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.

The headlights in the mirror aren't slowing down. They speed up, aimed straight at her. Mara throws the car in reverse and the retrochron screams. The whole lot smears sideways. She's not delivering anymore. She's running. But you can't outrun a thing that already happened.