Bones looked up at me, waiting for my stamp of approval, but I couldn’t even register what he’d said. My brain was still repeating, like a scratched CD, Subject does not exist . . . ten months. 

But was it exactly ten months? What if Bones had even less time? What if he had only two months, or one month, or one week? All the app had told us for sure was, Bones would absolutely no longer exist in ten months. 

We desperately needed a plan—but what plan of all the possible plan options was the right one? Actually, now that I thought of it, Bones’ idea to start the day over might not be half bad. We had started our trip to New York City from the Ridgewood train station this morning, with the mission of finding some answers to Stevie Ching’s mysterious phone.

At that point, the Suits hadn’t known where we were, so if we went back to that point in time, we’d be safe, at least for the time being. 

The train jolted and we started moving again. “Next stop, 50th Street,” announced a garbled voice over the loudspeaker. 

Time was up. We really had to do something.

Thankfully, Bones was way ahead of me. He already had his hand stretched out in front of us, ready to take the selfie that would transport us back in time four hours.

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