June 4, 2015
Caulfield Residence
Seattle, Washington

I can't save everyone.

I can't.

Except I technically can, even if the idea terrifies me.

So you'd think there'd be a question of whether I'm willing to try, but there isn't. It's Chloe. Of course I'm willing to try.

It's really a question of whether or not I should. And I shouldn't, for about a million different reasons. Least of all the fact that I swore to her that I wouldn't. It's too risky, she said. No matter how much I want to...and I do want to.

I mean, I really want to.

What if I already did, though? What if this is just one more self-fulfilling prophecy?

No.

Stop.

I can't save everyone.

That's the chorus that's been stuck on almost constant repeat in my head for the last few days. Sort of an ethical quandary, a moral dilemma, and an existential crisis all rolled into one. It's been driving me nuts.

Though on the bright side, I'm so emotionally exhausted that I've been sleeping like a baby.

When I saw that beautiful long-lost photo, my first thought was that I'd been handed the key to fix everything that had gone wrong; to save an entire town. Until that moment, I'd thought that only three post-Chloe-reunion photos of me had ever existed. The picture Dad took on Halloween (which Chloe made him delete the next day), the photo from Valentine's (which I'll treasure forever, if only as a memento), and the picture for my Washington driver's license (which led to a pretty nasty panic attack right after it was taken). Even my infamous fake ID had just been a copy of that last one.

That's what had made this photo seem like a brilliant and wonderful opportunity. It wasn't until later that I realized what doing using it would mean.

It would be one thing to save Chloe. To jump into a photo and come back to a world where she was still alive. Sure, I'd wouldn't have had all the right memories, but Chloe would have totally been able to catch me up and cover for me.

Saving Arcadia Bay, though. That would mean I'd be coming back to a radically different world. With that many variables, it'd be almost impossible to tell what might've changed. And since the photo was taken in the middle of the week, who knows how the rest of it might go.

What if Chloe and I never end up together? Or I can't save her from getting shot by Jefferson? Or prevent her from going after Nathan? What if past-me gets herself killed? What would I come back to then? Would I even come back at all?

And even if I were willing to take those risks, would Chloe want me to? Of course she wouldn't. She'd be ready to kick my ass for even considering it. But that's the Chloe who knows the possible consequences of photo jumping, isn't it? If I use this photo, all that Chloe would know was that I'd come back to save her, her mother, and the whole rest of the town. There wouldn't be any need to tell her the rest because it'd be a non-issue.

So what would I need to tell her? Aside from the obvious, I'd need to head off the biggest things we came up against on Wednesday and Thursday of that week, at least. I'd need to make sure things go more or less smoothly afterward, too. And I'd need to do it with just a few minutes to talk.

Sitting down at my desk, I pick up the framed photo and begin assembling a mental list.

First and foremost, I'd need to warn her about her cancer and make sure she knows to go see a doctor right away. That one is a no-brainer.

Second, because I can't not, I'd need to tell her what happened to Rachel Amber. It'll be painful to hear, but hopefully not as painful coming from me as it was finding out the way she did before.

Third, I'd have to let her know that Nathan Prescott and Mark Jefferson are the ones responsible for Rachel's death, but I have to do it in a way that doesn't send her into some kind of killing frenzy. Somehow I need to convince her to go to David, the police, or both.

Fourth, and possibly the most delicate, I need to let her know where Rachel's body is buried. It's the smoking gun on Nathan and Jefferson. But I also need to know she won't go looking for it by herself. If there's any way to spare her from that trauma, I have to try and find it.

Finally, she needs to know that the storm is coming Friday morning and that people need to get out of town before then. Aside from her cancer, that's the point I'll really need to hammer into her. Get out before Friday morning.

That's when I realize that somewhere in the middle of that list, I went from thinking in terms of 'I would' to thinking in terms of 'I will'. I've already decided that I'm going to do this. Because what would the alternative be? Putting the picture up on the wall so I can look at it every day and wonder if that's the day my resolve breaks? Throw it out or destroy it, so I can look back on it as a wasted opportunity?

Of course not.

And if I'm going to do it, then there's no point stalling anymore. What happened before was probably like driving drunk. I'm not exhausted out of my mind this time. It'll be fine.

Forcing myself to stop wondering what it might feel like to have your own mind shatter, I stare at the picture in my hand and wait for the world around me to blur, just like every other time I've jumped into a photo, but nothing happens. I don't feel that shifting sensation I expect or hear any sounds from the other side. It's less than encouraging, but I just add it to the growing list of things I refuse to be nervous about.

I try again, pushing harder, and this time the room does blur for a second. Just long enough that I briefly hear the sound of birds singing from the photo. I really hope that I've just gotten rusty in the last few months. That I haven't somehow permanently injured the thing that lets me do whatever it is that I do.

Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath and try to recall every detail of that moment. The golden morning light and the sound of the flag in her window gently flapping in the breeze. The color of the bedsheets and the smell of Chloe's shampoo on the pillow. The curve of her smile and her warmth against my back. I'm not even looking at the photo when the distinct scent of pot and tobacco tickles my nose.

Surprised, I open my eyes to find the room has blurred to the point of being unrecognizable. The thing in my hand doesn't look like a photo; it's like a portal, with details and depth so impossibly sharp that I'd swear I could just reach my hand through and touch the past. It's like gravity itself shifts direction and I'm falling face-first off a cliff.

A heartbeat later, a burst light fills my vision before gradually fading to reveal a long-destroyed bedroom. The chuff of air on my cheek and body behind me are both warm and achingly familiar, and I flip over just in time to watch Chloe settle back on her pillow. She smiles at me; her head propped up on one elbow and everything about her glowing in the golden morning light.

I'm speechless, drinking in the sight of her. It's such a wonderful image that it makes my heart ache to have to end it.

"We left a skid mark on Blackwell last night," Chloe comments, breaking the moment and reminding me why I'm here.

If there's one thing I know about Chloe (and I know a lot more than that) it's that she doesn't like being told to be quiet. That means I need to get as much out as I can before she has a chance to interrupt. "Chloe, listen carefully. This might be hard to believe, but I'm from almost two years in the future and I'm here to save your life. I've got a lot to tell you, and I don't know how much time I have to do it. The biggest thing is that you've got lung cancer. It's still in the early st-"

"Every great artist gets rejected before they get accepted." Chloe interrupts calmly, as though I hadn't even been talking. "So, you have to enter a photo."

"What? That doesn't matter! You're sick, Chloe! You have to go to the doctor right away!"

Chloe's smile fades and she glances away. Okay, she's finally listening. "Come on, I don't want to see Arcadia Bay burned to the shore. I just say shit like that because I've been trying to get out of here since...since you left, basically. If I could find Rachel, then pay Frank off, I'd be leaving to start a whole new life."

What the hell is she talking about? She's giving me one of those tiny nods people do to show you they're listening, but I'm starting to suspect that isn't the case. "Chloe? Can you hear what I'm saying?"

She doesn't respond, rolling away from me and reaching down to the floor. Picking up the remote control for her stereo, she flops back onto the bed and turns on some music. Getting up on my knees, I lean over her and wave a hand in front of her face. "Chloe? Chloe, can you hear me?"

I try getting her to meet my eyes, but it's like I'm invisible. Even when I get so close that we're practically nose-to-nose, her eyes move like she's looking right through me. Confused, I put a hand on her shoulder and try to shake it, but it doesn't move.

It doesn't move at all.

She's really there, and I'm really touching her. Her skin feels soft and warm under my palm, but other than that she might as well be made of stone. Even when I shove down as hard as I can, it doesn't press her so much as an inch deeper into the mattress.

I reach for my pillow, frustrated and fully intent on smacking her in the face with it, but it won't budge. I move closer to pull with both arms, and that's when I notice that the mattress under my knees is rock hard. I'd been in this exact spot a second ago and it'd felt completely normal then; now it feels like I'm kneeling on concrete.

What the hell?

I turn back to Chloe, who's closed her eyes and started humming softly along to the music floating from the stereo speakers and still hasn't acknowledged my existence in any way. "Please say something, Chloe! Please!"

Desperate, I duck down to kiss her. But even though I can taste the faint tang of cigarette smoke and feel her breath against my lips, she doesn't respond. I might as well be kissing a marble statue.

This doesn't make any sense. The world doesn't work this way. Things don't go from soft to solid. People can't feel like people and statues at the same time! What the hell is this?!

"Oh, does the schoolgirl have a test today?"

I practically leap off the bed and spin around to glare at her, as if she'd startled me on purpose. While I remember laying next to her the first time I went through this morning, just staring at the ceiling and listening to the music, I can't recall every little detail of our conversation. That must have been a part of it, though, because she's gone silent again.

Okay, I need to think. If I can't talk to her and I can't touch her, there must be another way to communicate. Moving around the room, it doesn't take long to realize that everything in it is like the pillow. Even the things that should be soft or flimsy or pliable remain utterly immobile. And let me tell you, throwing all your weight into trying to move a single tissue and still failing feels really weird.

Then an idea pops into my head. Walking over to Chloe's absolute mess of a desk, I immediately spot a pencil that's probably spent as much time getting chewed on as it has actually writing anything. It's right at the edge, with the pointy end sticking out about two inches past the desk surface.

It's perfect.

I do a quick check to confirm it won't move either, then I grip the end of it with my left hand. Holding my breath, I squeeze my eyes shut and nervously perform my first rewind in three months. It has to be the shortest one I've ever done, less than a second back in time, and to my relief my mind doesn't come apart at the seams. It felt as smooth and effortless as I remember and, like I hoped, the pencil comes along for the ride.

At least, the last two inches of it do. If feels like snapping off an icicle, and when I take a close look at where it separated, it looks clean enough to have been cut by a laser. But the important thing is that it worked. I now have a perfectly usable two-inch pencil in my hand.

Take that, fucked-up reality! If you're not going to let Chloe hear or feel me, than I'm just gonna write her a note! How do you like that, huh?!

I'm not quite there yet though. I need the other half of this critical formula. I need paper.

Most of the paper on and around her desk is crumpled into various-sized balls, and I'm disappointed to discover that even though I can rewind one of them loose, I can't un-crumple it; I might as well be trying to unfold a baseball.

As Chloe continues to provide one comment or another to a conversation I'm no longer a part of, I hunt around until my eyes land on an old flyer pinned to the shelf above her dresser. I pinch the corner, do another burst rewind and come away with nothing but the small circle of paper that had been pressed between the tips of my thumb and finger.

Okay, fine. Be that way.

Not wanting to risk the loss of my precious pencil by putting it down, I hold it between my teeth as I press my hands to either side of the flyer. Squeezing my palms together, I try to maximize the amount of skin actually touching the paper before doing another rewind. The result is...well...it's good enough. The loose piece of paper is roughly the size and shape of my hand and pretty uneven around the edges, but it'll do.

Writing on a piece of paper using the palm of my hand as a backboard is, to put it mildly, a pain in the ass. It's a constant effort to make sure it doesn't look like it was written by a three-year old, and even more effort to communicate everything I need to without running out of space.

1 - U HAV CANCER. NOT A JOKE. GO 2 DOC RT NOW!
2 - RACHEL AMBER IS DEAD. IM SO SO SORRY.
3 - RA IS BURIED AMRCN RUST. PLS DON'T LOOK!
4 - IT WAS N. PRSCOT & M JEFFRSN. TELL ABPD ASAP!
5 - STORM ON FRI MORN! WARN EVRYN 2 GT OT OF AB!
I LOVE U. GOOD LUCK. SEE U ON OTHR SIDE
-FUTURE MAX (FRM 11 JUN 2015)

I can admit that the final result isn't perfect. But I doubt anyone else could do better, given the circumstances. And of course I'd prefer to tell her everything myself, but beggars can't be choosers, can they? This is going to work. This has to work. All this note needs to do is accomplish five goals without screwing up the future or accidentally sending Chloe on some kind of death rampage. Easy, right?

Nodding to myself, I go to place the note next to her beanie. But as soon as I tilt my palm, the words slide right off the paper like sand off a pane of glass.

"Oh, come on!"

I try to re-write it, impatience making my writing a little sloppier. Then I nervously tilt the paper again and the same thing happens. Frustrated, I use the side of the pencil tip to draw a large patch, dark enough to conceal the color of the paper behind it, only to find that it slips away just as easily.

Resisting the urge to throw both of my hard-earned tools across the room, I start trying to puzzle out a way to use the rewind to write a message without actually undoing the message in the process. Then Chloe says something that grabs my attention.

"See if you can find a suitable outfit in my fashion hole."

I feel my stomach clench when I realize I've lost track of time, and I barely notice when the pencil slips from my fingers. I make a panicked attempt to grab it...and I miss. The way it hits on the carpet, landing flat without the slightest hint of a bounce, reminds me of a magnet landing on metal. I know it's lost, but I try to pick it up anyway; a quick tug confirms that it's been rendered completely immovable.

"Goddamn piece of physics-defying shit!"

"Hey, there you go! Rachel left a bunch of her clothes with me," Chloe sorta responds, her voice hitching slightly on the other girl's name. "She's your size."

Nope. I don't want to be here anymore. I can't do this.

I try to let go of the moment and return to my own time, but it suddenly feels like I'm rooted in place. Really, fucked-up reality? Really? You won't let me do anything, but you won't let me leave, either?

This is because of that time I flipped off Jesus, isn't it? I knew that was gonna come back and bite me one day.

"Max, you don't have a style yet." Chloe says as I watch her get up from the bed. The first time around, I'd been so distracted by the idea pulling off Rachel Amber's 'cool' style that I hadn't been paying attention to Chloe. Now can I see all the things that I'd missed before. I instantly recognize the wariness in her eyes, like she's afraid that if she lets too much affection show it'll be thrown back in her face. Even after that week, it took a long time for that to go away. Then there's the slightly halting way she speaks, like she's quickly double-checking every word before she says it.

At the same time, there's no mistaking the way her eyes sweep over me as she walks over. It'd gone right over my head at the time, but she's pretty blatantly checking me out. And the sway in her hips as she saunters over is definitely familiar; I'd know Chloe's unique 'Lookin' For Some Lovin' strut anywhere.

Oh, Chloe. I thought you were just teasing.

"At least give it a try," she continues, completely oblivious to my reaction. "You can always rewind back to your chlorine brand t-shirt and generic jeans."

The moment is getting closer and I can't be here when it arrives. I just can't.

Chloe lets out an exasperated huff. "Stop second-guessing yourself, Max! Put this on and..."

I practically shudder with relief when the burnt orange light around the edges of the room suddenly closes in, drowning out the rest of what Chloe is going to say. If I'd had the see that impish smile again, I might have tried to stay in that memory forever. If I'd heard those words, I'm pretty sure that my heart would break all over again.

I dare you to kiss me.

It takes a moment for the orange light to fade, slowly resolving into my Seattle bedroom. Glaring at the frame in my hand, I very, very briefly consider smashing it and ripping the polaroid inside to shreds. Instead I just drop it back on the desk and slouch down in my chair, scowling like the almost constantly angry jerk I'm slowly turning into.

Max the Angry Punk. I'd say Chloe would be proud if I wasn't so sure she wouldn't be.

If I really had to pick a word to describe how I'm feeling right now (besides frustrated and tired and admittedly a little hungry), I'd have to go with defeated. I have no idea what just happened. It'd been like I was some kind of ghost, invisible and unfelt.

No, it'd felt like more than that. It'd been like the world had been openly defying me. Like it had been deliberately fighting against whatever I'd wanted to do. That hadn't been a phenomenon; it'd been a message. A velvet rope around some cosmic art exhibit with a big sign that reads 'DO NOT TOUCH'.

Well, y'know what, multi-dimensional...museum security guard...thing? You aren't the boss of me. I'm gonna leave a great big sticky chocolate thumbprint on your precious exhibit, whether you like it or not. I just have to figure out how.

There's got to be a way to make this work. Something I haven't considered. I know I need to try thinking outside the box, but that was always more Chloe's area than mine. I tend to focus on what I can see in front of me. For better or worse, deep down I'm still a photographer.

Photographer. For some reason, that word resonates with something in the back of my mind. Sitting up, I follow the meandering line of thought, not sure if it'll lead me to an answer or just more questions.

Photography. Focus...distance...perspective. I nod to myself as the concepts begin to line up. That's it. I need help. A new perspective. But where the hell am I going to find someone who could provide a useful perspective on something like this?

First off, I'd need to find someone who's actually going to listen to me rather than just assume I've lost it. They'd have to be clever, too. I need them to look at the problem in ways I wouldn't consider. I'd also need then to be strong-willed enough that they won't just freak out on me in the process. They'd have to be willing to call me out if I'm wrong, too. Chloe was never afraid to say what she meant, and I don't need someone who's going to walk on eggshells around me just because my powers intimidate them.

Oh, and while I'm being picky, they should also be a billionaire wizard genius with years of experience in time travel, because why the hell not?

The most important thing, though, is that they need to be willing to let me overwrite as much as two years of their life, and that's a lot to ask of anyone. I might be ready to sacrifice everything to save Chloe, but I'm not delusional enough to think that everyone else is, too.

The idea of going to Mom and Dad is an immediate non-starter. They're both dyed-in-the-wool skeptics when it comes to things like magic and the supernatural. You know those 'Magic Revealed' shows? They've got all of them on DVD. All of them. Even if I tried to prove it to them, I really don't like my odds of getting them to acknowledge it was anything more than smoke and mirrors.

On top of that, I'm pretty sure they're still kinda worried about my mental health, so if I dropped this on them there's a decent chance they'd try to have me committed. Poor Max Caulfield; she had so much potential before the love of her life died and she went batshit crazy.

Kristen would be a decent option, assuming we could get past the 'Max has lost her marbles' phase. But even though I'm sure I could convince her that I'm for real, I don't think it'd be a great idea. In some ways Kristen's emotions are on even more of a hair trigger than Chloe's ever were, especially when it comes to risks. Once, on a class trip to Mt. Rainier National Park, we stood in line for the zipline for an hour just for her to have an anxiety attack at the last minute.

Not much point proving to your friend that you can time travel if you're just going to break her brain in the process.

Fernando would be much better. I don't talk to him as much since he started going to university in Oregon (the irony isn't lost on me) but he's smart and he's got no problem saying what he thinks. Plus, he believes in the supernatural so hard that he once confessed to having a full-on existential crisis when he found out that Santa Claus wasn't real. However, his oldest sister and her husband just had their first baby. He's pretty much in love with his new niece and when we do talk, it's pretty much guaranteed that she'll come up sooner or later.

She lives in Baltimore and I honestly can't think of anything I could do that might prevent her from being born, but I know that wouldn't matter. Fernando would never, ever agree to anything that might put his family in danger. End of story.

My eyes slowly drift around the room, as I consider and dismiss one option after another, eventually landing on the small corkboard hung on the wall above my desk. It's pretty much empty, aside from last semester's mostly ignored course schedule and a handful post-it notes scribbled so hastily that I'm not quite sure what they say. There's also a business card that I'd pinned in the corner months ago and promptly forgotten about.

Peering at it now, I silently go over the qualities I'm looking for. Someone who'd believe me, or at least listen to what I have to say. Someone who's smart, strong-willed, and wouldn't hesitate to call me out. Someone who'd be willing to have the last two years of their life re-written.

Yeah, that figures.

Pulling the card off the board, I begrudgingly update the contact info on my phone before dropping both it and the device on my desk. I'm sure not going right now. I've been so busy stressing myself out over the last few days that I'm not exactly at my freshest.

I have a feeling that if I want to make my case, I'll have to look presentable.