March 7
“The red center, for lack of any better phrasing, is a wound in time,” Reynolds says. “If anything, that’s about the best gauge of how much time I have left. Care to throw out a guess?”
I do a little bit of math in my head. It’s been about sixteen hours since we last spoke, and in that time, the red center has gotten about twice as big. So, sixteen hours to double in size, when you start from a third, and are now at two-thirds, you need to expand by half in order to be totally full. “Eight hours,” I say. “Give or take. If that thing gets bigger faster, you might have less.”
“Damn,” he says. “All right. I thought I had longer. Okay. So, let me ask you this. What do you think caused this?”
“How the hell should I know?” I say. “You’re the one farting around in time. What did you do?”
“Nothing,” he says. “Nothing important. Well…”
“Well what?” I ask. “You did something. Fess up.”
“I, uh,” he says, nervously. “There was a blood drive. I needed some cash…”
You didn’t. You could not have. It’s freaking impossible! “You gave blood?”
“Yeah,” he says. “It was just a couple pints. I couldn’t just let it go, you know? I mean, I have a rare type, and…”
Did you enjoy this post? Why not leave a comment below and continue the conversation, or subscribe to my feed and get articles like this delivered automatically to your feed reader.
Comments
No comments yet.
Leave a comment