There are infinite versions of me out there. This one was my least favorite.

  He had the same face. Same voice. Same genetic code, probably. But he had clean eyes. Still sharp. Still bright. I hadn’t seen that look in a mirror in at least four timelines.

  The broker dropped the file on the bar in front of me. Real paper, the kind that smells like dead trees and foreclosures. That was her way of saying it mattered. That and the pistol tucked not-so-subtly beneath her coat.

  I didn’t bother opening it.I already knew what was inside.

  "Target’s embedded in Timeline 72-Beta. Minimal deviation. Still has a mother. Still thinks empathy is useful." She stirred her drink like it offended her. “You’re the only viable anchor to pull him out.”

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  I downed what passed for whiskey on this side of the fold. “And what if I say no?”

  “You won’t.”She didn’t say it like a threat. She said it like a law of nature. Like gravity.“You want your debt cleared? You want your memories unblocked? You do the run.”

  I glanced out the window. The sky was fracturing again—thin white lines sketching across reality like it was just badly tempered glass.

  “Timeline’s degrading,” she added. “You’ve got about thirteen hours before it collapses entirely. After that, we can’t get you—or him—out.”

  I lit a smoke.He’d probably never picked up the habit. Of course he hadn’t.

  Thirteen hours. One collapsing dimension.And the version of me that hadn’t ruined his life.

  "Time to rob the man I could’ve been," I said to myself.