I hate when people say it was just a storm.

Arcadia Bay was wiped off the map and everyone who's been there had been killed. It'd been an unprecedented catastrophe. The deadliest natural disaster to hit the US since Hurricane fucking Katrina, and yet I still meet people who act like it was just some really bad weather. It's like the entire world went out of its way to forget and move on, and I can't count how many times someone has implied – or even flat out said – that I need to do the same.

As if they have the right to say shit to me about it.

As if they were there.

None of them had to sit, trapped in a hole, listening to the barn above them being torn apart by the screaming wind and praying to whatever might be out there that the same thing isn't happening to the people you love. It took an hour for the storm to pass over us, and we'd been forced to listen to Mark Jefferson laugh like some kind of deranged clown the entire fucking time.

The bastard hadn't given up without a fight. Even with two cops and Mr. Madsen trying to hold him down, he hadn't stopped trying to get free. He'd just kept on yelling and thrashing, right up until I'd decided to give him a taste of his own medicine. I'd grabbed one of the syringes from the tray next to that fucking chair, and pretty much stabbed him in the neck with it.

I'd hoped it'd knock him out, but I guess the dosage had been measured for someone my size. It definitely took the fight out of him, but it wasn't enough to put him under. He was awake the whole time, loopy as hell and apparently incapable of shutting the fuck up. Listening to him go on and on about his twisted-to-fuck thoughts on capturing purity and innocence made the urge to kick his teeth in pretty hard to resist, and if I'd given in I can't say for sure that the cops would've stopped me.

Sitting through that might have been worth it, if the video I took on my phone had helped put him behind bars. I'm just lucky that I showed it to Officer Casperson before the District Attorney's office talked to me, because he'd made it crystal clear that showing that video as evidence would have been a really, really bad idea. Besides the fact that drug-induced ramblings don't carry a lot of credibility, the video featured several pieces of colorful narration by yours truly. Including, among other things, "Shut your hole, shitbag, or the next needle I put in your throat will shut it for good!"

A first-year law student would have been able to destroy my testimony in court with that, and that wasn't something we could afford. I'd been the prosecution's most valuable witness. Their smoking gun. The only girl still alive who could say with certainty that Jefferson was guilty. All Jefferson's lawyer would have had to do was undermine my credibility, get just one member of the jury to doubt my testimony, and there was a chance that piece of shit might go free.

There was no fucking way I was going to let that happen, so I'd deleted the video right then and there.

None of us ever mentioned what I'd done, either to the DA or on the witness stand. Our story was that Jefferson had gone for his gun, knocked over the cart with the syringe on it, and somehow got injected in the ensuing struggle. We'd never spoken of it again, and after the trial was over Glen Casperson downed a bottle of pills and carried the secret to his grave.

He was a good man, and I owe him a lot. Probably more than I realize.

Testifying at Jefferson's trial had been a whole other level of intense. His eyes had been on me the second I walked into the courtroom, and I can still remember what it was like, walking toward the front of the room, feeling him watching me. The closer I'd gotten to the defense's table, the more scared I was that he'd just reach out and grab me. I probably would have carried that fear all the way to the witness stand, if he hadn't been stupid enough to say 'Nice to see you again, Victoria' as I passed by.

The judge brought his gavel down before I even had a chance to feel sick, telling Jefferson to keep his mouth shut or he'd be found in contempt. A half-second later, I heard his lawyer hiss something similar, shutting that bastard up for good. That's when I'd realized that Jefferson wasn't in charge of the room. He wasn't even in charge of his table. Nothing in there belonged to him – he had nothing to hold over me.

I, on the other hand, had the truth. And that made him my bitch.

My testimony went perfectly. The prosecutor walked me through the events of that night, weaving my account together with the ones from Mr. Madsen and Officers Casperson and Ross. Jefferson's lawyer objected seven times, and every one of them got overruled. That must have pissed him off, because when it was his turn he came after me hard.

He tried to rattle me. He tried to paint me as a liar. He even tried to slut shame me, as if I'd actually have let that walking shit-sack touch me. He sent all the bullshit he could think of my way, and it took me less than fifteen minutes to shove it all right back down his throat. With each futile accusation and embarrassingly failed legal trick, I got to watch Jefferson turn paler and paler. And when the judge finally shut his lawyer down, I got to watch him break.

He'd kept his eyes on the floor when I walked out of that courtroom, right where they fucking belonged.

I wish I could say that had been enough. That verbally castrating his lawyer and sending that freak up the river had set me free. But life doesn't work that way. Deleting a video from my phone couldn't wipe the memories from my head, and I still think about the moment he revealed that Nathan had been his twisted little apprentice. Despite all the pain and loss and suffering I've been through, that's the wound that refuses to fully heal.

The two of them had been working together at the same time I was primed to be Jefferson's next victim. The empty binder with my name on it had been right there on the shelf and there's no way Nathan hadn't known. What had he said when he found out? Had he argued? Fought back? Had Jefferson been forced to threaten him to keep him quiet? Was that why Nathan had been so worked-up that last week?

Or had he just accepted that I was going to be the next girl he saw lying on the floor of that bunker, tied up and drugged out of her mind? Even worse, had he liked the idea? Had he been looking forward to seeing me like that? Had he suggested it in the first place?

Nathan Prescott. I hate him so much it makes my teeth ache, but I still miss him sometimes. How fucked up is that?

I knew he'd been having problems, but he'd always been so closed off about that kind of thing. I thought I'd been respecting his boundaries, but if I'd reached out to him earlier, maybe things could have been different.

Nathan is just one of my regrets, though. I've got plenty, from that week and before. I can't count how many times I've wished I could just undo the mistakes I've made. How often I begged the universe to give me a chance to make things right.

I never would've imagined it would be Max Caulfield, of all people, who'd show up and offer me exactly that.

I never would've imagined I'd take her up on it.

June 14, 2015
Chase Residence
Seattle, Washington

Say what you will about Max Caulfield, but she's a hell of a lot more stubborn than I expected her to be.

Even though we'd pretty much established from the start that the photo thing wouldn't work, that hasn't stopped her from trying it over and over for nearly a week. Every evening she'd arrive at my house with some new plan, and we'd go over it together. I'd point out all the holes that needed to be fixed (because there were always holes) then once we were both satisfied, she'd make another attempt.

She's described what it feels like to her, but from my perspective it's a lot less dramatic. She'd just hold the picture up, stare at it for a few seconds, then lower it again, blinking like she'd been lost in thought. And every time - every single time – she'd look at me with that same disappointed expression. I'd try not to take it personally, telling myself that she wasn't disappointed to see me. I'm just the most immediate and obvious sign that she's failed again.

The next thing she'd do is begin studying the room. It's a little unnerving to know that she's looking for changes I wouldn't know anything about. After that we'd spend about fifteen minutes comparing notes, just in case, but there were never any differences.

I don't know what she expects. The world on the other side never changes. It never becomes more pliable or cooperative, and it was pretty clear (to me, at least) that whatever changes she might manage vanish as soon as she does.

Not that it matters now. After last night, I have a pretty strong suspicion that our work with the photos is done.

She'd been looking pretty tired already, but when she'd emerged from that last attempt - her tenth in a row that night – she'd looked especially bad. Her shoulders sagged and for once she hadn't looked at me. She hadn't looked at anything at all, actually. She'd just started crying. It was only a little at first, just a few tears, but before I knew what was happening she was full-on bawling into the front of my hoodie.

It'd felt like some boundary was being crossed, and I'll admit that a part of me wanted to push her away. But while I might not be the most warm and fuzzy person in the world, I'm not completely fucking heartless. Guiding her over to the couch, I'd just let her cry it out. Everyone needs to cry it out at some point. I definitely have.

Whatever had set her off, it'd taken her a while to get it all out. Her sobs had eventually faded into sniffles and hiccups, then into soft, even breathing. It'd taken me a minute to realize that she'd fallen asleep on my shoulder. I'd considered sending her home to sleep in her own bed or even calling her parents to come get her, but in the end I'd just laid her down on the couch, draped a blanket over her and gone to bed.

That was where I found her when I came downstairs this morning, and I would have woken her up if the gallery weren't closed on Sundays. I figured if I didn't have to go anywhere, neither did she. Moving quietly through the living room and into the kitchen, I'd filled up the coffeemaker and sat down to wait.

That was about half an hour ago, and I'm about fifteen levels into the latest Candy Crush knockoff when I hear a rustling sound come from the living room, followed by soft footsteps. Max appears in the kitchen doorway, blanket still wrapped around her shoulders, looking like she doesn't know what to say.

I wordlessly point to the coffeemaker on the counter. It's pretty much become our default greeting at this point. I offer coffee, she accepts it, and we let the rest of the talking wait until we've both got a cup. As if to prove my point, she silently gestures to my empty mug as she passes. I nod and she picks it up to get me a refill, just like I would have for her. A minute later she's sitting across from me and still saying a whole lot of nothing.

"Feeling better?" I eventually ask, putting my phone down.

"Not really."

She doesn't look any better, either, but there's probably no need to point that out. "Anything you want to talk about?"

"I almost did something terrible," she eventually murmurs, looking down into her mug. "I'd tried everything and I almost..."

I give her time to collect her thoughts.

"I...I thought that if I tried holding her hand and rewinding... I was just..." She shudders. "I didn't do it. I came right back, but if I had..."

She probably would have sliced Price's hand clean off. I can't believe Max had gotten desperate enough to even consider trying something like that.

"This..." She hesitates. "This isn't going to work, is it?"

Not so long ago I'd have jumped on the opportunity to rub her nose in what should have been obvious from day one, but that was the person I used to be. I'm trying to be better than I used to be.

"No," I respond, as gently as I can. "I don't think it will."

"I really thought...I thought if I had some help, I could make it work. But nothing ever changes."

It's like a part of her is just looking for permission to quit. I almost want to give it to her, too. I wonder, if I told her to give up on this whole thing right now, would she actually do it? Would she tear up the photos if I asked her to? Would she leave Chloe in the past and move on with her life?

No. No, she wouldn't. I know a quitter when I see one and Max is no quitter. Luckily for her, neither am I. I agreed to this insanity, and for better or worse I'm going to see it through. "Alright, so Plan A didn't work. That's just how it is sometimes, right?"

She glances up from the table. "I guess."

"So we can either give up," I continue, my tone making it very clear that's not actually an option. "Or we can accept that the photo isn't workable and start looking for something else. Sound good?"

It only takes a few seconds for the misery in her eyes to fade, revealing her usual stubborn determination. "Yeah, sounds good."

"Good. Now drink your coffee." Standing up, I point to the cupboard next to the refrigerator. "Cereal's in there, milk is in the fridge. Towels are in the bathroom if you want to get cleaned up. Do you want to borrow a change of clothes?"

"I..." She blinks up at me, surprised. "Sure?"

"I'll leave some on the bathroom counter, then." Grabbing my phone off the table, I hold it up. "I've got about a hundred more levels on this stupid game, so feel free to take your time. I'll be in the office when you're ready to get back to work."

"So it seems to me," I begin, tapping my pen on the desk. "That your biggest problem isn't going back. It's that you don't get to stay back and make sure things play out the way you want them to. You get to make one or two changes in that moment and just hope that everything goes the way you want. That's what happened with Chloe's father, right?"

"Well...yeah. I mean, obviously."

It's been about an hour since I left Max in the kitchen, and she's looking a lot better. Apparently, some breakfast and a shower were just what the doctor ordered. Unfortunately, that means she's back to being difficult.

"I'm just pointing out the core issue. You made what should have been a positive change, but there were negative consequences you couldn't possibly have expected."

"That's a fairly common theme."

"Which is why I think that using a photo at all is pointless. There are so many variables to try and balance that you're pretty much guaranteed to fail."

"Gee, thanks. But that's our only option, so..."

"If that's our only option, you might as well go home. You said it yourself that it's not going to work."

"Yeah, but..."

"Look, what if you could go back the whole way without a photo? If you actually had the ability to wind the clock back to that week, make whatever changes you wanted to, then re-live all the time that's passed since then?"

"I can't."

"Imagine that you could, just for a second. Would you do it?"

"Of course I would. But that doesn't change the fact that I can't."

I briefly wonder if fitting Max with one of those shock-collars that keeps dogs from barking would stop her from being so willfully fucking obtuse. Fortunately for her, I don't have one handy. I settle for chucking my pen at her head.

"Ow! What the hell, Victoria?!"

Bullseye.

"Do I need to remind you that the reason you came to me is for my perspective? Because assuming that's true, I'd appreciate it if you'd stop wasting my time expressing yours."

"Wow. Thanks for somehow insulting me by repeating exactly what I asked you for."

"It's a gift." I shrug. "Just don't try to derail a hypothetical question by reminding me of what you think you can and can't do."

"Fine, sorry."

"Good. From now on, I don't want you to tell me you can't do something at all unless you can explain exactly why you can't."

"But..."

"I have a whole fucking drawer of pens over here, Max."

It's a perfectly reasonable request; it just takes her a minute to admit as much. "Fine."

"Alright." I look down at my increasingly full note pad. "You said that when your powers first showed up, you could only go back a little while?"

She nods. "Only a couple of minutes. Maybe three, if I pushed."

"And it hurt if you tried to push past that?"

"Like having an ice pick jammed into my brain."

"Ouch," I murmur, wincing as I write down another note. "So it was the pain that stopped you from going further? Not some kind of, I don't know...barrier?"

"I used to think so, but I've gotten a lot of practice since then. Now I can do an hour and a half before I have to stop. Two, if I'm willing to deal with the migraine after."

"I bet that back then, you'd have said that two hours was an insane idea."

"Two hours is a lot less than almost two years."

"That doesn't matter," I point out. "What matters is that it's possible to improve."

"It took me months to get as far as I already have. Who knows how long it'd take me to work up to two years?"

"I'm not suggesting two years. Not all at once, anyway. There's no reason you couldn't break the trip into sections."

"You want to rewind two years an hour and a half at a time? That'd be...hang on..." Max reaches for her phone, as if it's a hard number to figure out.

"Eleven thousand, six hundred and eighty."

"Huh?"

"Eleven thousand, six hundred and eighty," I repeat. "That's how many trips it'd take. And no, I'm not suggesting that, because that would be stupid."

"Did you just figure that out?" She asks, adding, "In your head, I mean."

"It's called math, Caulfield," I point out. "Look, even if you could do that many jumps..."

"Rewinds."

"Whatever. You'd probably lose a third of the time you took back resting and recovering along the way. That brings the number of jumps..."

"Rewinds."

I briefly clench my teeth. "...you'd have to do closer to sixteen thousand. That means you'd need more rest, which means more jumps..."

"Rewinds."

For a second I think about throwing my empty coffee mug at her. "...which means more rest and so on and so on. Both numbers keep going up, and that really doesn't get you anywhere. What I was thinking was more along the lines of three months. That'd only be eight jumps and don't you fucking dare say it!"

"You swear a lot. Did you always swear this much?"

"None of your business."

"Okay, okay." She lifts her hands in surrender. "And I was just going to point out that it's not likely that I'd be able to physically handle a three-month jum...rewind."

"Not yet." I give her a smug little grin, just in case she thinks I missed her verbal slip. "But we know you can improve, and three months is a lot more attainable than two years. Plus, even if you need to take a week and a half after each one to recover, that only adds one more...ugh...rewind to the total."

"I think we're getting a little hung up on this hypothetical of yours."

"We might as well. It's not like we've got anything else to work on. And the great thing about time travel is that you've got all the time in the world to get better."

"I guess."

She doesn't seem especially convinced, but I don't think I'll be able to change that today. Moving on, I ask, "You said the furthest back you can go without hurting yourself is an hour and a half, right?" "More or less."

"Let's see it then." The words are barely out of my mouth before Max sort of just...flickers. Kind of like a video skipping. "Let me guess. You just did it."

"Sure did. We agreed to go with an hour, so here I am."

"That looked easy enough." A splash of dark blue at the hem of her shirt catches my eye. Was it there before? "What's that?"

"Hm?" She looks down, frowning. "Oh, right. We went over to that bakery down the road while we were waiting for the hour to go by and I dropped my blueberry muffin."

"And that was in the future?"

She smiles. "That's time travel for you."

"Have you seen that before? That something happens to you, then you jump back to before it happened but the evidence it still there?"

"Sure, a bunch of times. Why?"

"You know how I said you've got all the time in the world to get better?"

She nods.

"I think I might've been wrong. In fact, I think we might have a whole other problem to deal with."