The waiting room has no windows.
No clock hangs from the obnoxiously bright yellow walls—probably painted a hue called “Joyful” or “Sunshine” or both—that have already started a throbbing at Oliver’s temples. He pulls his thick, tortoiseshell-framed glasses from his face and rubs his eyes. It doesn’t help.
It reminds him of the waiting room at Theo’s hospital. Not in the way it tries too hard to be cheerful—the room at the hospital accepted its depressing reality—but in the way everything is slightly off, the way time doesn’t exist. The way everyone stares at him but nobody looks at him. It’s just like the night his parents died.
He leans forward in the too-soft chair, his elbows on his knees, his eyes fixed on his worn sneakers. He rubs his thumb absently across the tender spot on the back of his hand. He can feel the weight of their gazes—the receptionist, the other patients. No, not patients, not here. He glances around, tries to catch the eye of the gray-haired woman in the corner or the elderly man sitting across from him or any of the others. They quickly look away—to their feet, to the television, to their phones—anywhere but at him. He isn’t supposed to be here.
He wants them to be right. The paper in his pocket says otherwise.
The door to the waiting room slides open with a quiet swish. A petite woman with brown skin and black hair pulled into a sleek bun steps through. “Rhodes?” She doesn’t look up from her tablet screen.
Oliver rises from his seat, and everyone in the waiting room pretends not to watch him go.
The young woman pushes a pair of lime-green reading glasses onto her head and gives him a practiced smile. “Follow me.”
She leads him down a carpeted hallway lined with identical plain-facedwooden doors. He shoves his hands deep into the pockets of his canvas jacket, and his fingertips find the familiar edge of a coin. He has carried the relic since he was a child—since the day he found the quarter—helping his father dig a bed for his mother’s roses. He told Oliver it was a treasure from the past, and Oliver believed him, even if it was old and worn and obsolete. Because it was a glimpse into history. Because his father believed it, too.
The woman gestures to a room on the right and Oliver steps inside. She closes the door and sits behind a dark, polished desk that is too big for the small room. Oliver takes a seat across from her.
“What can I help you with today, Mr. Rhodes?”
He reaches inside his jacket and pulls a folded paper from his pocket. He slides it across the desk. “I think there’s been a mistake.”
The woman doesn’t take the page, doesn’t even glance at it. “There’s no mistake.”
“You didn’t even look at it.”
“We have looked at it,” the woman says. “The agency takes allegations like this very seriously. The matter was thoroughly investigated the first time it was brought to Aevum’s attention.”
Oliver’s guts twist. “What?”
The woman puts her glasses on and reads from her tablet. “Ten years ago, a Theodore Rhodes filed a formal complaint. He claimed Aevum made an error in the findings they reported to him. It was reviewed and deemed meritless.”
Oliver’s shoulders slump. His brother told him as much. He just refused to believe him. But if it’s true…
“Listen, Ms.—”
“Call me Lucy.”
“Lucy. Isn’t there anything you can do?”
She gives him a pitying smile, then swivels her chair to an acrylic display of pamphlets behind her desk. She pulls out a glossy brochure and hands it to him. Oliver’s gaze snags on the advertisement’s message. The font is larger, the lettering bolder; a deep crimson red instead of utilitarian black. But it’s the same question the letter taunted him with, the world’s most shameless postscript:Need More Time? Visit Aevum, the #1 Trans-Temporal Travel Agency, Today!
Oliver’s heart thuds against his ribs. “Time travel?”
Lucy unfolds the brochure. “An excursion lasts up to twelve hours, but in your present, only thirty seconds will pass. Two excursions get you an extra day, fourteen excursions get you an extra week. You get the idea.”
He does. “And how much does that cost?”
“We offer an exclusive service to an exclusive clientele.” She turns her tablet so Oliver can see her screen. “But in your case, I wouldn’t worry about it. You have a fully funded account with us.”
“I’ve never even been—”
Theo.
Oliver sinks back into the plush armchair. He doesn’t want to know the price his brother has put on his betrayal. He’s not sure it can ever be high enough. He shakes his head. Guilt sure is a hell of a motivator.
Lucy rises to her feet. “Let’s take a tour of the facility, shall we?”
