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.

The other Mara won't take it. She backs away, hands up. 'No. I did my drop already. I'm not the one you want.' Then who is? Mara turns and sees a row of cars in the lot, all hers, all idling, a tired version of her face in every window. They all hold up a slip. Mara holds up hers. The slips match. Whatever this is, it isn't hers to fix alone, and she finally lets the package fall.