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.

As Mara lets go of the package, the other Mara grabs her wrist. 'Wait. What's the date on your slip?' Mara reads it out. The other woman goes pale. 'That's wrong. That's tomorrow. You came back too far.' The package feels suddenly heavier in the space between them.

They open the slip together and the ink is rewriting itself as they watch, the date crawling forward one minute at a time. 'It's correcting,' the other Mara whispers. 'The loop is fixing the mistake. When the dates match, one of us stops existing.' Mara checks her watch. Two minutes to match.