“Answer what?”
He tapped his wristwatch. 4:11. He pulled out his phone. 4:11.
Tonight, he’d walked six miles to escape it. The diner was supposed to be neutral ground—eggs and coffee, the shuffle of feet, the smell of burnt toast drowning out memory. But when he looked up, the clock was frozen. 4:11. past 4.11
“You can’t change it,” Leo said. It wasn’t a question.
“First time’s the hardest,” she said. “Answer what
Leo felt the world tilt. Outside, a car passed the window—then the same car, same license plate, same dent in the fender, passed again. A man in a gray coat walked past the door, left to right. Thirty seconds later, the same man walked past, left to right.
“What time is it?” Leo asked.
The waitress passed by, wiping her hands on her apron. “What’ll it be, hon?”