July 31, 2015
Seattle, Washington

Everything sucks. The entire world is pointless and everyone in it is an asshole. I should just quit my job, wear nothing but sweatpants, and eat cheesecake until I die. That'd show them. That'd show them all.

"Victoria?"

Ugh. Of course Max would pick now to drop by, when I'm in absolutely no mood for company. Maybe if I don't make any noise she'll go away.

"Victoria?" The front door closes, and I hear footsteps getting closer. "You home?"

Oh, that's right. She lives here now. Yay.

Sighing, I sort of turn my head toward the door. "Living room."

She appears a second later, backpack slung over one shoulder and wearing a t-shirt for some band called Bloody Bootstraps. I've never heard of them, but there's no way in hell I'm asking her because I refuse to enable her hipster bullshit. I'll just look them up later and see if they're any good.

"Hey," she says slowly, dropping her bag at the door. I'm sure I make quite a sight, still dressed for work and slouched on the couch like a sullen teenager. But I'm only going to be a teenager for three more weeks, so if I want to be a sullen one, then I'm gonna be a fucking sullen one. "You okay?"

"Peachy."

"You don't look peachy."

"Well, I am."

"You pretty much look the opposite of peachy."

"Fine. I'm wallowing in my own misery. Can't a girl wallow in her own home without being judged for it? Stop wallow-shaming me."

Max hums thoughtfully and walks toward the kitchen. Blindly reaching for the remote, I turn on the TV. I'm still staring at the Netflix loading screen when she returns with a bag of pretzels (my pretzels, which she didn't ask if she could have but what-fucking-ever) and holds out a bottle of water. I am a little thirsty, so I accept it with a mumbled, "Thanks."

She drops onto the couch next to me, loudly opening the bag. "So, why are you wallowing?"

"Why do you care?" Probably because she's my friend, I guess.

"Maybe I want to wallow, too." She slouches down to my level. "Maybe I just need a good reason."

"Maybe you're a poser."

"Imitation something something flattery." She holds out the open pretzel bag. "Rough day?"

"You've got no idea." I take a handful and toss one in my mouth. "People are the worst, Max. People are the fucking worst."

"Wanna talk about it?"

"No."

"Yeah, you do."

Damn it. I actually do.

"The gallery is hosting a private event this weekend and we contracted a company to come in to move some stuff around. Four guys were supposed to be there at noon, but only three of them turned up." I pause to munch angrily on another pretzel. "Apparently the fourth guy called in at the last minute saying his parents are in town and he wasn't coming in. Which is bullshit because we booked four."

"You couldn't make do with three? Just asking."

"No, we couldn't. Most of the stuff we needed moved had to be carried by two people, and I'm not gonna pay some jackass in a back-brace to stand around and watch the other two work. That's why I told this clown's supervisor to get him on the phone and tell him to get his lazy ass to work."

"Demure, as always."

"Goddamn right, I am." I sit up a little. "So the guy finally shows up half an hour later, and it's some college kid with his entire fucking family along for the ride. Parents, siblings, girlfriend...the whole set just waltzes right on in. Then his mother gets right in my face and starts yelling."

"Seriously? She started yelling at you?"

"Oh, yeah. How dare I make her precious baby work while his family is visiting! Don't I know they're only in town for the day?"

"How could you have possibly known that?"

"Beats the shit out of me, but apparently I ruined brunch." I roll my eyes as dramatically as I can.

"That's dumb."

"I thought so, too. Unfortunately, I'm not rich enough to tell people what I actually think anymore."

"You tell me what you actually think all the time."

"Yeah, but we're friends. That's different."

"Right. Of course." She nods, chuckling. "So you let her live?"

"Had to. Too many witnesses. I even explained the situation at a reasonable volume, and said they were more than welcome to look around the gallery until the work was done."

"You actually let them stay?"

"Seemed easier than trying to kick them out. Though I actually had to explain that they weren't allowed to help move things themselves. As if I'd let their grubby little hands touch anything."

"Isn't that kind of obvious?"

"You'd fucking think so, wouldn't you?"

"I thought you guys had a security guard. Where was he for all this?"

"That's what I was wondering." I take another handful of pretzels. "I found him dicking around on his phone. I was right in the middle of reminding him how jobs work when I hear this huge crash from the foyer."

"Oh, no."

"Oh, yes. I run back and you know what I see? The mother standing there like a moron with what's left of a sculpture at her feet."

"Which one?"

"The white marble eagle."

"Aww! I liked that one!"

"Yeah, I did too."

"Did she knock it over on purpose or something?"

"Nope. Remember when I told her that she wasn't allowed to help? Apparently that didn't quite land."

"What?" Max gasps. Reactions like that make her a great person to tell stories to. "Why would she..."

"...think she could move a two-hundred-pound sculpture on her own? No fucking idea, but she tried to deny it at first. The second I came back she started ranting about how the sculpture wasn't secured and it almost fell on her and she's going to sue us blah blah blah. Then I point out each of the six security cameras in the room and she goes white as a fucking sheet. I seriously thought she was going to faint."

"I probably would have."

"No, you wouldn't have fucked around with a nine-thousand-dollar sculpture in the first place."

"Nine thousand?!"

"Yep. I thought she was gonna have a stroke when I told her what it was worth."

"Damn. What happened then?"

"Just a bunch of theatrics. First her husband offers me five hundred bucks to forgive and forget. Then when I refuse, he tries threatening me. Started going off about how I'd better keep my mouth shut or he'd call my boss and get me fired."

Just thinking about his red, shouting face makes me want to call the gallery and tell them I quit, which is why I left my handbag – and the phone in it – in the front hall.

"From the gallery you own?"

"Technically own," I correct, bitterly. My name may be on the door, but as long as those overseas assholes are disputing that ownership, all the Chase Space's day-to-day business is run by a third-party company. It feels like my business card should say Assistant Intern, for all the actual influence I have. "I did say so, and of course he didn't believe me. According to him, there's no way a woman my age could be a gallery owner. Don't even get me started on that."

"To be fair, you're nineteen. Even if you do sometimes act like you're thirty-five."

"Right." I'm not quite sure how to take that, so for the moment I'm going to leave it right where it is. "Anyway, my name and picture are on the gallery website, and both the gallery attendants working today confirmed it. Things calmed down after that. Our lazy-ass guard told the whole pack of them to get the fuck out, and I got to spend the rest of the afternoon filling out paperwork and talking to our insurance company."

"Wow. That seriously sucks."

"Yeah. It does." I mutter. Peering at the water in my hand, I silently debate whether today warrants pulling a bottle from the small wine cellar Mom had installed in the basement. It does have some pretty killer vintages. Unfortunately, that would require getting up. "Hey, Max? Would you mind doing me a favor?"

"I won't murder," she responds, smirking.

"Thanks, Leslie, but I was going to ask if you'd go grab a bottle of wine from downstairs. I'm thinking a Sauvignon Blanc would be good."

"Uh..."

I roll my eyes. "White wine, you peasant."

"You once ate nothing but beans for a week, and I'm the peasant?" Ugh. I wish I'd never told her about that. "Well, it's kinda early, but you look like you need it. Besides, I'm actually starting to get a taste for the stuff."

"I'll make a day drinker out of you yet, Caulfield," I say as she's walking away. Leaning forward, I go to place my water bottle on the table. "Hurry bac-urk!"

Before I know what's going on, Max already has me by the arm. She practically drags me off the couch, the water slipping from my fingers as I'm thrown to the ground. I land face down on the hardwood floor, sprawled out like an idiot and wondering what just happened. A half-second later a loud thumping starts up behind me and I roll over to find Max pounding her fist on the coffee table.

"What the fuck, Max?!" I shout, scrambling to my feet. "What the hell is wro-"

She rounds on me, livid. "Where the fuck is your EpiPen?!"

I come up short. "I...what?"

"Your EpiPen! Where is it?!"

"In my handbag."

"And where's your fucking handbag?!"

"I...uh..." The fury in Max's eyes makes it tough to think. I've never seen her this angry. I don't think I've ever seen anyone this angry. "I left it by the door?"

"On a coat hook, you idiot!" she snaps, hitting my shoulder hard enough to leave it stinging. "Where someone on the ground can't reach it!"

She goes to hit me again and I slap her hand away, stepping out of reach. "Okay, what the fuck is this?!"

"That's what the fuck this is!" Stepping to the side, she points at the coffee table. Right there, next to my spilled water, are the smashed remains of a wasp. The kind that I'm dangerously allergic to.

"Oh."

"Oh? Oh?! That's all you've got to say?"

"I guess it stung me?"

"Yes, it fucking stung you!" She slaps my arm again, though a little lighter this time. "Why the hell didn't you tell me your allergy was that bad?!"

"What are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about you almost dying! You weren't even breathing when I came back! You were just laying there in the front hall! You barely had a fucking pulse!"

"I..." No, that can't be right. It's just an allergy. I've had it all my life. I was so young when I did the allergy test that I barely remember it. Thinking back, all that stands out is the doctor's serious expression and how I'd felt so sick afterward that I actually turned down my parents' offer to get ice cream. They'd insisted I carry an EpiPen everywhere after that, even grounding me a couple of times after I forgot it at home, but they never told me how severe it was.

"...te to save you." Somehow, that cuts through my mind's static.

"What?"

"I said I was almost too late to save you, Victoria. Another minute and you'd have been dead! Do you have any idea how close that was?"

My mind briefly stumbles over the idea of a time traveler being too late for something, then it hits me. If I'd died, that would have been it. Max wouldn't have brought me back from the dead. She couldn't without risking another storm, right in the heart of Seattle, which she would never, ever do.

I was almost killed by a fucking insect in my own goddamn living room.

I think I'm going to be sick, then I know I'm going to be sick. Max shoves a bucket from under the sink into my hands a second before it actually happens.

"Feeling better?" Max asks as I shuffle into the kitchen. I can't see what she's got on the stove, but it smells pretty good.

"A little," I say, taking a seat at the small kitchen island to watch. "I've stopped flinching at every noise I hear."

"That's good."

Nodding, I choose not to mention the EpiPen I've had with me almost since the moment I stopped vomiting. I even took it into the shower with me. "What's for dinner?"

"Stir-fry."

"Oh. What kind?"

"Beef."

"That sounds goo-"

"What are we even doing?" she asks, tiredly.

"Talking about dinner?" I don't know why I say it. We both know what she means.

"It's been almost two months, you know." She doesn't turn around, the wooden spoon in her hand stirring the food in slow circles. "We've been at it for almost two months. You have, at least. I've been at it for close to seven."

I know that, but it's still weird to hear her say it. It's July 2015, but physically she's already reached March 2016.

"And for what?" she continues, laughing humorlessly. "We said we were going to fix things, but I'm still going to community college classes and you're still dealing with assholes and it feels like we aren't any closer now than we were on day one."

"We're a lot closer," I say, carefully. "It took you almost half a year to work up to rewinding a couple of hours, and now your range is six weeks. It might even be longer than that. We're making progress."

"But getting there is only half the problem. We're still running in circles trying to figure out what I'm actually going to do to change things. Go door-to-door? Hand out flyers? Stand on a street corner and scream like a lunatic?"

"Maybe not that last one. Public speaking isn't your strongest area."

"Well figuring out how to keep almost fifteen-hundred people from getting killed isn't my strongest fucking area, either!" She pauses, letting out a shuddering breath. "It's just...it's like every idea we come up with falls apart the second we take a close look at it. Most of what we've got so far is just about not making things worse."

"Which is pretty important, I'd say. We'll figure out the rest."

"That's not the point!" She stirs a little harder. A piece of baby corn jumps from the pan and lands next to her feet. She doesn't seem to notice. "Even if we do come up with a plan, how can I honestly expect to pull it off? How can I save an entire town from a freak superstorm when I was barely able to save you from a fucking bee?!"

"Wasp," I correct before I can stop myself.

"Fuck!" she screams, hurling her wooden spoon across the room. It hits the far wall and unimpressively clatters to the floor. "Who the fuck cares what it was?!"

A long, quiet moment passes. Then, pulling a dishcloth off the stove handle, she goes to pick up the spoon and wipe off the spot where it hit the wall.

"Sorry," she murmurs as she walks back to the stove.

I don't tell her it's okay, because that wasn't okay. But we both got a good scare earlier, so I can wait a while before telling her that. In the meantime, I just say, "I understand."

She stirs the pan's simmering contents in silence after that, not even looking up when I get myself a glass of water. It's not until she's dividing the stir-fry between two plates that she says, "We could stop, you know."

Oh, no fucking way. "I beg your pardon?"

"I'm not saying I want to." She still doesn't look up. "Just that we could. We don't have to risk everything. We could try...try to..."

"Try to what?" I press. I know where she's going with this, but I want to see if she can actually say it.

"You know...move on?" She speaks haltingly, like the words are choking her. "Life isn't so bad, right? And, well, the more I think about it, the more I don't think it's right to ask you to voluntarily get wiped out of exis-"

"Stop. Shut up." If she's thinking about quitting, she doesn't get to put it on me. Standing, I walk to the junk drawer – the one everyone has somewhere in their kitchen - and root around until I find a fat-tipped marker.

"What are you..."

"I said shut up."

Moving over to the wall Max recently attacked with a cooking utensil, I begin taking down the handful of photos hanging there and stacking them on the table. I'll find new homes for them later. I take a second to regard the empty wall. Then, in numbers as large as the space will allow, I write 1,473.

Capping the marker, I turn to face her. "Clear enough?"

"Victoria, I..."

"No? Then I'll explain it. I am not, in any way, more important than one thousand, four hundred, and seventy-three people." I pause to let it sink in. "And I'm not getting wiped out of existence. You're just winding the clock back. I'll still be there. I'll just be younger and a little dumber."

"And what about the last two years, huh? You're really willing to lose those?"

"Fucking happily!" I laugh. "The last two months have been pretty good, but the rest of it? Fuck that. Erase it. I'll be better off."

"But do you really want t-"

"I'll tell you what I want, Max. I want my parents back. I want my friends back. I want..." I manage to stop myself before I say too much. "Just try to remember that you aren't the only person to lose someone they loved."

"I know that, Victoria, but you're my best friend. I don't want to lose you, either."

I'm her what? "Huh?"

"I said I don't want to lose you, either."

"Because I'm your...best friend?"

She nods.

"I'm your best friend," I repeat, flatly. I know all the words, but that third one is proving a little troublesome.

Max gives me a slightly confused look. "Well, yeah."

"...really?"

"Yes, really!" she insists. "Is that so unthinkable?"

"A little," I confess. "I mean, most people tell me I'm a bitter, obstinate, borderline-reptilian bitch. And that was just this week." Frowning, I add, "Mostly today, actually."

"I don't think today is a good example," she points out.

"I'm just saying, I don't really have friends." There's a brief plash of sadness in her eyes and I immediately wish I hadn't said that. "What I mean is that it's been a while since I was anyone's best friend."

"Well, you're mine. Sure, you can be prickly, stubborn, pedantic, and kind of standoffish sometimes..."

"Thanks?"

She rolls her eyes. "...but I dare you to find a single page in that recap journal of yours that doesn't have at least one happy memory we share. Because even if you can't, I remember all of them."

"Yeah, but..."

"Oh, quit arguing. I get to pick who my best friend is, and I pick you. Deal with it."

The thing is, I don't actually want to argue, because I'm already feeling better. I really like this. This comfortable, back-and-forth banter we share. The (mostly) good-natured teasing that we fall into so easily, banishing the tension that'd been filling the room. The disagreement is still there between us, but the anger is gone. I know we'll figure this out because...oh.

"Huh...I guess you're my best friend, too."

"Well, that was heartwarming."

"Shut up."

"Really feeling the love over here." She slides my plate of still hot stir-fry across the counter. "Eat your dinner."

I stab a piece of beef with my fork. "I mean it, though. Don't you dare give up on Arcadia Bay for my sake."

"Then give me a plan that'll save it," she counters, pushing her food around the plate. "I'm not going back unless I can actually succeed."

"You will. We'll figure this out."

She snorts. "I wish I had your optimism."

"Someone has to keep you in check, you little doomsayer."

"Hm," she responds, chewing.

"Hey, this is no different than when you hit the wall back in June. We just need to think outside the box."

"Oh, is that all?" she grumbles.

"Ugh. Don't talk with your mouth full, you animal."

"Yes, mom," she responds, smirking. "Unfortunately, I can't show up unannounced and ask for your help a second time, so we're all out of fresh perspectives."

"I guess you're not..." Wait a second. Are we?

"What?"

I mean, technically there's still...

"I'm not what?"

We could always ask, right?

"Victoria?"

It's worth suggesting, at least.

"Victoria!"

Gently placing my fork down, I steeple my fingers and regard her seriously. "I just had an idea."

"Did you, now?"

"And it's pretty outside the box." I hesitate, but what have we got to lose? "We could ask David Madsen."

Max blinks slowly. "Okay, I'm going to need you to get back into the box."

"What's wrong with just talking to him?"

"For starters, he lives all the way out in Arizona. Like, middle-of-the-desert Arizona."

"Gosh, if only there was some form of technology that allowed you to talk to people over long distances." I graciously choose to ignore her eyeroll. "Look, he was in the army, right?"

"Yeah. So?"

"So he probably knows a lot more about planning and strategy than we do."

"The dead wasp on the coffee table knows more about planning and strategy than we do," she counters.

"You didn't clean that up?"

"Of course I did. I was being facetious."

"I swear to god, I'm taking that word-a-day calendar away from you."

"Just try it." She fires back. "Seriously, though. Why does it have to be David?"

"Because the dead wasp isn't talking. And for the same reason you came to me. He's from Arcadia Bay. If we can convince him, he'll have a vested interest in helping us succeed."

"I guess," she agrees, reluctantly. "But..."

"Alright, cut the shit. What's the real issue here?"

"I..." Max sighs. "I haven't talked to him since Chloe's funeral."

"And, what? You're feeling guilty?"

"Yeah, a little."

"Then this is a great opportunity to make amends. Give him a call."

"You really think I should try explaining all of this over the phone?"

Damn it. That's actually a good point. "Then why don't we talk to him in person?"

"Are you suggesting we go all that way for a single conversation?" she asks, like the idea of traveling from one place to another is the definition of crazy.

"He's in Arizona, Max. Not fucking Iceland."

"Well, then let's just hop on the private jet for a day trip."

"Oh, cut it out." I pull out my phone. "The town's called Cameron, right?"

"No, that's just where his PO box is. The place he actually lives is called Away, but don't bother trying to look it up. You won't find anything."

"Come on. It can't be that small."

"No, it's smaller. Calling it a hamlet would be generous. I don't think more than thirty people have ever lived there at one time."

Wow...Madsen went way off the grid. "Fine. What's the nearest city, then?"

"David said that if we ever wanted to visit, the easiest way would be to fly to Flagstaff and rent a car. I don't know exactly how long the drive would be, but we'd probably be looking at a couple of hours, at least. I think he emailed me a map, once."

"Okay. Gimme a second." I do a quick web search. "See? A return flight to Flagstaff is about two-hundred bucks. Easy."

"Even if two-hundred bucks was easy, which it isn't, that doesn't include the car rental. Or the hotel room we'll probably need to get, too."

"I can afford it." Barely. Probably.

"Aren't your accounts still frozen?"

"The business accounts are frozen." I pull up a travel website, filling out the fields as I talk. "Not my personal one, and I have a little money put away."

"Maybe you do, but I sure don't. Not enough to pay for a trip to Arizona."

"Not a problem." Tapping the confirm button, I turn the phone around. "There. Two round-trip tickets to Flagstaff."

"What?! You can't just buy us tickets like that!"

"I can, and I did," I say calmly, as if I didn't just spend more than our monthly grocery budget. "We fly out bright and early tomorrow morning."

"Did you ever consider that I might have work this weekend?"

"Do you?"

"Well...no," she admits. I already knew she didn't. Her schedule for the next three weeks is stuck to the fridge, but I'm glad she didn't try to bullshit me. "But what about you? I thought you said the gallery has an event tomorrow."

"They can handle it without me." I shrug. "And didn't you say that this should be an in-person conversation?"

"Yeah, but..."

"Seriously, Max. Stop arguing." My phone dings, and I barely hide my relief when I see the flight confirmation email. I'd been pretty sure there was enough room on my credit card, but not totally sure. "Yeah, it's kind of expensive, but we're trying to change the world. If that's not worth investing in, what is?"

"I guess."

"Look, we can talk about everything else on the plane tomorrow. For now, do you really want to waste time stressing over what's already decided?" Picking up my plate, I point toward the living room. "Or do you want to go watch Orange Is the New Black?"

Max glowers at me for a second, then picks up her own plate with a sigh. "I wanna watch Orange Is the New Black."

"Good choice."