Trying to get out of the house undetected? Yeah, right. We didn’t make it three blocks in Gracie’s car.

The black Suburban pulled alongside us at the intersection of Maple and Fourth. No lights. No sirens. Not so much as a chase. Just smooth acceleration and a gentle nudge, getting me to pull over to the curb. Professional. Controlled. Strategic. All without damaging either car.

“Paul.” Gracie’s voice was steady. But her knuckles looked white against the tan dashboard interior.

“I see them.”

Two more Suburbans. One in front, the other behind. Boxing us in. It was like they’d practiced this dance before. We hadn’t. I turned off the car. There was nowhere to go.

Agent Johnson stepped out of the lead vehicle, shaking his head. He wore the same black baseball cap. The same pressed khakis. A calm expression. This was the job. I bet he’d done this a hundred times before now. And Gracie and me? We were just another Tuesday morning assignment.

“What do we do?”

“Cooperate,” I said, rolling down the driver’s side window.

“Mr. Sullivan. Mrs. Sullivan.” He nodded to Gracie. “Let’s talk. Somewhere more private,” he said, eyes darting up and down the street. “Let’s go.” He opened my door.

“No.” Gracie took off her seatbelt. Mine was still on. “We’re not going anywhere with you,” I said. Yanking the seatbelt, Gracie clicked it, nodding at me.

Johnson smiled. Not threatening. Almost sympathetic. “You already are, Mr. Sullivan.” He didn’t reach for the door, just stood back, leaning on his heels. “The only question is whether you go willingly or not. Personally, sir, I’d prefer willingly. There’s a lot less paperwork.”

Gracie leaned across me. “What do you want with us?”

“I’m here to help. Both of you,” he bent down long enough to lock eyes with Gracie.

“By stalking us. And surrounding us?” I gestured at the three Suburbans.

“By keeping you alive.” Johnson crouched down to eye level. “Ruby Castellano. She’s put you in danger. Now, please. Step out of the car, and no one will get hurt. I give you my word.” Sighing heavily, I unreleased my seatbelt. Gracie followed my lead. “She didn’t do it intentionally,” he continued, waiting for us to get out. “Nonetheless, you are in danger.”  I opened the door, so did Gracie, and we stepped out in unison. “There are people who want what you have. People who are far less pleasant than I am.”

“The photograph,” Gracie said.

“Among other things.”

“What other things?” I had more questions than answers. Ruby was the least of my concerns. I was more worried about what would become of me and Gracie.

Johnson gestured toward the lead SUV, another agent opening the passenger side rear door. “Fifteen minutes. Give me fifteen minutes. If you don’t like what I have to say, you can leave. No one will stop you. You have my word.” Johnson put his hand on his heart, like it should’ve reassured us or something. It didn’t. 

Gracie gave me the smallest of nods.

We both moved toward the open door.

---

Our drive was short, Johnson not saying a word once we were inside the suburban. Ten minutes later, maybe fifteen, and they let us out at a hotel. The Riverside Inn. Three miles outside town. Flanked by agents, we were escorted into one of the conference rooms, labeled Conference Room B. Coffee was hot and waiting. A dozen pastries. Two pitchers of water. Porcelain coffee mugs and glass water glasses. Like this was a business meeting instead of an abduction dressed in civility.

Johnson gestured for us to have a seat, sitting across from us. Taking off the cap, he rubbed his fingers through his hair, graying at the temples. Mid-fifties. Tired eyes. Not the eyes of a villain. Eyes of one man who’d seen way too much.

He stood back from the table, grabbed a mug, and poured himself some coffee. “Please. Help yourself.” Gracie shook her head, no. I got up to get more coffee. Why not? It was on their dime. Not ours. Might as well enjoy something while we’re getting to the bottom of it. 

“Your grandfather. He didn’t die in 1993,” Johnson said. He sounded like a high school kid giving an oral presentation. It was dry. Dull. Only facts. There was no preamble. No dance. No time for plesantries. “Jonathan Sullivan? He was recruited into a program. A government program. Classified.” He took a sip. “Still classified, even some forty years later. Probably will be classified long after we’re all dead and buried.”

“Time travel?” I asked.

Johnson didn’t flinch. “Temporal displacement. It’s a different thing. Less Back to the Future and H.G. Wells. More physics. A lot more.”

“Clones,” Gracie blurted.

Johnson’s head bobbled. “Genetic duplicates. We needed a body. Specifically for the funeral. For the death record. Your family? Needed closure. So, we provided it the best we could. At the time.” Johnson poured himself another cup. “Jonathan? I’m told he volunteered. You need to know that. That? It’s important. No one forced him.”

“Why?” My voice cracked. I couldn’t understand why someone would voluntarily choose to leave their family behind to travel through time. What would be the point?

“Because. He has a rare genetic marker. The odds of having it? One in ten million. Only certain individuals can survive temporal displacement without catastrophic cellular degradation or mental breakdowns. Your grandfather has it. So does Ruby.” Johnson looked directly at me. “You have it, too, Paul.”

The room tilted. Gracie grabbed my hand.

“The photograph,” Johnson continued, “was taken in 2031. October 14, 2031. At the Temporal Research Initiative. Your grandfather was there as part of a retrieval team. Something went wrong. The photograph wasn’t supposed to exist. Temporal documentation? That’s strictly prohibited. But Jonathan? He kept it. Smuggled it back. Gave it to Ruby when she was still a child. Gave her one instruction: keep it safe at all costs.”

“But why give it to Ruby?” Gracie asked. I nodded in agreement.

“She has the marker too. He thought she’d understand. One day. He thought she’d be recruited and say yes.” Johnson’s jaw tightened. “She wasn’t. She was outright rejected. Medical reasons, mainly psychological instability. It runs in her maternal line.”

“So, the schizophrenia? That wasn’t an outright lie. Was it?”

“Oh, it’s real. For Ruby, it’s very real. But it doesn’t make her wrong. Not about this.” Johnson set down his coffee. “She broke into a storage facility in Chicago. Stole some files and documents. Proof of the program’s existence. That’s why we need her. We’re not out to hurt anyone. TRI is science. Not paramilitary. We need to. . . contain the damage she’s done.”

“And us?” Gracie asked.

Johnson leaned back in his seat. “Honestly? You’re both leverage. Bait. If Ruby wants to see her family again? Then she’ll trade. Her files for your freedom.”

“We’re bait?” So we were being detained. We weren’t free to go. “And we don’t get to leave until she shows up, is that the deal?”

“You’re her protection,” Johnson corrected. “Ruby trusts you, Paul. She’ll listen to you because she sees you as reasonable. Sane. Help us bring her in safely, and everyone walks away.”

“No memory-messer-upper-thingy?” Gracie asked.

“Again, Hollywood and not reality,” Johnson said it, then laughed. “But that’s a good one.”

“What if we refuse?”

Johnson was quiet for a moment. “Then other people come in. People who don’t give a rat’s ass about documentation or witnesses. Collateral damage will happen. And you’ll be the collateral damage. People who work for private interests outside the government institutions. It won’t be the government. Not at that point.”

“Blackwater Holdings.” Gracie was pacing, a habit she had when she needed to think through a solution. I watched her work on crossword puzzles this way, mumbling about the clue as she paced. I did my best to ignore it. Most of the time.

“Among others.” Johnson pulled out a tablet and opened it, clicking on a file. Then he turned the screen toward us.

A photograph filled the screen. My grandfather. Only older. More gray hair. And standing in front of a building I’d seen one other time before. The building in Ruby’s photograph. The one that didn’t exist yet.

“Your grandfather is still alive. This? It was six months ago. He’s seventy-eight years old. He’s been working for TRI since 1993. For him? It’s been thirty-two years. Subjective time.” He shook his head. “It’s complicated.”

I couldn’t breathe. My heart raced. I could feel sweat beading on my forehead. “He’s alive.”

Gracie stopped pacing and snatched my hand, squeezing it tight.  

“You have a choice, Paul,” Johnson said. “Help us find Ruby. Convince her to return all the files. Not just the ones she thinks we want. Do that? And I’ll arrange a meeting for you and your grandfather. One hour. Supervised, of course. But real. And he will tell you what I’ve told you.”

“What if we don’t?”

Gracie squeezed tighter. “Agent Johnson, this is all well and good. But how can we trust you? You just snapped us up off the street like we were criminals. And you expect us to trust AND believe you?” I wanted to tell her to hush, but I knew better. After being married as long as we have, some things are best left unsaid. This was one of them.

“Gracie, you’ll spend the rest of your life looking over your shoulder like Ruby is doing. And eventually? Someone less interested in negotiations finds her. Or you. Or both.” Johnson closed the tablet. “What I’m offering you, Gracie, Paul, is closure. You have one chance to see him. To understand. And to ask all your questions.”

“At what cost?” I asked. “Seems like you have all the aces and we have nothing but a pair of twos. How is that fair?”

“Or equitable?” Gracie added.

Agent Johnson counted on his fingers, starting with his index finger. “One. Ruby comes in. Two. All files returned to the company. And three. The program stays classified.”

“And after all that?” Gracie asked. “After we’ve helped you get Ruby and the files? Are we supposed to stay quiet? You are supposed to trust us?”

Johnson put his cap back on. “You can go home. And you forget. Live your lives. No one bothers you again. You have my word.”

“Until you need us,” Gracie said. She looked at me, shaking her head, no.

“Until we need you,” Johnson agreed. “That’s years from now. Perhaps it will never come to pass. Your marker, Paul. It’s valuable. Like it or not, believe me or not, we’re not monsters. We’re not military. We do not force people to conscript. We actively recruit. It’s voluntary. But only when the time is right.”

Agent Johnson stood up, taking the tablet with him, pausing in front of the door.

“You have fifteen minutes. Talk it through. Make your decision. When I come back, give me your answer.”

The door closed with a soft click, making Gracie wince.

---

We sat in silence for three minutes.

Our coffee grew cold. The pastries? Untouched.

“He’s alive,” I finally said.

“Maybe.” She was pacing again, staring at the ceiling tiles.

“You saw the photograph, Gracie.”

“I saw a photograph. Is it doctored? It could be anything. Everything about this feels wrong, Paul. Doesn’t it feel wrong to you?”

“Gracie.” She was nervous. Hell, so was I! But I did think Johnson was telling the truth. Mostly.

She turned to me. “You trust Johnson, Paul?”

“No.” I wasn’t lying, but the truth was more complicated to explain. I trusted him to a point. But I wasn’t going to tell her that. It wasn’t something I thought she’d be able to handle.

“Neither do I.” She pulled the original photograph from her purse. Set it on the table. “But I believe this.” She pointed to it with her finger. “I believe Ruby.”

“Ruby’s running scared. She stole classified files. She’s putting us in danger.”

“She came to you for help, Paul.”

“She came to me because I’m family. She’s desperate. Besides, I’m all that she’s got.”

“Exactly.” Gracie fingered the photograph. “Your grandfather is in there. Real or not. Alive or not. That’s your family, too.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying you need to decide what matters more to you. Finding out the truth? Or staying safe.”

“I want both.”

Gracie shook her head. “That’s not an option. Not anymore.”

I picked up the photograph and studied my grandfather’s face. The building behind him. Solid. Real. Impossible.

Ruby’s voice echoed in my head. They’re going to come for you. Not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But soon.

She was right.

Johnson’s footsteps approached in the hallway.

“Paul.” Gracie’s hand on mine. “Whatever you choose. I’m with you.” She winked, snatching the photo off the table, sliding it back into her purse.

The door opened, and Johnson stood like a statue. Waiting.

I looked at Gracie, then at the man who’d just offered me everything. And nothing.

“Mr. Sullivan.” His voice was soft, quiet. “What’s it going to be?”

The clock on the wall ticked.

One second.

Two.

Three.

I opened my mouth to answer.