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 let go of the clock and backed away, heart pounding. The hands kept spinning on their own. A second Mara stood in the shop doorway, soaked in rain, staring at her. "Don't touch the clock," the other Mara said. "It already cost me everything."