The dispatch slip is short: hand the package to yourself, ten minutes ago, do not open it. Under Mara's dash, the retrochron unit hums like a trapped wasp. The meter counts backward. Rain runs UP the windshield into the sky. On the seat beside her sits a brown paper package, taped shut, no label. The clock hits her drop time. Headlights swing into the lot behind her.

Mara grabs the package and gets out. The other car is hers, exactly hers, same dent in the bumper. The driver's door opens. A woman steps out with Mara's face and Mara's tired eyes. 'You're early,' the other Mara says. Mara holds out the package with shaking hands.