The machine in Elias's basement smells like hot copper and Mara's perfume. That's impossible. She's been dead nine months. He keys in the date: three years ago, the morning of the crash on Route 9. He has practiced this a thousand times. Stop the car. Stop the truck. The coil screams and white light swallows the room. When he opens his eyes, he's in the passenger seat of their old sedan, and Mara is alive, humming, hands on the wheel.

Elias freezes. Seeing her breathe, hearing her hum, it's too much. He forgets the truck, the plan, everything. He just reaches over and holds her hand. The car keeps rolling toward the bridge in the rain. Mara smiles at him, confused but warm. 'You okay?' Up ahead, headlights swing wide across the wet lane.

The wide headlights are the truck, fishtailing on the wet bridge. Elias sees it too late. He throws himself across Mara to shield her. Metal shrieks. The world goes white again, the same white as the machine. He wakes back in his basement, hands on the keypad, copper and perfume in the air. The date still reads three years ago. It's a loop, and he's been here before.