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 takes the package and tucks it under her arm. 'Now get back in your car and don't look back,' she says. 'And when it's your turn, do not open it.' Headlights swing into the lot. Both women freeze. That's the early car arriving. There shouldn't be a THIRD.

The third driver doesn't get out. The car just sits there, engine running, wipers going. The two Maras wait. Nothing. Then the brown package, still under the other Mara's arm, starts to hum, the exact sound the retrochron makes. It's counting down to something.

The humming package gets louder until Mara grabs it and hurls it into the empty third car. The instant it lands, the car folds in on itself and vanishes, taking the sound with it. The other Mara exhales. 'That was the extra copy. The loop ate it.' Two of them left now, and one slip between them. They decide to burn it.