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 doesn't move. She stares at the package and the rule on the slip: do not open it. Whoever wrote this knew she'd want to peek. Her thumb finds the tape. 'Just a corner,' she tells herself. 'Just to see.' The retrochron's hum jumps higher, angry now, like it knows.

The tape peels back. Inside is a small recorder with one button. Mara presses it. Her own voice, ragged: 'If you opened this, you broke the loop. Now every version of us is awake at once. Drive. Don't stop. Don't let them catch you.' Engines start all around the lot.

She doesn't drive. She gets out and walks toward the nearest copy of herself, recorder held high. 'We stop running,' she says. 'All of us. Right now.' One by one the other Maras kill their engines. The rain finally falls down again, normal and soft. The loop has nothing left to chase.