He turned his back on the station and began to walk away but stopped short when he noticed a crumpled newspaper in a tall, wire trash can. He reached in, pulled it out, and looked at the date: September 1, 1978. 

“Joe, we’re in—” He looked to his left and right. Joe was gone. He spun around. “Joe?” 

Joe had wondered across the street and was gaping at a car. Chief shoved the paper back into the trash and strode across the street. 

“Check this out, Chief,” Joe yelled, peering in the car’s window. “A Ford Fiat! Isn’t that fantastic?!” 

Chief froze. Fiat. The word triggered something in his brain . . . but what? He couldn’t place what his brain was trying to remember. He tapped his temple, sifting through his memories. . . . Fiat started with an F. . . . Fiat had two syllables. . . . Fiat sounded like . . . Foozle. 

Chief’s finger froze at his temple, mid-tap. The Foozle. They needed it to complete their mission. He dug into his coat pocket frantically. Where was it? It wasn’t there. He spun around and scanned the ground. Nothing. 

Then his mind dredged up another memory . . . of Dr. Yang adjusting his spot on the X and telling him she was saving his life. He threw his hands up in the air. 

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