I gasp as consciousness slams into me.

Instantly, I reach across the bed, but when my hand comes up empty, my head snaps to the side. Instead of Brynn curled up against me where I left her last night, all I find are disheveled sheets.

Save me.

The thought sends adrenaline pumping through my veins. Before my mind has time to catch up, I'm moving. I swing my legs over the side of the bed and start to sprint across the room.

Emphasis on start. Before I can get far, my foot collides with something hard and I go tumbling to the ground. I suck in a sharp breath and instinctively grab my foot. Whatever I kicked, it's solid as a rock — and loud.

"Shit." Carter's shout sounds muffled. I squint through the pain and find him huddled on the floor, clutching his face. He struggles to untangle himself from the small sleeping bag wrapped around his legs. I recognize the Spiderman print from the many sleepovers we had as kids.

"Carter, what the fuck," I squeeze out, massaging my toes.

"What happened?" He checks his nose, pressing it lightly to see if it's broken, before turning worried eyes on me. "Are you okay?"

"Why are you on the floor?" I ask, bewildered.

"I was trying to avoid getting kicked awake or something," he grumbles under his breath.

"And what better place to avoid feet than the ground, right?"

"Look," he finally gets the sleeping bag off and leaves it in a crumpled heap near the door, "I was just trying to be close by in case you had a nightmare, but I figured you wouldn't appreciate me climbing into bed, all things considered."

The nightmare. Panic rises in my chest as I remember why I got up in the first place.

"Where's Brynn?" I ask, ignoring the pain in my foot to search the room. It's not one I know well; I felt weird going into Carter's bedroom last night, so I chose Andrew's old one instead. It's been years since he's lived here, even in my teenage timeline, so it feels more like a guest room. After the flood of emotions from last night, I wasn't ready to deal with the memories Carter's room would've undoubtedly brought up.

"She's in Michael's bed. I moved her there last night when I got home." Carter pulls himself into a sitting position, using the bed frame to support his back. "She's not supposed to sleep with us. It's bad for her attachment issues."

I nod, but I'm only half listening. Once I know Brynn's whereabouts, I basically tune him out. My focus is solely on recalling everything Mark said.

It's still Friday.

Darren's party isn't until tomorrow.

Carter eyes me carefully, unsure of what to do. Without meaning to, I've begun to pace, my feet leaving lines as they shuffle across the carpet.

"Hey, it's ok. It was a bad dream. Come sit down on the bed," he uses the edge of it to hoist himself to his feet, "You were tossing around all night. Yesterday was a lot, so we'll take it really slow today. And I promise, I'll answer anything—"

"Stop talking."

He blinks, taken aback. "What?"

"Shhh." I wave an impatient hand in his direction

It isn't Saturday yet.

Figure it out.

He sighs. "Listen, I know you're upset with me, and you have every right to be, but—"

"Carter," I snap, finally stopping to face him. "Just shut the fuck up for like two seconds, alright?"

He sinks onto the bed, stunned. I don't give myself time to feel bad; I know he's worried after last night, but it's too important that I file away anything I can remember. My instincts are screaming at me that this was no ordinary dream. Everything about it had felt as real as standing in this room. It felt more real than the memories I've tried to force over the few days.

An idea tickles the back of my mind, begging me to recognize it fully. It feels like I have all the pieces to the puzzle without the box, leaving me unsure of what the final picture is supposed to be.

"What's not Saturday?" Carter asks. I realize I'm unintentionally muttering under my breath.

"Today. Today's not Saturday." A train of thought pulls out of the station, and even though I'm not sure where it's going, I hop on board.

"Right..." he trails off. When I don't elaborate, he tries to help me out. "It's Sunday."

"No. It's not Saturday yet." The train picks up speed along with my heartbeat. "We had the fight after Friday detention."

Right before I went to sleep.

"Which means Darren's party was on a Saturday." But I didn't wake up on Saturday. Instead, I woke up here. Ten years in the future. Just before the party.

Married to the last person who saw Mark alive.

My heart stops as the train reaches its destination.

"He's not dead yet," I whisper, testing the way it feels on my lips. It only assures me further. "Mark isn't dead yet."

"What?" When I glance up, Carter's face is completely drained of color, a sharp contrast to the bruise already forming around his nose.

I look right through him. Now that I can see the final picture, the pieces are falling rapidly into place.

"I need paper," I spot a small desk in the corner of the room, "and a pen."

"I'm sorry, what?" He follows me over. "Amber, do you realize what you just said?"

Rummaging through the drawers, I ignore him. The dots are connecting so fast that I can't keep track of them, and I need a way to organize my thoughts. Unfortunately, each one comes up empty.

I look up at Carter. "Does your dad still have his study?"

"His study? I don't understand—"

He's taking too long. I don't have time to explain my every request. Without a glance back, I stride towards the bedroom door, ready to go check for myself.

"Amber, stop." Carter catches me gently but firmly by the wrist and spins me around to face him. "We can't do this again. It didn't work last time, and it's not going to work now. You need to talk to me and tell me what's going on, or else how am I supposed to help you? Just talk to me. Please."

My skin itches at the thought of standing here and not getting every last detail down on paper, but he's right; this tactic won't get us far. Thinking back to the morning that started it all, our communication skills had been poor to say the least. This is too important for us not to be on the same page.

So I subdue the urge to yank my hands free and meet Carter's eyes.

"I know I'm scaring you," I admit. "I'm not trying to. I promise, as soon as I work through everything myself, I'll explain. But all I can say now is, I think something bigger than memory loss is happening here." I squeeze his hands harder, hoping it conveys how serious I am. "Something impossible."

He's still not totally sold. I can tell by the way his lip twitches, an argument eager to break its way through. But after everything he's kept from me, he's in no position to demand information — and he knows it.

"Okay," he concedes. "There should be plenty of paper in the study."

"Great. Give me twenty minutes. Bring a cup of coffee, a platter of buttered croissants, and three shots of tequila when you come."

"Uh, is getting hammered required for the explanation?"

"They're not all for me. Trust me, you'll want one." I stop to grab a sweatshirt from the small bag I brought with me from New York before adding, "Also, call Chloe. She should be here for this too."

I'm halfway to the door before Carter asks, "What should I tell her?"

"Tell her we're gonna save Mark," I throw over my shoulder before finally escaping the room.

"I'm sorry, what?" Chloe asks through a mouthful of croissant.

She sprays crumbs all over the cherry wood desk that takes up most of the office. The back wall is lined with more bookshelves, each filled with different academic studies and theses. Tucked in one corner is a mobile whiteboard, a callback to Henry's teaching days and my special prop for later. Chloe and Carter occupy the two armchairs facing the desk while I sit across from them, tapping my pencil impatiently.

"That's what I said," Carter mutters, slouching heavily in his chair. The floor was not kind to him; his hair sticks up in all directions, while his cheek sports major imprint lines from the carpet. Even the way he rolls his shoulders every few minutes speaks to the comfort level of decades-old carpet and superhero sleeping bags.

"Yeah, well I wish you'd both stop saying it. We'll never get through this if I have to keep repeating myself." I lean back in Henry's desk chair and rub my temples, already feeling the beginnings of a headache. It took longer than anticipated to work out what to say without sounding like a crazy person. Based on the face Chloe's giving me, the extra time did me little good.

She reaches across the desk and takes my hand, squeezing it gently. "Babe, I know yesterday was hard. You never should've found out that way, and if I could kill Carter with little to no consequences, I would," she glares at him for emphasis, "but Mark...he's gone. What happened to him was a terrible accident, but—"

"You're right." I cut her off, needing to get the conversation back on track. "He's gone in this timeline. But there's still time to change things. There's still a chance to save him."

Chloe drags her eyes away from me and shares a concerned look with Carter. Despite certainty that my argument is sound, my hands start to sweat. I know that if I don't push through my explanation, I'm looking at another hospital visit in the very near future, and this time, I doubt they'll let me leave as easily.

"I know how it sounds. Trust me, I do. But this isn't some grief-driven story I've made up to help cope. This is real. All I need is for you guys to listen. What's the harm in hearing me out?"

They share another look, this one filled with unspoken words. It's weird seeing them interact like this. Sure, they ran in the same circles in high school and talked every now and again, but I can see the shift in their relationship to each other. Instead of two people joined together by their proximity to me, they seem more like genuine friends, even if Chloe is a little pissed at him.

She faces me again before settling back against her seat, exhaling audibly. "I'm listening."

I'm expecting an argument from Carter. He's always been stubborn, especially when it comes to me, and it seems that stubbornness has only flourished as he's gotten older. He seemed eager to help upstairs, but now that he's had time to think things through, I can tell he's much more hesitant. But just like he's done for the past week, he surprises me.

"Go ahead," he says, nodding his encouragement. It's the last push I need to regain my confidence and begin down the winding road that will be this conversation.

"Great." I don't give them time to change their minds. The sooner they're caught up, the sooner we can start initiating my plan. I pull the mobile whiteboard from its corner and situate it as close to the desk as possible, making sure they can both see it clearly. My notes sit in a neat pile in front of me, but I fiddle with them anyway, double checking that they're in the right order.

With nothing else left to do, I take a calming breath to help settle my racing heart. As a final boost, I grab one of the three shots and down it, wincing at the taste of alcohol so early in the morning.

"Ok. Let's get started."

Then, I flip the whiteboard and reveal my masterpiece.

Both their jaws go slack. I can't really blame them. The board looks like the workings of a crazed detective who's been on the job one too many years. Pencil and paper hadn't been enough; I needed to see everything visually to keep myself from getting confused. A timeline runs along the length of the board, cut up by the few events I could fill in myself. Leading off from the events are expansions of ideas and concepts, both within the realm of possibility and the nearly impossible. At this point, nothing is off the table.

"Ever since I woke up unable to remember anything, we've assumed I simply forgot. There were no injuries when I went to bed the night before, and all the tests came back negative for anything serious. Amnesia was the logical conclusion to come to. It made sense.

"But that's the thing — nothing else has. No matter how many times we've tried triggering something, it hasn't worked. Yes, the doctor said there was a chance I may never get my memory back, but it's more than that. It isn't just that I can't remember; it almost feels like I'm not supposed to. This life doesn't feel like one I've lived before. It's more like I woke up here for a specific reason."

I pause, checking to see if they're with me so far. Carter stares blankly back, his eyes giving away nothing as to what he's thinking. Chloe on the other hand makes it abundantly clear how she's taking it; she reaches for the second tequila shot and downs it without so much as a grimace.

"What kind of reason?" she asks once the burn of the liquor subsides.

"That's what I couldn't figure out. Why would I need to forget a whole decade of my life? It was yet another thing that didn't make sense, and that doubt kept me believing this was amnesia. That is, until yesterday happened."

An uncomfortable air settles over the room. Chloe stiffens in her chair, and even though it's subtle, I catch her shift closer to the door and away from Carter. I deliberately avoid looking at him myself. Though things have changed drastically overnight, I can't forget the pain his deception caused. I don't want to be mad at him, but getting over it is easier said than done.

"Mark changes everything. If anything was going to bring my memory back, wouldn't it be his death? It confirms that no amount of exposure to this life will bring anything back because there's nothing to bring back. This is all happening because of him."

"But what exactly is happening?" The conversation has become distinctly two-sided. Carter seems content to let Chloe do all the talking. "And how do you suddenly know all of this?"

For the first time, I hesitate. We're slowly moving into the "nearly impossible" portion of the presentation, and they're barely keeping up as it is. I'm fully aware of how I'll sound from this point on, but it's the only explanation I have.

"Ok, bear with me," I head to the far left side of the timeline where I drew a few tick marks earlier, "dreams. That whole week leading up to Friday, I kept having them. They were vague at first, so much so I didn't think anything of it at the time. All they kept saying was I needed to figure something out."

My nap on the log, a sleep so light that the dream slipped away before I could grab a hold of the details.

That first day of school, waking up in a cold sweat with only the feeling of terror lingering behind.

"But ever since I got here, the dreams have been getting stronger. When I'm in them, everything around me feels so real it's hard to recognize that I'm asleep. It's as if the line between consciousness is blurred. I didn't realize it before, but they were trying to warn me about what was coming. I just didn't get the message in time."

A foreboding clock, the arms a distorted blur.

"It wasn't until last night that everything clicked. Mark came to me in my dream and gave me the final key to understanding what's going on."

I walk them through it, trying my best to describe every sensation in detail. It's hard to capture the atmosphere, to express what it felt like to soar through the sky, to hug Mark again, only to freefall seconds later. But it's what he said that still causes a shiver to crawl up my spine.

Save me.

"Something was trying to tell me Mark was going to die before it happened, and when I didn't figure it out in time, that same force intervened and dropped me here. I can't remember the last ten years because I haven't lived the last ten years — I jumped them. I have no idea how, but I think I know why. This isn't about getting my memories back. It's about learning where Mark was before Darren's party so I can go back and save him."

The room falls into thick silence once I deliver the final line. However they take it, the information is out there, making me feel lighter than I have in days. Still, every one of my nerves stands on end as I wait for them to say something. Anything.

Finally, Chloe leans forward, propping her elbows on the edge of the desk. "So this is like Thirteen Going on Thirty?"

Not exactly what I was expecting, but after thinking it over, I nod. "Sure. For all intents and purposes, it's like Thirteen Going on Thirty."

I'm surprised by how far she's come since the beginning of the conversation. I'm even more shocked when she pushes back from the desk and comes around to stand at the other end of the board.

"There's just one issue. Actually, there's plenty of issues here, including the fact I'm going along with this at all," Chloe admits, but her eyes are on the timeline. "We can fill in Friday fine, but that's not the part that can help us, right? How do we fill in Saturday when none of us saw him at the party? Hell, I remember thinking he ditched us for work—"

"That's not entirely true," I interrupt. Slowly, I shift my attention to Carter. "One of us did see him."

His face is a mask. I still can't tell how he's taking everything, and his silence does little to comfort me. The only change in him at all is his posture. Instead of slouched and relaxed, his back is straight and stiff as a board.

Chloe looks between the two of us. "What exactly does that mean?"

"Carter was there when Mark died."

Her jaw drops. "Excuse me?"

"You're the key, Carter," I continue, choosing to ignore her.

He looks away, focusing his attention on a spot near his feet. I don't care. I push on, determined to make him see his part in all of this.

"You're the only person who can fill in at least part of Saturday's timeline. Where he was when you found him, around what time — without you, none of this works. You're the only way I can save Mark. This is why I woke up with you. This is the whole reason why we're married."

Something in the room snaps; I can tell the instant the sentence leaves my mouth. Chloe inhales sharply next to me, but it's not her reaction that has anxiety bubbling in my stomach. Where moments ago his face was a blank canvas, now every inch of it is painted in hurt.

He stands abruptly, sending his chair flying back. Faster than I can register, he strides over to the office door and throws it open.

"Chloe, can we have the room." It isn't a question. He doesn't look at either of us as he waits.

"Yeah, sure." She gives me a you did it now look before making her way back around the desk. Collecting the few things she brought with her — plus the last of the croissants — she leaves the room, squeezing Carter's shoulder as she passes.

No sooner is she out the door that he slams it behind her.

"Do you understand what you're saying right now?" he asks, finally facing me. The look in his eyes pins me to the spot, and it takes effort to unglue my tongue from the roof of my mouth.

"I know it all sounds insane, but you have to trust me. We can do this if we just work together—"

"I'm not talking about whatever this is," he spits, gesturing to the board. "I'm referring to the part where you insinuate our marriage is nothing more than a tool to find out what happened to Mark."

"That's what you're focusing on?" I blurt out. "Of everything I've said, that's what's sticking out to you?"

"Cut the shit, Amber. How else am I supposed to feel about this? You're basically saying our whole life together has been set up just to help you save his life. That it holds no other meaning."

I gather my notes and face the board again so I don't have to look at him. It's not the way I originally meant it, but I also can't deny it's what I'm starting to believe. Not only does it fit into the narrative, but it also explains the drastic shift in our relationship. Minus the secrets he's kept from me, this version of Carter has been everything I've always wanted him to be.

Which is what makes me question if any of this is real, or if it's another dream that could go up in smoke at any second.

"The details of what our marriage is or isn't doesn't matter right now. All that matters is piecing together this timeline before it's too late."

"What about Brynn?" Carter shouts, causing me to flinch. "Does she matter?"

I bite my lip to stop it from quivering. Brynn is still an outlier in my theory, especially after what I saw in her eyes last night. I caught a quick glimpse of her when I first came downstairs, babbling on the counter while Julia cooked breakfast. As much as I wanted to stop and check her eyes again, my urgency to get to the office won out in the end. Though my gut tells me she's related to everything else going on, I'm apprehensive to find out how. I'm not a fan of what this might mean for her anymore than Carter.

"Of course she matters," I insist.

"And me?"

I bite my lip harder, tearing at the delicate skin until I taste blood.

"Do I matter, Amber?" His voice catches halfway through as pain breaks through the anger.

Reluctantly, I shift around until my back is against the whiteboard, bringing us face to face. The room is suddenly too small. I can feel the anger rolling off Carter in waves, but that's not what has my heart hammering in my chest. His face may be burning with rage, but his eyes hold the real story. Through them I can see the fine line he's walking between holding out hope and losing it altogether.

But as much as I want to reassure him that he's always mattered, I can't. I'm terrified of accepting who he is now, only to wake up back in the past and find the Carter who's done nothing but hurt me. There's no guarantee that this is the path we're destined to take, and believing in something that might be temporary is just too much of a risk.

"I don't know," I whisper past the knot in my throat.

For the first time since New York, I see the old Carter take over. The wall he's been perfecting since middle school comes down, shutting me out completely.

"Yeah? Well how about you let me know once you figure it out," he bites, every word dripping with venom. He storms out and slams the door behind him, leaving me with an empty timeline, a single shot of tequila, and a gaping hole in my chest.