shot her eyes around her in a panicked haze. She felt a light breeze whip against her exposed chest; the soft fabric of a blanket rested over her bare thighs.

I'm… I'm na – wha…?

She felt something to her right. She pivoted her head to the side and saw movement. She recognized… blue? Blue hair?

"Babe? What's wrong?"

Max let out a shocked gasp.

"C-Chloe?"

Author's Notes:

I apologize if the sudden switch from past to present tense was a bit jarring, but I did it for a reason.

The story itself will remain in past tense; however, sequences such as that one will be in the present tense.