Mara fixed watches in a little shop that smelled of brass and old oil. On Wednesday she buried her brother Tomas, who had stepped under a delivery truck on Tuesday. That night she sat alone and wound the dead clock he'd left her. The mainspring caught hard, like it snagged on something. Then every hand in the shop began spinning backward.

Mara held the clock tight and the spinning got faster. The shop windows went dark, then bright, then dark again. She squeezed her eyes shut. When she opened them, sun was pouring in. The wall calendar read Tuesday. Tomas was alive somewhere out there, and she had until the truck to find him.

Mara grabbed her keys and ran. Tomas always got coffee at the corner shop on Tuesday mornings. If she could reach him before noon, she could warn him about the truck. She sprinted down the street, lungs burning, praying she wasn't too late.

Mara got to the corner shop, but Tomas had already left. The barista said he'd headed toward Main Street ten minutes ago. Mara's stomach dropped. That was the exact street. She turned and ran for it, screaming his name into the crowd.

Mara saw Tomas step off the curb just as the truck came. She didn't think. She sprinted and tackled him onto the sidewalk. They hit the ground hard, scraped and bleeding, but alive. The truck blew past, horn blaring. Tomas stared up at her, shaking. "How did you know?" he whispered.