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.

She gets one corner open and a thin blue light leaks out, cold on her fingers. The light crawls up her arm. The rain on the glass stops moving completely. Time isn't going backward now. It just stopped. And Mara is the only thing still able to move.

In the frozen world Mara walks from car to car, and in each one sits a version of herself, mid-blink, mid-breath, stopped. She reaches the first car, the one that started it all, and gently closes the torn package on its seat. The blue light fades. Time lurches forward. Only one Mara drives away, and she never looks at the seat again.