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 doesn't touch the wheel. He just talks, calm and steady, like he rehearsed it. 'Mara, pull over. Right here. Trust me, please.' Something in his voice reaches her. She eases onto the shoulder. The truck thunders by a second later, missing them by inches. She's pale. 'How did you know?' He can't answer that yet.