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 decided not to chase Tomas at all. The truck was the problem, so she'd stop the truck. She knew the delivery route. If she could block that street or warn the driver, her brother would never be in danger. She headed for the depot.

Mara dragged a heavy bin into the middle of the delivery route to block it. But the truck just took a different street, the one where Tomas walked. She'd pushed him toward the danger, not away. She ran after the truck, waving her arms like a madwoman.