A sheet of rain blew against the windows. The storm had come quickly, darkening the room. Carolyn Henson reached toward the back of her desk and pulled the twin chains dangling from the lamp.
She used a steel letter opener to cut the top of the manila envelope. She didn’t recognize the handwriting on the front of it. It must have been someone new, or maybe a temp; it was addressed to Carol.
Carolyn slipped the document from the pouch and slid it under the twin bulbs. She put the stems of her glasses over ears covered with long, white hair.
The memo was dated August 3, 2015. She was pleased to see that her name had been spelled correctly. She pulled it away and began to review the attachment stapled to the front page.
The hinges on her office door squeaked. She peered over the top of her frames to see Roger Reynolds. He stood there, arms folded and mouth grinning.
“I knew you’d come back,” he said.
She looked at the list again. “I never left.”
Roger took a step inside, plunging his hands into the pockets of his slacks. “Not according to that cake.”
“Pastries,” she said, “have been known to prevaricate.”
He took another step. “Doing any interesting reading?”
She kept her focus on the document, flipping to the next page. “All words that someone has taken the time to write should be regarded as interesting.” She turned up to Roger again. “Even when they aren’t.”
“Lists aren’t usually very interesting.”
She went back to the names. “How do you know this is a list?”
“Because I sent it to you.”
She checked the cover memo again. Her mouth curled in confirmation. “I like to know the names of the young men and women I’ll be enlightening.”
Roger’s face danced in the dusky glow of the office. “So you’re back?”
She tilted her head. “I told you. I never left.”
He pulled his hands from his pockets and extended them. “Welcome not back, then.”
She pushed away from the desk. “I’m only seventy-seven. I still have something more to give.”
Roger pressed his hands flat against each other, rolling his fingers together. “And we’ve got more to take.”
She dropped her elbows onto the top of the desk. “Do you swear you’ll let me know if I’m slipping?”
He shook his head. “Carolyn, you are not slipping.”
“I didn’t ask you if I am slipping. I asked you to promise that you’ll tell me if I do.”
Roger squeezed his palms and nodded. “You have my word.” He then turned to go.
After two steps, he stopped and pivoted back to her. “Your research has something to do with this, right?”
“It’s difficult to do it on my own.”
“As fascinating as the subject is, I can’t imagine you’ll find the answer you’re looking for.”
“I thought you were happy I’m staying.”
He raised his hands. “I am. I’m just being pragmatic.”
“So am I,” she said.
“What’s the goal?”
“Roger, I’m not trying to build a time machine.”
He shook his head. “What a phenomenon. Spontaneous Chronometric Transference.”
“Yes,” she said, “that’s what I call it.”
“Of no known cause.”
She returned her attention to the list of names. “That doesn’t mean it hasn’t happened.”
“I do not doubt your findings. You’ve ruled out many things. Hallucinations, mental illness, lupus—”
“In fifty years, I have ruled out everything except what it is. And it is time travel. Of no known cause.”
He smirked. “Sort of like spontaneous internal combustion.”
She turned her chair away from him and looked at the rain, still pelting the glass. “I did not come back here to be mocked.”
“I thought you said you never left.”
She spun back around to him. “I still can.”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I thought you liked our repartee.”
“There’s a fine line between repartee and ridicule.”
He stepped toward the desk again. “Carolyn, I just don’t want you to be disappointed. To believe your efforts have been fruitless.”
“I won’t be disappointed. I’ve determined that it happens.”
“So if you’re not trying to solve it, why keep researching?”
She removed her glasses. “I have helped many people acclimate to the most dramatic shift imaginable in one’s existence.”
“Well,” he said, “I’ll leave you to it, then.”
She checked her watch. “And I’ll wish for the last five minutes of my life back.”
“See?” he said, wagging an index finger. “Repartee.”
“No,” Carolyn said, “that was ridicule.”