November, 2027. Before the Jump.

1.6 billion. That's how many people have died from MRSA, a type of bacteria resistant to multiple antibiotics. Over 20% of the population, taken down by Earth's dumbest organism. At least, that's the way I like to think of it, because what kind of parasite would want to kill its host?

The outbreak started in July of 2022 at a research university in the middle of Florida. Students and professors were the first to get sick, and nobody thought much of it, since everyone knew colleges were essentially giant petri dishes. Signs of infection were small, red bumps that quickly morphed into deep, painful abscesses filled with pus. But then the students developed blood poisoning, and died less than 24 hours later.

It was clear that this wasn't some ordinary strain of MRSA. I don't remember the exact strain—something super long with a bunch of numbers and letters—but it doesn't really matter. What matters is that there is no cure for this disease. No treatment. No antibiotics that actually work. MRSA spreads like wildfire, staying on surfaces for up to a year. Anyone who touches contaminated surfaces or persons becomes infected, and the death rate is 78.1%.

My family and I live on an 80-acre farm in Iowa. I say family, but really I mean my husband and my daughter. Everyone else I love is dead.

Suspicious folk used to come around more often when the pandemic first began, looking to take over the farm or steal one of our chickens. My lawyer days may be over, but I'm still pretty handy with a shotgun. People don't bother us anymore.

Well, they didn't. Until today.

Through the kitchen window, I watch six black SUVs and one silver sedan—all with tinted windows—pull up to our main house, leaving muddy tire tracks in the snow.

"Who's that?" my husband asks, already assembling his stolen sniper rifle on the dining room table.

"Don't know," I reply. "Probably the government or the mafia."

"I think I'd rather welcome the mafia."

I snort.

A tall, middle-aged man with short black hair steps out of the sedan. My eyes widen, and not only because he isn't wearing a hazmat suit. But because I recognize him.

The Man from the Future.

* * *

September, 2016. Before the Jump.

"Whoever came up with the title of this newspaper article should be fired. Amazing Time Travel Discovery? Amazing Time Travel Discovery?! Why don't you—and this is just a suggestion—mention the fact that a man time-traveled here from the future!"

I suppress a sigh and say, "Mmm-hmm, yeah, you know, you are so right."

The guy on the other end of the phone continues in a high-pitched screech, "Why are scientists so smart yet so completely, unfathomably incompetent at the same time. They need to learn to market themselves better!"

"I totally agree."

Half an hour passes before he finally hangs up, and I rub my pounding temples. I really need to go back to law school. Being a legal assistant has its perks, especially at the private firm I work at. I am definitely overpaid, there are free cannolis everyday in the breakroom, and my boss doesn't entirely suck. However, clients berating me for events I have absolutely no control over is not quite what I had in mind when I took this job.

Sure, a man time-traveling from the future is a remarkable discovery. Yet according to the article, one needs to have the TMM8 gene in order to survive a Jump. An estimated 1% of the population has that gene, and recently, the UN ruled that unstable time travel, time travel into the past, is illegal. Stable time travel, time travel into the future, remains legal for research purposes.

I'm not exactly a hi-tech person—okay, fine, I'm not a techy or sciency person at all, but my understanding is that time-traveling into the future does not change the past, present, or future for anyone in the space-time continuum. On the other hand, time-traveling to the past does change the past, present, and future for everyone.

So the man who traveled a year back in time from 2017? Yeah, there's two of him now. One a year older than the other. And the future that existed before he Jumped? Gone. Only he has memories of that specific future, which is now a part of his past.

My phone rings again, and I groan. I answer, "Good afternoon, thank you for calling Barberi Law Firm. My name is Valari. How can I help you?"

"Hey, honey."

I smile. "Hey, Dad."

"It's already six. Shouldn't you be off the clock?"

"I only get to go home when my boss goes home."

"Well, why don't you tell her that your very old dad has a limited number of birthdays left, and that you are late and embarrassing him in front of all his coworkers."

I gasp. "Oh, shit. Dad, I'm so sorry." My father's a bacteriologist, and I was supposed to be at his Georgia State lab forty-five minutes ago to sing "Happy Birthday" to him.

He chuckles. "No worries. Just get here soon, or Brian's going to eat the whole cake."

A muffled voice in the background shouts, "You bet I will!" Laughter follows.

"Okay, okay, leaving now," I state, clambering out of my office chair.

My father says, "Tomorrow you'll inform your boss that slavery is illegal—"

"Shh, Dad, this is a work phone. We'll discuss this later."

"Alright. See you soon. Love you."

"Love you too. Bye."

"Bye."

* * *

November, 2027. Before the Jump.

The Man from the Future takes out a megaphone and points it in our direction. He announces, "I am Doctor Omarr Jelani, a physicist for the WHO. I am here to discuss the future of the human race. May I please speak with Mrs. Valari Liu, Esquire?"

The future of the human race? What future? "I'm not exactly an esquire anymore." I became a licensed attorney in 2019, and while I should have renewed my license in 2024, I was about to give birth to Roza, and the world had already gone to hell by then. Walking to our DIY microphone that connects to the speakers on the roof, I turn it on and ask, "This is Valari. What do you want?" I hear the boom of my voice outside.

"Hello, Mrs. Liu. I apologize for bothering you and your family, but I have an urgent matter to confer with you."

"As you've said. I'm listening."

He hesitates. Some men and women start getting out of their SUVs. Those dressed in hazmat suits have no doubt never been exposed to MRSA and would like to keep it that way. Those clad in regular business clothing most likely had the infection and survived, which granted them relative immunity to repeat infections. Although, it's usually common courtesy—and a good idea—to wear a hazmat suit anyway.

Omarr takes too long to answer, so I question, "What's with all the muscle?"

"They're for the journey over here," he responds. "People are less likely to... trouble you when you travel in big groups."

I nod. That makes sense.

"I would like to talk with you inside, if you don't mind," he says. "It's a bit chilly out here."

My husband immediately protests, "No."

"I have immunity," Omarr continues. "I haven't been ill since 2022, and I have not been in contact with any infected individuals within the last year. You're a survivor too, aren't you, Mrs. Liu?"

Yes, I am. I shiver, remembering the worst month of my life, probably around the same time Omarr was sick. It's funny how days can stretch into centuries when you wish to die. Because in those moments, death is preferrable to the excruciating torture of fighting an MRSA infection.

My husband, boyfriend at the time, was the only thing that made me think twice about killing myself, the only reason I'm alive today. He wore a full-on hazmat suit—which people thought was hilarious back then—while taking care of me. Well, jokes on them, because most of the population refusing to wear the suits are now six feet under.

Once I recovered, I knew for certain I wanted to marry him. I've never been particularly romantic, nor did I ever think I would get married, but in that moment I said, "Screw it. Carpe diem!" Then asked if he wanted to go over the cliff with me.

And he said yes.

* * *

May, 2022. Before the Jump.

Perhaps it's a little old school to be applying for a job in person, but these days I look for any excuse to go outside while the weather's nice. I want to get my fill of vitamin D before the later summer months, when two seconds of sunlight will scorch your skin.

Walking into the lobby of Parker & Johnson, LLC, I ask the front desk receptionist where to submit my application.

"Over there," he answers with a friendly smile, gesturing to a letter tray a meter to my left.

"Thank you."

A man with a shaved head, wearing a suit and tie, stands beside the tray, attempting to wrestle a thin stack of papers out of his briefcase. I sidestep him and dunk my application into the tray, just as the briefcase decides to let him have his papers. I'm turning to leave when he speaks, "Your name is Valari? Spelled V-A-L-A-R-I?" He doesn't look at me, instead focusing on stapling his papers together. Huh, I guess he's applying for the same job.

When he adds his application to the pile, I spot his name on the top line and retort, "Your name is Dragomir?"

One side of his lips curves up. "Touché." He finally lifts his gaze to meet mine, and his smile falters. Dragomir isn't someone who I would call beautiful, but he's undeniably striking. His large, stunning eyes are framed by long, dark lashes.

I sigh. Why do men always have the prettiest lashes? It's simply not fair.

"Something wrong?" he wonders.

"Sorry, didn't mean to stare. It was nice to meet you, Dragomir."

For the second time today, I turn to leave when he interrupts, "Well, we haven't actually met."

I raise an eyebrow. "No?"

"I don't really know anything about you. Just that your name is as awesome as mine."

The laugh that bubbles out of me surprises us both. He smiles, showing teeth this time. "There's a farmer's market on the corner of Spruce and Hazelnut. We can check out the booths. Bet on who will get the job."

"Oh, I'm going to get the job," I assert. "Obviously."

"Obviously," he agrees.

And I decide I like him.

* * *

November, 2027. Before the Jump.

After much haggling and negotiating, Omarr, Dragomir, and I eventually come to an agreement. Instead of meeting in the main house, Omarr and I will meet in the guesthouse, and Dragomir will listen in using the walkie talkies. That way, in case Omarr has MRSA on his skin, I can disinfect myself before reentering the main house and ensure Dragomir and my daughter remain unexposed.

Also, I get to bring my shotgun. Omarr cannot bring any weapons with him. His security detail doesn't like that, but with a wave of a hand, Omarr silently instructs them to stand down.

Omarr and I sit at the dusty table by the kitchen, the air in the guesthouse slowly warming. I place the walkie talkie between us and say, "I'd offer you something to drink, but we haven't used this place in a while. The pipes are probably frozen. Besides, they'll likely shut the water off any day now." Once the electrical grid went down, so did cell towers and satellite reception. But for whatever reason, the state's water is still running.

He nods. "How are you generating electricity?"

"Solar panels. There's also a small wind turbine on the roof."

"I saw that."

"It doesn't generate much, but it's enough."

It's silent for a bit, then Omarr clears his throat. "You're probably wondering why I'm here."

"Really, what gave you that idea?" I ask sarcastically.

"Alright, better I just rip the bandaid off," he says, psyching himself up. His expression becomes solemn, and his dark brown eyes drill holes into mine. "Mrs. Liu, the spread of this disease is not going to stop. Five years from now, eighty percent of the human race will have died from MRSA."

I stop breathing.

"I know that sounds frightening—and it is," he continues. "It's extremely frightening, but that is precisely why we need your help."

I tilt my head warily, trying to find my words. "H—why—how?"

"Have you heard of the TMM8 gene?"

My eyes roll to the ceiling as I wrack my brain for any mention of TMM8. "That sounds so familiar." My hand slaps the table. "Yes, yes, I remember. The gene for time traveling." My eyes widen. "You have that gene! Wait, no, that's not possible." Every person with the TMM8 gene has been killed by MRSA. While the gene made them fit for time travel, it also made them more susceptible to catching the disease. Additionally, the death rate for these individuals is 100%. So there's no way Omarr could've survived the infection.

He frowns. "No, Mrs. Liu. I do not have the gene. You're thinking of my fraternal twin brother, the one who traveled from the future."

My jaw drops.

"I know," he says. "I'm sorry to disappoint. We look a lot alike. But my brother—as a matter of fact, there were two of them, technically—died from MRSA."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. You can fix it. You have the TMM8 gene, which means you can go back in time."

I gape at him in confusion. "How do you know?"

"You were arrested in 2015 for cocaine possession."

"The charges were dropped."

"Yes, but law enforcement still has access to your records, including any DNA samples they took upon arrest." He leans forward, placing his hands on the table and lacing his fingers together. "Trust me."

"Then how am I alive? How did I survive the infection?"

He shrugs. "I don't know. Maybe you have a mutation elsewhere. Maybe you just got lucky. But what I do know is you're humanity's last chance at survival. As things are, our race may not become completely extinct, but it will become... incredibly unpleasant. For some more than others."

I instantly think of Roza. She's been a pain in my ass since the day she was born. Literally. One time I scavenged an old bag of M&M's from a crumbling, ransacked grocery store, and when I helped open the bag, she looked me in the eye and made sure that I watched while she tipped the bag over, and every single candy-covered chocolate button tumbled onto the ground. Another time she was counting the number of pennies in a glass jar. I came over to assist her, and she slapped me in the face.

It took me a while to realize that she doesn't want help. She wants to do everything herself.

And yet I love her more than anything. The universe could be on fire, and all I would worry about is if she was safe and smiling and singing. I imagine what my father would say if he were alive and could hear her sing, "She sounds just like her mother."

I don't want her growing up in this world.

"What is it that you want me to do?" I question. "Isn't traveling to the past illegal?"

"Was," he corrects. "But we're making an exception, since the alternative means billions more people are going to die." He reaches into his pocket, and my hand automatically tightens around my shotgun, but he only pulls out a pair of glasses. "These will identify the man who created this specific strain of bacteria and accidentally leaked it. You are going to shoot him."

I take a deep breath. "For a mistake he made?"

Omarr's tone is stern as he states, "A mistake that will wipe out eighty percent of the human population. You have to kill him."

* * *

August, 2023. Before the Jump.

"I want a baby."

I was already starting to wake up, but Dragomir's declaration is like a shot of pure caffeine. "Oh yeah?" I double check, making sure I didn't hear wrong in my half-asleep delirium.

"Yeah," he confirms. "And I want to name her Roza."

"Her? Assume the baby's sex, why don't you."

"Roza can be a boy's name too, why not?" He pauses. "But I want a girl."

I laugh. "You're terrible." The MRSA pandemic is still keeping many individuals in quarantine and isolation, but some experts say by the end of the month, we'll have antibiotics that improve the rate of recovery significantly. Then again, some experts say we're all going to die. Therefore... c'est la vie?

"So I can spoil her."

"A girl it is." I peck my husband on the lips. "But if she changes her gender, there's nothing I can do about that."

* * *

November, 2027. Before the Jump.

"No, absolutely not," Dragomir says the second I reenter the main house, the veins in his forehead bulging. "I forbid you."

"You forbid me?" I emphasize, daring him to repeat that order.

"I meant—" He stops in front of me, exasperated. Furious. "How can you even trust him? How do you know he's actually from the WHO?"

"He showed me his badge."

"Oh, right, well, that clears things up." He rolls his eyes. "Everyone knows you can't counterfeit a badge."

"Why else would they come all the way out here for me?"

He spreads his arms wide. "Maybe they have a shortage of women. Maybe they want to use you for experiments. We all know what happens during an apocalypse."

"Do we, now." We glare at each other. "Look," I command, pointing through the window at the fourteen government agents with machine guns. "You don't think they could force their way in here and take me involuntarily if they wanted to?"

He's quiet for a few seconds, striving to get a grip on his emotions. "What about me?" he finally asks in a small voice. "What about Roza? You're throwing this all away."

"Throwing what away?" I counter. "We're barely living, Dragomir. Society's collapsing. I can bring everybody back. I can save 6.4 billion lives."

"Maybe there's a reason time travel is so dangerous. Why everyone else who has the TM-whatever gene is dead. Maybe we're not supposed to change the past."

"Maybe. Or maybe there's a reason I'm still alive."

Dragomir starts to say something, but it's lost in a strangled sob. He collapses at my feet. "Please, Valari... I can't lose you."

"You won't," I whisper. "I'm traveling back to July, 2022. We'd been dating for two months by then."

"But it wouldn't really be you."

He's right of course. I was a different person back then, before the pandemic began, before I got sick, before he nursed me back to health. Roza didn't exist either. I'll be given a new identity and prohibited from contacting anybody who may recognize me. My eyes water, and I clear my throat. "I'm choosing to do this. So unless you're going to lock me in the barn for the rest of my life—"

"Don't tempt me."

I shake my head and leave him on the floor to go pack my bags.

* * *

July, 2022. After the Jump.

I wake up under a tree in the middle of Lake Griffin State Park. It's midnight and the park's deserted, but even if it wasn't, I doubt anybody would notice that I appeared out of thin air due to the thick foliage. The familiar heat and humidity is already causing me to sweat through my T-shirt and lab coat.

I check my pockets to make sure the essentials time-traveled with me: Fake driver's license, fake passport, fake lab access card, new credit cards and bank account information, semi-automatic pistol, glasses to identify my target.

I put the glasses on.

Sneaking out of the park, I wait five hours and then call the taxi service number I memorized. Sitting in the backseat of my ride, I'm in awe of my surroundings. It's been five years since I've seen this many people, this many functioning vehicles. Everything is so normal, yet so foreign at the same time. I nevertheless shrink back into the seat, putting as much distance as I can between me and the driver, even though I know it's irrational. The leak hasn't occurred yet.

A little over an hour later, I arrive at the lab. I use my access card to swipe into the building and once again to enter the surveillance room. Shutting down the cameras and backup systems, I turn my glasses on.

From my point of view, the world is tinted green.

I try not to look too suspicious as I make my way toward the specified culture lab home to MRSA bacteria. My target should be here by 7:17am.

And it's just as Omarr said. At 7:17am, a man walks in. The glasses paint the man red.

I almost faint.

No wonder those Secret Service bastards didn't give me a photo or the name of my target.

I have to kill my father.

* * *

"Valari?" my father questions, almost as though he doesn't recognize me. I am five years older now, after all. "What are you doing here? Are you okay?"

"Dad," I choke out. "Why aren't you at work?"

"I am at work." His brows furrow. "I started this new job last week—I was going to tell you at dinner this Saturday."

It makes sense. I became ill after dinner with my father, and since he died shortly after getting infected, I surmised that he was the one who gave me the disease. He's Patient Zero.

Omarr told me that by the end of today, my father will figure out how to create the strain of MRSA with abnormally high contagion and death rates. While I'm aware that he's simply doing his job as a bacteriologist, trying to study and make treatments for a deadly disease before a potential outbreak, he's going to make a mistake.

I have an intense urge to tell him it's an emergency, that I need him to take the day off and leave with me. But he's already seen me. He'll inevitably wind up asking the other Valari why I was here today. In addition, Time has a way of rectifying itself. Even if I distract him for today, who's to say he won't mess up tomorrow? Or a year from now?

Perhaps if I were the only one affected, I would take that risk.

But I'm not the only one affected, which means I can't.

Training prepares you to shoot a weapon. It doesn't prepare you to kill someone. And while I knew this task would be difficult, it's now insurmountably so.

I tell myself that he's already dead in my memory. I am no longer Valari.

Pulling the gun out of my lab coat, I point it at my father. The red haze surrounding him mocks me.

His eyes become saucers. "Val—"

I shoot.

* * *

May, 2027. After the Jump.

For a long time, I contemplated suicide. Omarr gave me enough money to last ten lifetimes, and yet I wasn't happy. How could I be when I wasn't allowed to visit the people I loved? Or maybe "allowed" is not the right word, but regardless, it would've been a bad idea. My cousin died last month, and I certainly couldn't just show up at the funeral.

But each day it gets easier, including accepting the fact that I murdered my own father. Sometimes I wonder if there could've been a way to spare his life. Perhaps there was, and I was too rash in my resolution. But driving my car, watching people interact outside without hazmat suits on, children laughing and tumbling over one another—this alternative future justifies what I did. Or at least that's what I repeat to myself, over and over again.

Seeing children is hard though, and I don't think that's something that'll ever get easier. Every time a little girl laughs, it's like a stake to the heart, reminding me of who I lost. Who I chose to give up.

One of the things I haven't done yet in California is go to the beach, which seems like it should be a crime. I guess it's just a fear of mine leftover from my MRSA pandemic days—being around other people. However, it's actually overcast today in Santa Monica, so I drive to the beach and walk along the damp sand.

As I expected, not a lot of people are out in this weather. I laugh to myself. Californians don't know what real weather is.

"Valari?"

The hopeful yet hesitant voice causes me to stop in my tracks. Goosebumps form on my arms and legs. I turn around and suppress my natural instinct to fling myself into his arms. "No, I'm sorry. I think you have the wrong person."

"No, Valari, it's me. Don't you remember? I'm Dragomir," he says. God, he looks so similar to when I left him Before the Jump. A little less worn out and a little more innocent, but still my husband.

No. Not my husband. Not anymore.

"I'm sorry, I don't know you," I say. "My name is Everette."

Seconds pass as he scrutinizes me, scanning me from head to toe. He must eventually realize that I'm a few years older than I should be, because he acquiesces, "I didn't mean to scare you. You just... look so much like someone I used to know." He pauses, debating something, then starts edging away. "Have a good day."

Distress rises in me. Distress that I'll never see him again. I know it's a stupid move, but I ask his retreating figure, "What happened between you and her?"

He stops. Swivels around. "It must be written all over my face." He chuckles under his breath and shrugs. "I guess we wanted different things. She's a hotshot lawyer now, and I would've supported anything she did, but..." He clears his throat.

"But you wanted her to say yes."

His eyes flick to mine. "Yeah. Maybe. I don't know. She was too good for me."

"I doubt that." I step forward. "You know what I think?"

He watches me cautiously. "What?"

"I think she didn't know what she wanted at the time. It had nothing to do with you—she wouldn't have said yes to anyone."

Smiling crookedly, he gives me the side-eye. "You're sure your name's not Valari?"

I pull out my driver's license and show it to him.

"Huh. Everette," he states, and I sense a bit of disappointment in his tone.

"As I said."

He smiles again, but this time, it doesn't quite reach his eyes. "It was nice to meet you, Everette."

He turns to go, and I repeat what he said to me many years ago, "Well, we haven't actually met."

He freezes. "What did you say?"

"We haven't actually met. I don't really know anything about you. Just that your name—"

He cuts me off, "Is as awesome as mine."

"Precisely."

He laughs shakily. "You're kind of starting to freak me out, Everette."

"There's a crêpe dessert place by 1st and Marguerita. Give me a chance to convince you that I'm normal?"

"I don't think you're normal," he argues, "but normal is overrated." After examining me for another half minute, he accepts my invitation.

And I decide it is possible to fall in love with the same person twice.

* * *

August, 2028. After the Jump.

My husband's cooking dinner, and I'm taking the dishes out of the dishwasher, when he declares, "I want a baby."

My eyes snap to the right and meet his. "Oh yeah?"

"Yeah. And I want to name her Roza."

I smile.