Ad Nauseam

Prologue

It goes like this. Every day he wakes up at a quarter to eight, just as the light from the window creeps to his face. He jumps out of bed, throws on some clothes, and hurries out the door.

It goes like this. Every day at 3 he cuts across the park right as the clock tower chimes. He leaps up onto a bench and attempts to jump across to the next one. He never quite makes it, instead splashing down in the puddle between them. Maybe next time.

It goes like this. Every day he climbs the fire escape ladder back into his apartment. He is mindful of the copy of Dracula propping up the window. The main door, he knows, will be blocked by a couch until 1:35 pm. The fly will find its way into the coffee pot in 5 minutes.

It goes like this. Every day at 11, there is a great deal of commotion across the street. He knows the chain reaction that will lead to the mayor covered in glitter, his cat stuck in a tree, and the honoree of the ceremony without pants. He has learned to ignore the commotion.

It goes like this. Every day at a quarter past three he walks away with a bucket of quarters from in front of the candy store, having just impressed the store operator by “guessing” the exact amount within. He is confident. He has the script down to a science, although that is true of many parts of today.

It goes like this. Every morning he walks briskly to his shop. He has only an hour before his only customer of the day will arrive. He quickly sorts through his key-ring, vowing someday to pare down on the number of keys he has. Or maybe just mark the one for the shop. It’s a distant hypothetical, but a nice thought regardless.
It goes like this. Every day. 
And then…

Every night, right as the sun begins to sink and the still slightly-cloudy sky is dappled with gold, he quickens his pace. A borrowed bucket swings in one hand. In the other hand is an alarm clock. More on that later.

By now, the arcade should be empty of other guests, which helps him considerably. That means one less script to recite.

The blinking sign rolls into view, and his heart skips a beat.

It's go time.

He enters, briefly greets the owner, and makes a bee-line across the arcade.

The pinball machine sits against a windowless wall on the far side of the room. The wallpaper is peeling, decorated in faded fliers and suspicious stains, and the neon strip light above is dim and flickering. But the machine itself is illuminated in spite of its surroundings, or perhaps because of the contrast. It is simply resplendent.

He sets down the bucket of quarters and inserts one into the slot, and the Chrono Warp 9000 comes alive. Its idle, expectant hum breaks into a chorus. His hands find their place upon the buttons and he releases the first ball. The chorus turns into something between symphony and cacophony. A rhythm forms from the chimes of the machine, the click of the flippers, the clatter of the ball rolling across the field like thunder.

When he first started this hobby he might have gone through half of the bucket of quarters by the night’s end, but lately he finds he uses fewer and fewer as the rhythm of the game becomes almost as second nature as his daily routine. Not quite, though. Certainly not as mundane. Something about this lights up his neurons like the blinking lights of the pinball machine itself. Something about the unpredictable element in tandem with the music it creates. A challenge, the immediate goal being survival, but the purpose being to do so with style.

The alarm clock rings at 9:10 pm. This signals that it is time to leave, or else he will bump into trouble on his way back home. The mayor is only slightly less bedazzled than earlier and still quite annoyed, especially after having to spend several hours trying to coax his poor, stubborn cat down from a tree. He is having a debate with his assistant, and asks him to settle it for them. This takes almost 45 minutes. Hence why he is especially mindful to leave on time. 

His feet find their way home almost without his input. By now, the front door is unblocked. He never bothers to lock it in the morning. Now, he slips back inside and lays his head down to dream. Well... Not dream. Not quite. He hasn't dreamed for a while.

It's not supposed to go like this.

Every day has been the same pattern.

Nothing has changed in the countless times he has done this. Nothing! Nothing has deviated from its expected course of events.

And yet there is someone sitting on the bench.

Cleo arrives at the sleepy town’s bus station on an unremarkable Monday evening. The town is quaint, she thinks, but not enough to linger upon it, nor within it. As nice of an escape from the ceaseless city that it is, she can’t stay long.

Instead she turns her attention to locating her lodging for the next two nights. A small hike across town later, she arrives at an elegant Tudor-style house. A sign painted deep blue and lettered in gold boasts the name “Good Knight’s Inn.” The owner, a man named Wels with sharp blue eyes and long brown hair pulled back in a ponytail, is nice enough, and sets her up with a room upstairs.

As she settles in to sleep, a distant roll of thunder rattles the window panes. She doesn’t take much note of it, beyond being grateful that the alarm clock in this room is one of those older wind-up types. She just hopes the storm won’t wake her.

The next day, Tuesday, is largely uneventful. Business as usual, really, even this far away from work. She attends her meetings with one Mr. Void, whose shop is being acquired by the company she represents. She goes over all the legal nonsense with him in terms that definitely go over his head. They’re designed to be confusing, in fact, and she’s glad he doesn’t ask any questions that would force her to explain how disadvantageous this deal is for him. She’s done this song and dance exactly as it was choreographed countless times, and gets paid all the same.

After all that nonsense is finished, she visits one of the town’s few restaurants for dinner. There is nothing to note beyond a near-encounter with a rude local, who bumps into her and acts like it’s her fault for not seeing him. She lets him know exactly what she thinks of his poor manners, his spiky blue hair and his tacky hoodie, then begins the trek back to her lodging.

There’s a nice sunset, now that the clouds from earlier in the day have parted. She doesn’t think much about her return to the city tomorrow, and to work the following day. If only for this evening, she can escape her obligations.

Cleo eases down the stairs into the foyer of the bed and breakfast. Wels greets her with a smile. 

"Good morning! Everything to your liking so far?" 

"Ah yeah, it's all fine. What time is check-out?" 

He shoots her an odd look. "It's whenever you'd like. I'm surprised, I thought you were supposed to be in town for longer?" 

"Well, I've gotten done what I need to do,” she says. “Got to get back to work." 

"Fair enough. I'll be around until about 2 this afternoon, just come find me whenever you're ready to check out. In the meantime, breakfast is ready!" 

"Excellent. Is there coffee today, perchance?" 

He shakes his head. "Unfortunately, the coffee maker is broken.  We should have some hot water for tea if you like." 

"It's still broken? That's a shame." 

There's another odd look.

"It only just broke this morning," he says hesitantly. 

"Did it? I thought it was broken yesterday too?" 

"...no, it was fine yesterday." 

Huh. 

"Sorry,” says Cleo, “I'm just having the oddest sense of deja-vous today." 

"No worries. So, tea?" 

"Erm, sure." 

Cleo eats quickly and goes back upstairs to pack the few things she brought. That odd feeling doesn’t quite go away, but she tries her best to ignore it. She lugs her suitcase and briefcase downstairs, checks out of the B&B, and makes her way to the bus station. 

Unfortunately, her troubled day seems only to have just begun.

"Sorry, miss,” says the bus station attendant, “but that bus won't be coming until later today. A downed tree is blocking the main highway, and they're having a hell of a time getting it cleared up." 

"Downed tree?" 

"Yep. That storm last night sure did cause a ruckus." 

She hesitates a moment before asking, "Do you mean the one from two nights ago?" 

"Nope, last night. I'm surprised you didn't notice it." 

The only thing she had noticed was that there are still puddles across the ground, which she would have thought would have cleared up by now. It looked last night like the clouds were all but dissipated.

Her pager beeps.

“What now?” She sighs and glares at the display.

Hm.

It’s Mr. Void, wondering if their meeting is still on for today.

That has to be some kind of mistake. He signed on all the appropriate dotted lines yesterday, and she had told him in no uncertain terms that this was all she had needed from him, and that she would be leaving town early this morning. Either he somehow is more oblivious than she had realized, or…

No. That’s absolutely absurd.

She doesn’t have time to deal with this. Or, well, technically she does, seeing as how her bus is delayed by at least several hours. Patience is a better resource to describe what she lacks. She storms off to find a better place to wait.

Come three o’clock, her bus still has not arrived. The station attendant gives her no clear answer when to expect it, which is equally frustrating.

She finds herself in a small park across from the station. Small is generous. It’s really just a patch of grass divided by sidewalk, with a miniature clock tower as a center-piece. Benches surround the clock tower, and she perches upon the driest one among them. There’s a sizable puddle between it and the one next to it.

It’s a peaceful place, among the already quiet hustle and bustle of the small town. She idly observes as a car passes. It takes her a moment to register that there is something out of place. Slowly, she turns her head to her right.

There is someone staring at her.

They seem to be frozen in place. She might have believed them to be a statue were it not for the still-rippling puddle at their feet. They stare at her from behind a wonky pair of cat-eye glasses.

“Can I help you?” she asks.

The person does not respond, instead abruptly turning and running in the opposite direction.

“Weird…”

Well, every town has its quirks. She does her best to shake off the encounter.

It becomes apparent that her bus is not coming today. A few hours later, she is tired of waiting and honestly starving, so Cleo finds herself wandering into an establishment called Beef’s Vintage Diner.

It’s cozy, if a little dated. Faint rock n’ roll crackles over some out-of-sight speaker, and the decor is mostly posters of old musicians and athletes. The man behind the counter- a big, bearded fellow with an apron that is, ah, well-loved- gives her a friendly wave as she pushes past the door.

“Welcome in!” he says. “Take a seat anywhere you like.”

She waves back half-heartedly and collapses into a booth, shoving her luggage in the opposing booth first. Her face meets laminate, slightly sticky but at this moment as perfect a pillow as she could ask for.

The aproned man, presumably called Beef, comes around to her table and slides a menu in front of her.

“What can I get-”

“Coffee, for the love of god.” She doesn’t even lift her head from the table.

He blinks, then chuckles. “Roger that.”

Cleo does not raise her head until a mug clinks down on the table. She props her head up with one arm and raises the mug to her face with the other. The aroma is like smelling salts, bringing her back to consciousness. At the same time, all the caffeine in the world couldn’t make her feel alive again right now. She is somewhere between the world of the living and the dead. A proper zombie, honestly.

“Rough days are going around, it seems,” says a voice to her right, interrupting her dramatic inner monologue. With as little movement as possible, she turns to look and sees one of the three patrons at the bar giving her a sympathetic smile. He sits in the middle of the group, and is turned halfway around in his seat to be able to see her. The other two are hunched over their plates, evidently drowning their sorrows in pie and waffles.

“You can say that again,” is all she can manage.

“From out of town?” he asks, gesturing towards her luggage.

“Yeah, and I’d like to return to being out of town as soon as possible. The bus I was supposed to take back home never arrived.”

The guy shakes his head. “That’s tough stuff,” he says. “On the bright side, you didn’t lose your pants.”

“Pardon?”

The person to his right lets out what could only be described as a cry of complete and utter despair. “Please, do not remind me!”

“Keralis here got pantsed in front of a live audience today,” the first guy stage-whispers.

“At least it wasn’t one of your ‘commando’ days, Keralis,” says Beef.

“Geez, I didn’t need that mental image,” groans the fellow sitting on the left. He still doesn’t turn around, but something about him strikes Cleo as familiar.

The others laugh, and Cleo finds a faint smile creeping on.

“I’m xB by the way,” says the guy in the middle.

“Charmed,” Cleo says, before looking down at the menu. Everything looks greasy but it’s been such a day that she can’t bring herself to mind. “I’ll have a burger, Beef.”

“Coming right up!”

The griddle sizzles to life. Cleo takes another sip of her coffee.

“You said your bus never came, right?” xB goes on. When Cleo nods, xB elbows the fellow to his left. “Maybe that’s why you got stood up, X?”

“X” and “xB”- not confusing at all, Cleo thinks.

“I suppose it’s possible,” says the one called X, still facing down intently at his plate. “She could have at least called ahead. I paged her and everything.”

Hm…

“Xisuma was supposed to have a meeting today, but the hot-shot, big-city lawyer who was supposed to come never did.”

The man in question finally turns his face towards her and waves once in greeting, then turns back to his food. Very suddenly, Cleo realizes why the man is familiar. Xisuma. Xisuma Void. The reason she came to town in the first place.

“Curse you, Cleo Morrigan, wherever you are,” grumbles Xisuma without any real conviction. The man sounds more like a personified soggy paper bag than anything with bite. He gives no indication that he even realizes that the person whose name he had just cursed sits not but ten feet away.

Cleo likes to think of herself as a logical, straightforward person. Everything has its place in the world, and there is a natural progression to everything, most of all forces such as gravity and, say for example, time. Therefore, the thought that wants to pop into her head, which defies all logic, must be dismissed. And yet…

“Didn’t catch your name, by the way,” xB goes on as if the world wasn’t just dropped upon its head.

“Erm, I’m C- Angela,” she lies. “I’m called Angela.”

There is some more small talk and familiar chatter which she doesn’t pay much attention to, especially once her food arrives. It takes a few before she realizes her name, or rather her pseudonym, is being called.

“You said you were supposed to leave today,” xB says. “Do you have somewhere to stay tonight?”

“Oh my-” She pinches the bridge of her nose. “I completely forgot about that. I checked out of my lodging this morning.”

Keralis gasps. “That is just terrible!”

“I mean, I suppose I could just try to get back in with-”

“I have a better idea,” Keralis says. “You had a bad day. I had a bad day. I entirely sympathize. One of us should end today on a good note. Come stay at my hotel, free of charge.”

“Oh, I couldn’t, really.”

“You ought to take him up on it,” Beef says. “It’s a real luxury place, not even just by our humble town’s standards.”

xB and Xisuma nod in agreement. Keralis is pouting, his eyes almost too big for his face.

Cleo sighs. “Oh, twist my arm. Thank you, Keralis, that’s very sweet.”

Keralis's face lights up.

“Of course! We will take good care of you, Angel Face.”

The hotel, which seems almost out of place for a town this size, genuinely is very nice. When she gets to her room, it’s clear why the guys at the diner were so insistent that she take Keralis’ offer. Luxury is an understatement. It wouldn’t surprise her if the chandelier over the canopy bed sparkled with real diamonds.

For tonight, she decides, she is too tired to make sense of whatever nonsense is afoot. Honestly, it’s probably something very rational that, with a full night’s sleep and a fresh start in the morning, will simply make sense. Surely, it will.

She does her best to put off caring about it, and sinks into the pillowtop mattress. Sleep envelops her almost as soon as her eyes are fully closed.

Morning comes just as quickly, and she rolls over as the alarm clock chimes, pulling the pillow over her head. It strikes her that the mattress feels a little firmer than it did last night, and the sheets aren’t quite as soft.

When she opens her eyes and sits up, it takes her a moment to process where she is.

She’s back at the Good Knight’s Inn.

“What the–?!”

“Wels, I need to ask you a very strange question.”

“Uh, shoot I guess?”

“What day is it?”

“Tuesday? The eighth?”

Before she can stop herself, the second question escapes her.

“Did the coffee maker break this morning?”

The surprise on his face tells her everything she needs to know. “How did you know?”

She doesn’t answer with words but with a groan of dismay that echoes from what feels like the depth of her soul.

“Are you okay?”

All she can do is shake her head.

“Is there anything I can do? I’m sorry I can’t offer you coffee this morning, but-”

“Wels, you’re fine. It’s fine. I don’t know how to explain what I’m dealing with without sounding absolutely mad. I am having a very strange day. Time. Whatever.”

She sighs. “I’m going for a walk.”

“Good luck,” is all he knows to say.

When her pager beeps again like it did yesterday, she ignores it. There is no point in attending a meeting she’s already been to.

Instead, Cleo wanders the town at a pace that hopefully projects a purpose without revealing her anxiety.

It's not likely that the answer will be spelled out on some billboard, although she can hope. Really, any clue she can find would be welcome, but she doesn't quite know what she is looking for.

She rounds a corner and smacks shoulders with, as it turns out, the same punk with blue hair as she encountered on her first… today in town.

“Hey, watch it, lady!” he exclaims.

“You watch it,” she snaps. He sticks his tongue out at her. There are a number of ways she would like to respond, but as weird as today is, she decides the last thing she needs is a fight. She takes the mature route and stomps away.

Her watch reads almost three o’clock when she finally slows down her furious pacing around town. She stops to rest beneath a great oak tree which hangs over a pointed Gothic fence. The property looks to have been some kind of chapel or funeral servicer, but now there is a fading “for sale” sign haphazardly secured to the gate.

It’s a nice view, but she isn’t afforded the chance to daydream. An unfortunately familiar sense of unease creeps back in, like she’s being watched. She rubs the back of her neck and sweeps her gaze across her surroundings.

There they are again. 

They’re hard to miss, even from a distance. That same guy, with the faded, neon-green dye-job and cat-eye glasses. They are just across the street, watching her with an expression somewhere between curiosity and abject horror. Not an entirely bad reaction to garner in any other scenario, but the fact remains that they are here, at the same time but now in a different spot from yesterday. Or rather today. Last time? Bloody hell. 

Either way, she feels a pit form in her stomach, like something dreadful might happen if she talked to them. Then again, something dreadful is already happening to her, and at this point what could really go worse than having to relive the same day four times in a row? 

"Hey-" she calls to them, but as soon as she even moves to acknowledge them they have already dashed out of sight. 

She doesn’t know who this person is, but she can’t escape the feeling that they know something. It’s worth looking into, at least.

At the diner that night, she finds a way to casually ask, "By any chance, do you know someone in town with green hair?" 

"Oh, do you mean Joe?" 

"Probably. Are there more than one person matching that description?" 

"Nope," says Beef. "Not unless Bdubs convinced someone else to take him up on his experimental services. Why do you ask?" 

"I just keep seeing them around, haven't gotten a chance to meet them. What are they like?" 

"Oh, Joe is a pretty normal guy,” says xB. “Been around town for as long as I can remember. He runs the flower shop down on main street, although it was closed today when I went past.” 

“I noticed that, too,” remarks Xisuma. “Odd, he's usually there like clockwork." 

Cleo hums in thought. "Alright. Thank you for your assistance." 

It looks like Cleo, assuming this thing persists again, will have to make a stop by Joe's place tomorrow. Today. Urgh...

Joe's eyes blink against the usual daylight. It’s just like any other morning… or.

It should be. But he can’t trust that anymore.

Nothing had changed in the past, oh, several hundred times he’d done this. The same faces in the same places, day in and day out. It’s been a reliable routine. It’s been comfortable. And now that has all at once been thrown out the window.

Who is she? Something tells him he does not want to find out.

He weighs his options as he slips into his shoes. The worst thing he could do, at least for his own peace of mind, is hide in his house all day and hope and pray this all goes away. Joe is a hands-on kind of guy, after all. Sitting around idly won’t do much beyond make him stir crazy.

He decides to go through with his routine, at least this first part. After he fills today’s order at the shop, he might scope around and maybe find a good, out-of-the-way spot to observe from. Maybe he can talk to some of the folks around town later in the day and see if they have encountered this mystery woman.

The mystery woman... Both times he’s seen her so far, she hasn’t seemed too keen to chase after him, at least. She hasn’t intersected with most of his usual routes, but the fact that she was in two different locations both times means she likely is acting free of the loop.

Another person in the loop. On one hand, there is no evidence so far of malicious intent. Still, the thought fills him with dread.

This kind of dread hasn’t hit him in a long time. It would be a nice change of pace if it wasn’t for the proverbial other shoe that he can’t help feeling is about to drop on top of his head. Dread. Urgh. He does his best to brush away the feeling. Surely everything will be fine…. Right?

He reaches the shop, and sorts through his key ring until he finds the right one. His hands shake in spite of his best efforts, and it takes longer than normal to locate the right one and open the door.

The shop is dark, but he knows from practiced experience to step over the stool that lays fallen over by the counter. He makes his way to the other side of the room and flicks the light switch, bringing the dull fluorescent bulbs overhead to life. He picks up the stool, flips the sign to “Open,” and goes to the back room to prepare the arrangement.

For a little while, he loses himself in this routine. This part of the day is one of several which have become muscle memory, but this ritual in particular is one which he tries his best to pay extra careful attention to. It’s enough to distract him from the problem at hand, and for that it’s a distraction he’s grateful for. He selects the best and brightest of the flowers he has in stock, and pulls a translucent glass vase from the shelf.

There is an order to this, always.

A sense of duty, even.

Water goes into the vase, and then he trims the stems of the flowers. First of the flowers are the blue hydrangeas, since they take up the most space. After that are the yellow roses, which have been painstakingly relieved of their thorns just a few minutes prior. Then the pink tulips. He fills what little empty space there is with baby’s breath and carefully fluffs the arrangement, making sure that there is not a bud or bloom out of place.

He’s nearly complete with all this when the bell to the front rings.

Wait.

The bell on the front door shouldn’t have just rang.

There is that feeling of dread again. Joe carefully drops the flowers and creeps along until he can peek out at the front of the shop.

It’s her.

He ducks behind the wall just a little too late. They make eye contact, and she brazenly strides around the counter after him.

“Excuse me-”

“We’re closed!” he blurts out.

“Sign says ‘open.’”

“Erm. It’s broken.”

“Right. You want to tell me what’s going on here?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. But I’m in the middle of something extremely important and-”

“Cut the crap. I don’t know what you know or if you know what exactly this is, but you clearly know something and I have a right to know. So tell me-”

“Now you listen here,” Joe fires back. “It’s incredibly rude and downright unpleasant of you to waltz into my place of business and make demands of me, much less accuse me of… er whatever it is you’re accusing me of! I won’t have it, on the principle of making my place of business a place where I don’t have to accept being accosted, or accused, or whatever it is you’re doing here. I’m going to have to ask that you leave this instant.”

She folds her arms in front of her and pointedly does not move.

“Are we or are we not in a time loop?”

Joe deflates, and relents a nod.

“What was your first clue?”

“Well I woke up two days ago- erm, that is, I think technically today?" She groans, then goes on. "Point is, I’ve been waking up in the same place at the same time for the past three times I have woken up, and everything is the same each morning that I do. I can’t get out of town, I don’t know why I’m stuck here, and the only thing in this forsaken place that changes or seems to notice anything odd at all is you!” 

He considers his words before he speaks again. “There’s something even stranger afoot, if you’d believe it.”

“What? Just being in a time loop isn’t weird enough?”

“Well, it’s just that I’ve never seen you until the last three loops.”

Her face blanches as the words sink in.

“What do you mean ‘last three?’" she asks slowly. "Is this not new for you?”

“Well. No. Let’s just say this isn’t my first rodeo.”

“What? How long have you been here? How did you get in here? How do we-?”

“Listen, um. Well, I feel like I should ask, what’s your name?”

She eyes him suspiciously. “...Cleo.”

“Right. Um. Cleo, I’d love to explain everything, and I will. But I have to do something first, and I’m still trying to process the fact that you’re here, so would you mind waiting just a spell? I promise I won’t run out on you. But my only customer today will be here in about 20 minutes and I’d like to have this arrangement ready for him when he gets here.”

“Erm… fine. That’s fine. But!” she points an accusatory finger at him. “You’d better explain everything you know once you’re through with that.”

“I will.” He crosses an X over his heart with his finger. “Cross my heart.”

She pokes her head around the corner, as if to verify there were no secret doors he could escape from, then pulls out the stool and sits, tapping an anxious finger against the counter while he gets back to work.

There is a suffocating silence. Joe isn’t much on small talk, but he feels he should say something to break the chilly atmosphere even a little.

“You seem to already know a bit about me, but I realize I haven’t officially introduced myself. I’m Joe Hills. From Nashville, Tennessee.”

“Charmed.”

Joe tries to slow his breathing, but his hands still shake while he works on the arrangement. Still, he puts the finishing touches in place just in time to hear the bell ring once more, this time right at the expected time.

Joe’s apartment is small and cluttered, but still quite homely.

“Can I get you anything?” he asks. “Cup of coffee? I’ve still got some in the pot.”

“When is this from?”

“Oh, just yesterday. It’s surprisingly still good.”

“Yesterday as in…?”

“The day before the time loop started, obviously.”

Cleo resists the urge to throw something at him, turning her gaze instead to the coffee machine. It’s true that she has missed it this morning, or rather the past few repeats of “this” morning, but something about the idea of this particular brew having sat there for an infinite number of days prior to this makes her stomach turn sour.

“Make up your mind quick, you’ve got about three minutes before the fly lands in it.”

“...Yeah, I’ll pass.”

“Well, then, make yourself at home. Oh, here-” He jumps up and picks up a laundry basket off the couch and pats the cushion, then moves the basket to the next room.   

“Sorry about that. I’ve been meaning to fold those. Laundry is just another one of those endless cycles, you know? Seems like when I finally manage to fold it all and put it away, I have to do it all again the next day.”

In spite of herself, Cleo cracks a smile. “Witty, I see what you did there.”

“I’m being a hundred percent serious!” Joe persists, clearly encouraged to continue the bit. “Like, I don’t know how I can generate this much laundry when I swear I only wear, like, one outfit a day.”

“Alright, alright, I get it. Let’s cut right to why we’re here.”

“All business, huh?”

“I mean, it’s kind of my job? I don’t get paid for chit-chat.”

“So you’re getting paid to do what, exactly? Threaten good, upstanding folks in their place of business?”

“No, I- well actually, that’s surprisingly-” She cuts herself off and sighs. “Look, all I want from you is to tell me exactly what’s going on.”

“Oh. Well, you’re in a time loop.”

“Joe, I am going to break your bones.”

Joe squeaks. “You don’t have to do that.”

“Not if you give me a real answer, you’re right.”

He opens his mouth to shoot back a witty retort, but then evidently thinks against that. When he starts talking again, it's earnest.

“Well, truth be told, I’m not sure how I got myself into this mess. All I know is one day I realized that I’d been seeing the same things happen for the past week or so, and then-”

“It took you a week to notice something was off?”

“Okay, I know how that sounds, but you have to realize that this is a very small town with a lot of charming quirks. I just chalked it up to bein’ some inside joke I was missing out on. Besides, my focus was solely elsewhere at the time.”

“Right, well-”

“It was my ‘house of cards’ phase," he presses on, "as you can probably see by my kitchen table. Technically, it was a castle of cards, but that’s-”

“Irrelevant?” she says dryly.

“I was going to say semantics , but sure. Anyways, I spent every night that week trying to build a perfect model of Castle Hohenzollern out of cards. Every night, I got it almost right, and would vow to finish it the next night. But then, when the next morning rolled around, the cards had collapsed into the state they’re in now. I finally noticed something was up the third day in a row that I noticed the ten of spades laying face-up in front of my door." 

He walks over and points to the offending card, laying exactly where he said. "You know what they say about once being happenstance, twice a coincidence, and three times making a pattern.”

“Alright. Sure. So what then? Do you know how to get out of this?”

“Well, hang on. I haven’t gotten there yet. After I figured out that I was in fact living the same day over and over again, I knew I needed to sort out the rules of this continuum. That’s when my next phase came in: Greek mythology.”

“Joe,” Cleo says, her tone dripping with impatience, “as excited as I am that we have a common interest, I’m really not interested in sitting through an academic lecture right now. I need you to answer me straight: how long have you been here?”

He hesitates.

“Honestly… I’ve lost track. There’s not exactly a way to tally it up on the wall, seeing as how the only thing that sticks around from one loop to the next is memory.”

“Best guess?”

“Couple years? Maybe like… five? Seven?”

“ Seven years? ” she asks, mouth agape.

“I mean, it could very well be longer or shorter than that," he says. "It’s incredibly difficult to keep track of time in here. You’ll see what I mean in a bit.”

“That’s the thing, Joe. I don’t want to see! I don’t want to stick around here long enough to lose sense of time. I’m already sick of this!”

“Give it time. It really does become a very comforting routine.”

“I’m serious!”

“So am I," he responds, any joviality from earlier suddenly drained from his voice. "Trust me, if there was a way out, don’t you think I would have found it by now? There really isn’t a point. I’m sorry you’re stuck in this now, truly, but this is life now. Might as well make the best of it.”

“You’re… you’re seriously just telling me to give up?”

Joe shrugs.

Cleo fumes.

“Tell me,” she says, her voice suddenly dark. “Can you die in this time loop?”

“Well… yeah. Happened to me once, but I woke up the next morning at a quarter to eight like I always do. Not a scratch from it. So if you’re threatening me-”

“Oh, I’m not threatening you. I’m making a promise.”

She walks over to him menacingly until she looms over him, grabbing the nearest object to her, a ship in a bottle from the coffee table, and brandishing it like a weapon.

“So help me, Joe Hills, if you don’t help me find a way out of this, I will spend every day for the rest of eternity hunting you down. I will find you, and each day I will kill you. You want to talk about Greek mythology? Prometheus, meet eagle. And just like the eagle, I know where you live. I now know you will be here every morning, and that you wake up about two hours after I do. So good luck running, but it will prove to be entirely futile because you never had a chance in the first place. Do you understand me, Joe?”

He nods meekly.

“That’s what I thought. Now, with minimal embellishment this time, tell me everything you know about this time loop nonsense and how it works.”

“The first rule of the time loop is that we don’t talk about the time loop.”

Cleo rolls her eyes. “Ha ha.”

“I’m serious! I’ve tried over and over to explain this predicament to just about everyone in town. If they even believe me, which is few of them to begin with, they spend more time askin’ questions about how it works than they do with actually helping with the problem at hand.”

“Wouldn’t they need to ask questions to help you get out of this?”

“Oh, well lately the problem at hand hasn’t been escaping the loop. It’s normally something along the lines of- well, it doesn’t matter. I hear what you’re asking, but trust me, it’s a waste of time.”

“Alright, I’ll buy that. What’s the second rule, then?”

“Oh there’s not really an ordered list, beyond that. I just wanted to make that joke.”

“Joe-”

“Right. Let’s see.” He puts his hand to his chin and hums. “The best way to explain this is to just show you. Follow me!”

Begrudgingly, Cleo follows as he ducks out the window and down the ladder.

“Remind me why we’re leaving via the fire escape and not through the door like normal people?”

“Oh yeah, I never did elaborate on that did I? There’s a couch in front of my door.”

“Come again?”

“So there’s these folks moving in upstairs- you’ll notice the U-haul outside when we pass around the front again- and they’re having some trouble getting their couch around the corner, which, inconveniently, is where my door is situated. It’s unblocked a little while later when they finally decide to take the King Solomon approach.”

She stares at him blankly.

“You know, they saw it in half? Nevermind.”

—

“And three, two, one-”

AWOOGA! An old-fashioned car barrels past them, the driver laying on the equally old-fashioned horn as it does.

There is a muffled scream from inside the barber shop, and moments later a man dashes out clutching his ear.

“I guess we know what the red stripe stands for,” she says grimly, pointing to the ever-pirouetting barber pole.

A blonde woman runs after him, waving a pair of sunglasses. “Wait up!”

The third out the door is another man, who stops just beyond the stoop of the shop. He has clearly decided against chasing after the two, who make impressive speed away.

“Come back, Ren! I-I’ll make it even for you if you want, free of charge! Oh-” He notices Cleo and Joe standing there. “Hello! Everything is perfectly fine here. No need to pay them any mind. Customers always leave Snips perfectly satisfied.”

“Oh, of course, Bdubs,” says Joe, clearly schmoozing. “That’s why I came. I’m in need of a good haircut.”

Bdubs’ already wide grin grows even wider. “Wonderful! Step right inside.”

–

“So what was the point of that, exactly?” asks Cleo as soon as they are out of earshot of the barber. “Besides wasting our time?”

“To demonstrate that changes to the physical body don’t persist from one loop to the next. Which reminds me, can I see your watch?”

She eyes him suspiciously, but holds out her wrist. For him to examine, anyways. She doesn’t expect for him to slip it off entirely.

“Be careful-” she starts, but the word has barefly formed on her tongue before he unceremoniously drops the watch down the storm drain.

“What the hell! That was my Grans’ watch!”

“And that brings me to my next point: objects and environments return to their previous states at the beginning of each loop. You’ll get it back in the morning, not a scratch on it.”

“You could have just told me that, you know!”

“I’m a big fan of ‘show’ over ‘tell,’ Cleo. It makes for a better story.”

“So do spontaneous acts of violence,” she growls. “I can create some drama for us right now if you like!”

He flinches and holds his hands out in front of him.

“That definitely won’t be necessary.”

“Then act like it. Honestly, you're being quite rude.”

He frowns, and sighs.

“You’re right. I’m sorry. It’s been a while since I’ve done this whole ‘interaction’ thing. I’m a bit rusty, it seems.”

“You don't seem to be that much of a hermit " she says without a scoff. "Everyone I've met speaks fairly well of you."

“Well, maybe. But even so, they’re just snapshots of themselves right now, you know? Next rule of time loops, which I think you already know, but we’re the only people who remember the previous loops. Everyone else is kind of stuck. Our conversations read more like scripts than anything truly spontaneous. And it certainly doesn’t hold much for lasting consequences.”

As much as Cleo would like to stay angry (and given most other circumstances, she would absolutely hold on to her justified indignation), she finds something truly pitiable in this Joe Hills.

“Alright, then. It’s clear this whole… thing, is an adjustment for us both. If we’re going to get out of this, we ought to not be at one another’s throats.” She extends a hand. “Team?”

Something shifts ever so slightly, even before he shakes her hand. It’s nothing tangible like posture or countenance, or even directly reflected in either of them. It’s something in the atmosphere, perhaps in the power lines overhead or the way the sun just barely begins to break through a gap in the still-overcast sky.

“Team,” he says, and he really means it.

—

“Have you tried to leave town?” Cleo asks. They’re sitting in the park for their first official brainstorming session.

“Yeah, that was a while back. Didn’t really pan out.”

“You tried everything in your power?”

He winces at the memory. “I got deterred pretty quickly. Remember my one death I mentioned earlier? I achieved that one trying to skip town. It was a whole thing, with a pickup truck and some kind of rodent-” He pauses. “Actually, that still doesn’t quite make sense to me how that all went down. Either way, it was enough to put me off trying that for a good while.”

"Alright, I'll take your word for that."

After a great deal more brainstorming, they come to the conclusion that their best bet of seeing tomorrow is to kick the door down. That is to say, they will attempt to stay awake until the dawn of the next day.

“And this seems as good a place as any to stage a stake-out,” Joe says, patting the seat of the bench.

They have some time to kill, so Joe offers to show Cleo around town. She relents, and follows his lead as he takes perhaps the most roundabout route possible. He does share some trivia about the town and introduces her to some locals as they pass by, but the morning is largely uneventful.

At three, they make their way across the park, en route to Impulse’s shop. Joe explains to Cleo how he sustains his arcade routine.

“It’s the perfect scheme, really,” he says. “I ‘guess’ exactly how many quarters are in the bucket and hand over that exact amount in bills. I get my tokens for the evening, and he winds up with a wad of cash instead of a copious amount of change to take to the bank. Win-win!”

“Right,” she says. “And remind me why he just has a bucket of quarters handy?”

“He stocks all the vending machines in town. This is about the time every day he gets back to his main shop after his restock route.”

There is a lull.

“So how long have you lived here?” Cleo asks. “I mean, before all of this started.”

“Oh, I moved here right after college. So, about a decade and a half.”

“Do you like it pretty well, even after all this time?”

“Yeah,” he says. “It was definitely a big shock from Nashville, but it’s home now.” He hums. “Do you miss the city?”

“I miss my cats for sure,” Cleo says. “I’m not sure I miss the constant city noise. It’s a nice change of pace here, at the very least.”

They reach the park center, and Joe hops up onto a bench.

“Wanna bet I can get to that other bench in one leap?” he asks.

“There’s no way-” she starts, but before she can say anything he has already taken a running leap. He comes just short of the distance and tumbles onto the ground with a splash.

“Whomp whomp,” he says. “Welp, onwards! We have some quarters to obtain!”

—

The sunset lights their way as they approach the arcade. He’s gone this way countless times before, but Joe finds something oddly comforting about someone in stride with him this time.

He opens the door for Cleo, and follows her in.

“Howdy, Tango!”

“Oh, hey Joe,” says Tango. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen you.”

“Really? Feels like yesterday to me,” Joe replies. He smirks at Cleo, who does catch his joke and rewards it with a roll of her eyes.

Tango doesn’t catch the joke, and instead extends a hand to Cleo.

“Nice to see a new face around town. I’m Tango Tek.”

“Pleasure,” she says. “I’m Cleo.”

After some small talk, Joe and Cleo make their way to the back of the arcade, where the pinball machine awaits. Joe sets down the bucket of quarters and holds out his hand.

“Hand me that alarm clock, would you?”

“Um, sure? I thought this was for tonight?”

“Well, yes. It serves a two-fold purpose. Normally, it’s to tell me when to leave the arcade.”

“You don’t just stick around til Tango kicks you out?”

“See, I would, but then I’d run into Scar and Cub on the way out. I don’t mind them, they’re swell guys, but there’s only so many times you can listen to the same argument about Star Wars versus Star Trek before it gets old.”

“You know, that’s fair.”

Once the clock is wound and set aside, Joe inserts the first quarter of the night into the pinball machine.

It’s go time.

The first pinball is fired from the channel, he is zoned in. Cleo is entirely hypnotized as well, to be perfectly honest. Not just from the way that the lights flash and the ball ricochets around the playing field, but the way that Joe falls into sync with the game. It’s like he’s an extension of the machine.

“That’s impressive,” she says as soon as that round ends.

Joe sweeps his bangs from out of his eyes and grins. “Oh, I’ve had some time to practice.”

“Evidently. You look like you’re having fun.”

“This is the part of today that I look forward to the most,” he says, beaming. “It’s kind of what’s been keeping me going for the last little while.”

He slots the next quarter into the machine and starts again, and Cleo steps back to lean against the wall to watch.

There’s something about his enthusiasm that she finds to be contagious. For a moment, she forgets about everything else. In spite of herself, she smiles.

–

They decide to sleep in hour shifts starting at midnight.

Cleo takes the first shift. She paces back and forth for the hour, hoping in vain that the movement will ward off the heaviness in her eyes that is quickly setting in. By the time the alarm clock rings to wake Joe, she is ready to collapse.

Joe’s hour crawls by like molasses. He wonders when his time will be up, and picks up the alarm clock. As he examines it, the clock face seems to blur and distort. He rubs his eyes, but it doesn’t help.

Perhaps he’ll just rest his eyes and listen for it to ring. Surely it won’t be but a minute, right?

They wake up in the morning, not in the park but in their respective beds. It’s Tuesday once more.

“Alright, what went wrong?” Cleo says when they meet up once more.

“I think we must have forgotten to wind up the alarm clock the second time around.”

She groans. “Great. This is already going so well.”

“We’ll just chalk that one up to operator error. Let’s try again!”

And so it goes like this.

Every morning they meet up shortly after Joe closes up his shop for the day.

They don’t ever explain why they feel they need to stick together for most of the day. Joe never asks for the company, and Cleo never asks for a tour. But it becomes an unspoken part of the routine, one that already feels wrong to deviate from.

Every day they cut across the park in the afternoon. Joe promises that this time will be the time that he makes the jump between the benches. Cleo says “I told you so,” when he inevitably splashes down in the puddle instead.

Every evening they go to the arcade. Joe spends this portion of the night glued to Chrono Warp 9000. Cleo watches if he has a good game going, but otherwise wanders off to check out the other games, or to chat with Tango.

Every night, they try again to stave off sleep until dawn. Their strategies change, with everything from cold water buckets to highly-caffeinated beverages. The result does not change.

Every morning they meet shortly after Joe closes the shop. The stone returns to the bottom of the hill.

It seems they are stuck.

“I hate to be the one to say it,” says Joe, “but this endeavor feels utterly Sisyphean.”

Neither of them know what to say after this. Their feet fall into the now familiar pace as they walk up the sidewalk towards the apartment.

"Alright, I'll bite,” says Cleo. “What does all this have to do with Greek mythology?"

Joe immediately brightens, and pushes his glasses further up the bridge of his nose.

"Well see now, when I knew I was experiencing something odd and beyond normal reason, my first thought was that I had angered the gods and was therefore being punished according to my actions. I wasn't entirely sure what I had done, exactly, but for all I know I had committed some egregious act of hubris that I might have just forgotten about."

"Do you forget things like that often?"

"Oh I forget all kinds of things. Just this morning I forgot where I put my glasses. Spoiler alert, they were on my face. Whomp whomp."

She shakes her head. "You are… something else, Joe Hills. So, what did you learn from your research?"

"Well, I pored over all the information the local library had on mythology from a variety of sources, and finally I stumbled upon Sisyphus."

"That's the one who was cursed to roll the stone up the hill for all eternity, innit?"

"Exactly. See, Sisyphus is in a bit of an eternal, unrelenting cycle of getting nowhere, himself. In his story, it was largely his trickery which led to his downfall. Now I'm not shy of some tasteful joshing when the opportunity presents itself, but that wasn't what jumped out at me in this narrative. Sisyphus also twice cheated death."

"...and...?"

"This may surprise you, Cleo, so hold on to your seat. Do you know what they called me back in college?"

"I'm going to assume it wasn't 'Average Joe.'"

"Well, they did for a short while, but that's another story. No, I was known as... The Guy Who Conquered Death. TM."

There is a beat of silence.

"That should surprise me more, I think," Cleo says. "Yet somehow it doesn't."

"It's a great story, actually-"

"Let's save it for the next loop. So, what, you cheated death, and now fifteen or so odd years later you get caught in a time loop? That's quite the delay in punishment."

"Well, sure, but, I mean, we're stuck in a time loop. Normal, real-world logic is kind of out the window here. You have to admit it's plausible."

"Sure it is, Joe."

"I'm detecting sarcasm, Cleo."

"I would never, Joe. In any case, assuming that this theory is correct, what does that mean for me?"

"I'm assuming you're a part of the punishment, since I've gotten so good at getting by."

She laughs incredulously.

"Sorry, I'm punishing you??"

"You have threatened me with violence no less than three times already."

"Listen, those were entirely warranted. And you're being very self-centered right now,” she adds, poking him square in his chest. “You don't think I could have committed some affront to the gods as well? Am I incapable of having a narrative arc?"

"Hmm, that's fair. I'm sure you have your fair share of skeletons in your closet from carrying out the bidding of your evil corporate overlords. I assume. Still don't know exactly what it is that you do."

"I'm a lawyer for a large company. So, you know. Not far off the money."

"Hm. So, playing off this hypothetical here, you might be trapped here not necessarily as a means of punishment, but to protect the world from the terrible feats you will carry out in the name of your employer."

"You assume that I'm not entirely replaceable. See, if we're talking hypotheticals, I'd like to think that it is indeed recompense for all the wicked deals I've made. Now I must live among the common people, unable to progress and climb the corporate ladder for good."

Her face drops, and when she continues, her voice is slightly muted.

"...At the same time, it kind of feels moot as a punishment, anyways. I was already going in circles, even before I got here."

"Ooh, is it tragic backstory time?” Joe leans towards her in exaggerated intrigue. “Do tell."

"Alright, it's not that deep. I just mean that... well…” She sighs. “My life was a lot of the same old, same old, seven days a week. I worked long hours to get the results, and because I worked so hard and got the results, I was given even more to do.”

Her fingers trace the hem of her sleeve. She doesn’t look up as she continues. “Honestly, I felt trapped. I hated my job, but it was stable, you know? I made far too much money to complain about what I did. I just felt like there was no way out but up, and that doesn't seem likely now even if we do find a way out of here. The only relief I felt were trips like these that took me out of that bloody office."

Joe seems to consider before he speaks again.

"So is this not a paradise then?"

"What do you mean?"

"Think about it. You now have infinite time away from your job. For the next while, you can do whatever you want! I mean, within reason, of course. I still wouldn't recommend murder, and we can only do so much within each day, but there's nothing you technically have to do, you know?"

"I mean, that's true. So what would you recommend?"

"I can't tell you what to dream, Cleo. You have to decide that for yourself."

"...well, there is something I've been wanting to do for a while."

Bright and early the next morning, Joe shows Cleo across town to a very promising destination.

“‘Monstahz Ink,’ huh?”

“She’s very good from what I’ve seen,” says Joe. “Granted, I’ve not seen much. In fact, if it’s all the same to you, I’m not going to stick around here today.”

“That’s fine. I think this is something I’d like to do on my own.”

The interior of the shop is brightly-lit, with colorful photographs and illustrations covering every available surface of the walls. A short woman dressed primarily in pink waves excitedly as Cleo closes the door behind her.

“‘Ello, love! Are you here for a consult?”

“You could say that,” Cleo says. “I’m still trying to decide what I want.”

“I can help with that!” the woman replies. “I’m the sole artist ‘ere. Everything you see on these walls is my work. I can do anything you’d like! You can call me Stress.”

“You don’t seem like you’re stressed,” Cleo teases.

“I don’t seem like a lotta things,” Stress says with a conspiratorial wink. She shrugs off her hot pink jacket to reveal two impressive sleeve tattoos. On one arm is a sizable skull surrounded by flowers, rainbows, and butterflies. The other boasts a dizzying tessellation of what appears to be ice crystals.

Cleo’s eyes light up in wonder.

“How long would a piece like that take?” she asks, pointing to the skull.

Stress hums. “It depends. Usually a few sessions, and we’d ‘ave to spread it out over a few weeks. We could start ya’ today if you have a design in mind?”

“I’m afraid I’m under a bit of a time crunch. I only have today.”

“I see,” Stress says, and Cleo is relieved she seems content to leave the matter there. “We’d ‘ave to do something simpler, then. I’ll show you some designs I’ve already got sketched out.”

She sets a book in front of Cleo to flip through, standing out of the way but hovering nearby in case she has questions. It’s a daunting task in and of itself, and Cleo makes nearly three quarters through the book before she stops.

As soon as her eyes land on the design, she knows.

“That one right there.”

Stress leans in to examine the page. “Oh, yes! That's gonna be gorgeous!”

The process is… truthfully, it’s not entirely pleasant. It takes several long hours, and it’s certainly painful.

And yet, any regret melts away as soon as Cleo sees herself and the result in full.

“What do ya think, love?”

“I…” Cleo starts. A lump forms in her throat. “I love it.

Something stirs beneath her skin, something long buried. It is electric, conducting through the ink lines across her skin and into her bloodstream. It is a puzzle piece she didn’t know she was missing, and now that it is slotted into place she wonders how she ever lived without it.

She spends the rest of the day admiring it.

When Cleo awakes the next morning to find the art gone, she realizes that she is disappointed. She can’t quite place why she is. She knew this would be temporary from the start. That was the point. A reckless indulgence without a permanent commitment. And yet…

She goes back that day and proposes another design to Stress, who, once again, wastes no time at all in getting started. It stings like hell again; that much does not change. The results are just as beautiful.

She does this again and again. One time she asks for a branching flame, the next for as many flowers as Stress is able to complete in the span of a single session.

Her favorite by far, and the one which even gives Stress a little more pause than usual, is a series of Frankenstein-esque stitch lines which run across her arms, chest, legs, and even across her neck. It’s so far removed from anything else she might have dared to try even a short while ago, and yet, looking in the mirror now, she can’t imagine anything that fits her more.

—

It goes like this.

Each loop thereafter, as they rendezvous in front of the flower shop, they each bring an idea to try.

Sometimes it’s silly. Sometimes it’s reckless. Sometimes it’s boring. Sometimes it goes off without a hitch. Sometimes it takes a few loops to perfect.

One loop they crash the ceremony with water balloons. Another, they stage a dramatic reading of Macbeth in the park. Arson may or may not be involved on more than one occasion, much to Joe’s dismay.

They carry on like this for a while. Cleo, for the first time in a very long time, does not think about deadlines, clients, or upward mobility. Joe, for one, is just glad for the company.

They don't have a care in the world.

After all, what could go wrong?

—

Neither of them are able to place the chain of events which led them to where they stand now. Even if they could fully comprehend the cosmic Rube-Goldberg mechanism that they just set off, they wouldn’t be able to ponder it, because that would mean taking their eyes off the new Eighth Wonder of the Modern World.

“Oh. My. God.”

“It’s horrifying. And yet. Beautiful?”

A fountain has sprung from the center of town.

Raining down from the sky are fish. They are colorful, numerous, and still alive. They splash down in the rapidly-pooling water surrounding the geyser and flop around helplessly.

Mayor Scar is the first of the scattered onlookers to dare to approach.

“What on earth-? How?”

Cleo and Joe tear their eyes away from their great and terrible creation to look at one another.

“They started it,” they say in unison, pointing at one another before they break into hysterical laughter.

—

They are walking and talking together on the way to Impulse’s one loop when Cleo changes the conversation.

"I've been thinking-"

Joe snorts. "That sounds dangerous."

"Oh, shut up." She smacks his shoulder playfully.

"Sorry, you've been thinking..."

"...that if we ever get out of this, I'm quitting my stupid job."

"Hey! Good for you."

"And,” she adds, “I'm going to take all my savings and buy that spooky old building across from the library."

"You mean what remains of Shady Oak Funeral Home?"

"Yeah, I think so. Big, Gothic, gargoyles and all?"

"That would be it. You know, I could totally see you as a mortician, come to think of it."

"That was something I had thought about a while ago, but I was actually thinking I'd turn it into a gym. Or like, whatever you call those exercise-dance-studio things."

Joe laughs.

"What's so funny? I’m serious!"

He shakes his head, smiling, and hops up onto the park bench.

"It's just perfect, Cleo. I think that sounds swell."

He takes a running leap from the bench. Cleo braces herself to witness the usual tumble that follows, but to both of their surprise, his feet connect firmly with the seat of the opposite bench.

“Hey! I made it!” he cries, pumping his fists in the air. “I’ve never made that jump before!”

“How many tries did it take you?”

“Oh, at least a hundred. Every day that I’ve passed through here I tried that jump. Frankly, I thought it was impossible!”

“And yet you still-? Nevermind.”

Cleo frowns, and takes a seat on said bench.

“Everything alright?” Joe asks, climbing down to sit next to her. She doesn’t speak for a moment.

"You know what bothers me still?" she finally says.

"What's that, Cleo?"

"Just how unbothered you are. By all this, I mean."

He shrugs. "I've had a lot of time to adjust. Besides, there's not much point in ruminating over what I can't do when there's still so much I can do, you know?"

"Like?"

"Well, you know. I've had so much more time to do all the things I've never made time for before. I've read all the books in the library that I've been meaning to. I learned how to play piano. And you've seen me, I'm wicked good at pinball!"

"So you're perfectly resigned to do this? Every day? For the rest of time?"

"Well, what other choice is there? It's not a perfect system but for the time being it's the one we've got."

"Surely it hasn't gotten even a little old?"

"Well. I mean."

He shifts in his seat uncomfortably.

"...I mean, sure, some mornings I get tired of having to run to work and sort through all my keys and step over that dang stool. Sure, sometimes it gets grating having the same conversations over and over with everyone. There's only a certain amount you can deviate them from the script, even with different conversation starters. Sometimes it's frustrating to be moving and changing when everyone around me is the same. It's sad to see them stuck, stucker than I am, and not even know it. That's hard! And I don't really have a good way to spin it, so I just try to ignore it. I keep 'em at arm's length. And honestly, you coming here is confusing, because on one hand it's nice to have someone else who knows what this is like. Someone to make plans with for tomorrow. I don't know. But I've realized I really don't want to see another person stuck in this mess. We've had a good time this past little while, but..."

His voice hitches. They are quiet for a minute. No words are needed.

When he finally speaks again, his voice is lower.

"I don't know if you've noticed when we've gone to the arcade, but there's a poster on the wall next to the pinball machine. Neon green. It advertises a tournament on the 15th of this month, just a week away. Goes without saying, but it's never going to get here. And... well, it's kind of stupid."

"It's not," she says.

"I don't know. Things could be so much worse. I could be in a death loop, or reliving the day of the apocalypse, which I suppose is the same thing. Or..."

"It's not stupid to have dreams, Joe. You of all people should know that. And it's not stupid to want to share the thing you love with people who enjoy it as much as you do!"

"I'd honestly just be happy for someone to tell me that I'm doing a good job."

Cleo sets a stiff hand on his shoulder and looks him in the eye.

"You're doing a good job, Joe Hills."

They blink, then burst into laughter.

"Yeah,” she wheezes, “that wasn't awkward at all."

Joe wipes away tears from laughter. "Oh, totally. And, Cleo, I meant I wanted someone to tell me I'm good at pinball."

After a moment of consideration, Cleo hums.

"I think that can be arranged, actually."

"Come again?"

"Do you need a tournament to have a crowd of people cheer you on?" she asks, standing up from the bench. "Or is there another angle we could go for?"

"Like what?"

"Aren't there, like, world records for pinball? Why don't you try to break one? We could invite the whole town to watch."

Joe stares at her as the idea settles into place.

"Cleo?"

"Yeah?"

“Cleo.”

“What, Joe?” she huffs.

"Cleo, you are a genius!" He jumps up and wraps her in a hug, which she tolerates.

"I have a good idea every now and again."

After a moment, Joe steps back and readjusts his glasses.

"Only question is how?"

As it turns out, planning a spectacular night of pinball and fellowship takes a lot of planning, and even more practice. They spend dozens of loops working out each stage of their plan down to the minute.

Finally, the fateful loop arrives.

It starts like this.

Joe opens his shop like normal. He is full of nervous energy, but still tries to be intentional where he steps.

He prepares the bouquet like he always does- vase, water, flower. Soon enough, the bell rings exactly when it always does. He smiles, and turns to greet the face that has returned his smile every morning for the past two thousand mornings.

“Mornin’, TFC!”

“Hey, Joe.”

He presents him with the arrangement. Like every iteration of this morning prior, the older man looks over the flowers and nods in approval. They typically don’t do much for small talk while they complete their daily exchange, so it’s a bit of a surprise when TFC breaks the cozy silence.

“You’re chipper this morning. Big day?”

“How’d you guess?" Joe asks, taken aback. TFC doesn't answer beyond a cryptic chuckle.

"I’m setting a world record tonight at the arcade," Joe elaborates. "You’re welcome to come and watch!”

“Ah, that crowd isn’t my scene these days.”

“No worries, then. Enjoy the rest of your day!”

TFC waves and starts out the door. Before he leaves entirely, he turns back one more time.

“You’re going to do great, Joe,” he says. “You always do.”

—

Joe and Cleo rendezvous just outside of Snips. They run through the plan one more time to make sure they’re on the same page.

“I think we’re set.”

“Knock on wood.”

It’s go time.

They waste no time, nearly kicking down the door to the barber shop.

"Bdubs! We have an emergency!"

Startled by the sudden noise, Bdubs looks up from where he stands organizing his various razors and shears.

"What?! What's wrong?!"

"This is my new friend Cleo, who I just met via a series of unfortunate mishaps-"

"Are there fortunate mishaps, Joe?" Cleo quips.

"Not now, Cleo. Anyways, I was chewing this here bubble gum trying to see how big I could get a bubble with four pieces of gum when all of a sudden, BLAM!" He exclaims, clapping for emphasis. "I ran right smack into the back of her head."

On cue, Cleo awkwardly twirls around to display the mess that had definitely been created exactly how Joe said it was.

Bdubs gasps. "Oh, that's terrible!"

"But it gets worse," Cleo says sardonically.

"Cleo here has only two hour's time before she has..." He pauses just long enough to milk the drama from the moment, then he and Cleo say at the same time:

"A date!"

"A deal!"

Oops. They should have rehearsed that part better.

Bdubs’s head whips back and forth between the two.

"Well, which is it?" he asks. "A date or a deal?"

"Erm." Joe says.

"It's like a date with destiny, if you will," Cleo says hastily. "A very important deal that, er, will hold the very balance of my future in its fate."

"And all that goes out the window if she walks in with her hair full of gum! What kind of professional would take seriously someone who can't avoid something so predictable as a bubble-gum-popping pedestrian?"

Bdubs nods resolutely. "Say no more! I will perfectly rescue you from this bad hair day, and in no time at all! You came to the right person."

"I knew we would," Joe says.

Bdubs leads Cleo to the chair and sets to work right away. Joe flashes her a quick thumbs-up and ducks out the door.

—

Joe stands outside the barber shop, trying his best to appear casual. He waves at Ren and False as they enter the shop, but they’re not who he is out here to intercept.

No, that person appears a few minutes later. Keralis is visibly nervous as he flips through a short stack of index cards. He is so preoccupied that he does not see the banana peel conveniently in his path. When his foot connects, he slides a good two feet before landing on the seat of his pants.

Joe resists the urge to cheer. It’s taken him at least half a dozen loops to perfect that peel placement. Instead, he puts on a sympathetic face that’s only a quarter facetious. He is genuinely sorry that this piece of the puzzle comes at his pal’s expense.

“Oof, that’s some bad luck, Keralis. Here,” he says, extending a hand to help him up.

“Ah, thank you, Joe.” As soon as he is upright, he turns to pick up his index cards, but finds that most of them have landed in a murky puddle where the sidewalk meets the street. He sighs and shakes his head.

“Pardon my prying,” Joe goes on, “but you seem stressed about something. Is everything alright?”

“Today is supposed to be a big day,” Keralis sighs. “The grand opening of my new hotel. I am… Well, nervous does not even begin to describe it. There is only a short while before the ceremony, but I am not prepared!”

“And I presume those contain your speech,” Joe ganders, pointing at the now-soggy cards.

Keralis nods dejectedly. Joe puts a hand on his shoulder reassuringly.

“Can I offer you some Tennessee wisdom in these trying times?” Keralis nods, and Joe continues. “Have you ever heard the saying, ‘too big for his britches?’”

“Too big for- no?”

“See, it refers to succumbing to one’s hubris, often resulting at the expense of one’s image. I won’t get into the specifics, but it originates from one particularly arrogant Tennessee icon who became over-confident and lost his pants in a public setting. He was laughed right out of Nashville!”

“Wow,” says Keralis, clearly pulled in by this utter nonsense of a yarn that Joe is spinning.

“In fact,” Joe continues, “it’s now considered good luck to wear two pairs of pants to any kind of public speaking venue. And, speaking as a friend here, I’d reckon you can use all the luck you can get.”

He eyes Joe in a mixture of confusion and suspicion. “So… you’re saying that if I wear two pairs of pants…?”

“Well, it certainly can’t hurt, can it? In fact, I’ll make a wager with you, if you’re up for one.”

Keralis brightens. “I do like to gamble.”

“Here’s what I’d like to propose: if you try it and it goes for the worse, I’ll supply your business with discount flower arrangements for the next year. And if it works out, you tell everyone at that ceremony to come to Tango’s tonight to watch me break a world record. What do you say?” Joe extends his hand once more, this time for a proper business handshake.

It doesn’t take him long to consider the pros and cons of this offer. Keralis takes his hand. “Alright, Joe, you’ve got a deal!”

As they shake on it, an old car rumbles by. Joe glances back inside the barber shop to see Cleo say something to Bdubs and duck down, feigning picking something off the floor. Right as she does, the car’s obnoxiously loud horn blares. Bdubs jumps, but his scissors now only connect with air. Perfectly timed, just like they’ve practiced.

After seeing Keralis off, Joe sighs in relief. That’s several points checked off the list. Here’s hoping his next few stops go as well, lest they have to do all this again.

—

Cleo stares at herself in the mirror, mouth agape.

"Well?" asks Bdubs, audibly grinning.

"Oh. My. Gosh. Bdubs, I love it!"

She jumps out of the chair and wraps him in a hug, joyfully oblivious to the apron still wrapped around her.

"Aha! Another happy customer." He returns the hug. As soon as she lets go to look at herself in the mirror again, he quickly brushes off the hair that is stuck to his shirt.

"Oh, by the way. You know my friend, Joe?"

"Know him? I-"

"Right, dumb question, yeah. Anyways, he's going to try and set a world record at Tango's arcade tonight and wants to invite as many people as possible. Would that be something you'd be interested in attending?"

"World record? Yeah, that's exciting stuff! What's he going for?"

"High score on one of the pinball machines. According to him, it may take up to six hours. Tango's even offered to stay open late if he gets a good enough run going."

"Wow, very interesting. Is that, by any chance, the machine with the big clock on it?"

"Yeah, how did you know?"

"Oh, lucky guess. You tell Joe that I'll be there. I'll also spread the word as people come by here today."

"Really? You're a saint, Bdubs!" She glances down at her watch. "Shoot, I've got to go, but thank you again so much."

"Of course! Always here to achieve perfect customer satisfaction! Now, go, and seal your deal with destiny!"

He waves as she leaves the shop. Then, after a moment of contemplation, he takes the phone receiver off the wall and dials.

"Hey, man, it's me. I've just heard some very interesting rumors here at the shop... Yeah, word has it someone is going after your record on Chrono Warp 9000... yeah, yeah. Tonight. Lots of people are coming to watch.. Perfect! I'll see you then."

—

Cleo is nearly sprinting to reach Xisuma’s on time. She still ends up being about five minutes late. She knocks curtly on the door to his office, but doesn’t wait for his reply to open the door and slides into the chair in front of his desk.

“Alright, Mr. Void. Xisuma? Can I call you X?”

He blinks. “Uh-”

“Look, I don’t want to waste either of our time,” she says without giving him a chance to respond. “This deal is a scam and if you go through with it you will never see a dime from it.”

“Pardon?” he says.

She pulls out a stack of documents from her briefcase. They are marked up in a colorful array of highlighter and pen ink. “All these conditions? If you read through them you’ll see how this will affect your business. It’s a scam, X.”

“W-why…” he stutters, flipping through the documents. “Why are you telling me all this?”

“Mostly because Joe wanted me to invite you to watch him beat his pinball record tonight, and I couldn’t do that if I stood you up. But I’m certainly not wasting my- er, both of our time trying to deal with this. Also,” she adds, “I hate this job. I hate working for this company. It’s literally called ‘Evil Emporium.'”

“I-” Xisuma frowns as he thinks. “East Ville Emporium… E. Ville. Evil. Huh. I guess you’re right.”

“So we’re done here?”

Xisuma sighs. “I suppose so. And I should thank you for warning me about this-”

“Don’t mention it,” she says, standing to leave. “See you tonight? At Tango’s?”

“Yeah, I’lll be there.”

Without another word, Cleo is out the door again. Fortunately, her next stop is just across the road where a small crowd is gathering.

—

Grian rocks on his heels, trying his best to appear simply bored. His eyes scan his surroundings. No one seems to notice that anything has been tampered with. This is only slightly reassuring, as his anxiety won’t be quelled until he sees this plot of his come to fruition.

Grian isn’t malicious. There is a principle to his ends and means, and if one were to ask him, he would be more than eager to explain the antagonistic friendship between himself and the mayor. This is only the latest in a long series of pranks between them, and if all goes according to plan it will surely be the most glorious. Certainly the most annoying.

A stranger is standing next to him. They run a hand through their short, red hair, and clear their throat.

“I’m impressed,” they say. He eyes them cautiously.

“I’m not sure I know what you mean.”

“Oh, you do. Honestly, I’m impressed with how you put all this together on such a short notice.”

“Do I know you? Did Scar-”

“I’m not associated with the mayor,” they say simply. “I’m not going to tell anyone either, as long as you take my advice.”

“Which is…?”

They point to a large oak tree to the left of the podium.

“Best view of it all is up there, perched on that big limb.”

Grian wants to call them out on their bluff, but there is also a part of him that is curious to follow this wherever it leads.

As subtle as he can, he makes his way over to the tree and climbs up to the branch they pointed out. They're right about the view at least. He can see everything, and from the looks of it no one has spotted him.

The ceremony commences not long after. Mayor Scar talks on and on, which does nothing but fuel Grian's nerves as he waits. Keralis stumbles through a short speech.

And then, finally, Scar raises the gilded shears and snips the ribbon.

Several things happen in very quick succession.

One of the large “spotlights,” which to any keen observer would have appeared out-of-place at a ceremony that takes place mid-morning, reveals its true identity and spews confetti and glitter onto the stage with a loud boom.

The mayor’s beloved cat, Jellie, bolts off the stage and up the tree, landing right in Grian’s lap and burying herself in his jumper.

Mayor Scar jumps from the noise, swinging the comically oversized gold ceremony scissors around madly.

The scissors catch Keralis's belt, and his pants fall to the stage. However, he is not exposed. As it turns out, to the perplexment of the crowd, he is wearing a second, smaller pair of dress pants underneath.

Keralis looks around in shock, and then scrambles forward to grab the mic.

“I have a special announcement!” he says as he kicks free of the spare trousers. “Everyone is invited to the arcade tonight where-”

Grian doesn’t hear the rest of whatever is being said. Jellie has somehow burrowed deeper into his sweater, and a voice is calling for him from the base of the tree.

He climbs down as best he can, with one arm wrapped around the cat and the rest of his limbs awkwardly shuffle around until his feet hit dirt.

Scar is standing there. He is covered head to toe in glitter, but if he notices it he doesn’t show any sign of annoyance. His attention is instead solely on Jellie. The cat doesn’t resist as Scar takes her from Grian’s arms and presses her to his chest.

“Oh, Jellie! You’re okay!”

“Scar, I-” Grian starts, preparing to apologize profusely for getting them into this mess in the first place, but Scar cuts him off before he can.

“Grian, you hero! I don’t know what we would have done if you weren’t in that tree!”

“Uh, yeah. Right.” He glances over Scar’s shoulder and makes eye contact with that same person as before.

The stranger smirks at him knowingly and disappears into the crowd.

—

“We can’t thank you enough for the help!” says Gem. She looks on in approval as Pearl and Impulse shift the couch so it is centered against the wall. Once they do, the latter two dramatically flop down upon it.

Pearl lets out a long sigh. “That really was a four-person job, getting this thing up here.”

“No kidding,” says Impulse, equally worn-out from the endeavor.

Joe gingerly sets down a box labeled “DISHES - FRAGILE.” He, like the others, is glad to be through with the uphill portion of this afternoon.

“Glad to be able to help out, new neighbors!” Joe says. “You know what they say, ‘many hands make light work.’”

“If everyone in town is as nice as you guys are, I think we’re in the right place,” says Pearl.

“Why don’t you see for yourself? I’m inviting a bunch of folks out to Tango’s arcade in a bit.”

“That sounds like fun!”

“I can show you the way there, if you want!” Impulse chimes in. “Tango’s a good friend of mine. I know the way there just like the back of my hand.”

Pearl and Gem enthusiastically agree, and Joe takes this opportunity to excuse himself while they finish moving boxes around.

There’s little time to waste. He quickly changes clothes, splashes his face with cold water, and collects a roll of quarters from his room. If all goes well, he will only need a few.

He doesn’t bother to grab his keys from the table. With one last glance in the mirror, he is satisfied, and makes his departure.

One minute detail slips by him as he exits his apartment for the final time of the day. The lock on his door is slightly askew. When he closes the door behind him, the lock silently clicks into place.

Cleo taps her foot anxiously against the sidewalk. She looks down at her watch again.

A quarter til six. He still isn’t here.

“I knew this had all gone a bit too smoothly so far,” she says to no one in particular.

Finally, she spots him across the road.

“There you are,” she says. “I was worried you’d decided to no-show after all the work I’ve put in on your behalf today.”

He reaches her and nearly collapses as he catches his breath.

“Don’t count that out yet,” he puffs.

“Very funny. Did you finish all your tasks as well?”

He nods.

“Alright, then. As long as you don’t keel over, it sounds like we’re on track.”

This should be good news, but Cleo notices that Joe seems to be lacking in his usual enthusiasm.

“Joe? You alright?”

He stands up slowly.

“Yeah, I’m alright. It’s… it’s kind of dumb.”

“What is?”

He doesn’t look at her, instead turning his gaze to the arcade’s sign just over their heads. It flickers to life as the sun begins its slow descent.

“What if we’ve done all this, and it turns out to be a bust after all?”

“How so?”

“Like, we’ve gone through all this trouble to gather a crowd. What if I get up there and freeze in front of all of them? Or play worse than normal?”

“Then we try again next loop, and I’ll be the only one who can tease you about it.”

“Fair,” he says. “Well, what if we’ve gone through all of this trouble and no one shows up? If I do break the record tonight, does it matter if no one is there to see?”

Cleo laughs. “Joe Hills, you need to quit borrowing trouble.”

She loops her arm around his and leads him to the front door of the arcade. She opens it and drags him through.

As the door opens, they are greeted with a cacophony of voices and video game sounds. The arcade is packed to the gills. After so many nights of relative solitude here, it’s jarring to see it so lively and busy.

Someone notices that Joe has arrived. They holler out his name.

Now a lot of people are shouting for him. Oh. Now they’re all looking at him expectantly.

Joe hops up onto the front counter and holds up a hand. A hush spreads as Joe braces himself to speak. He takes a deep breath.

“Howdy, y’all!” he starts, and to his relief he finds that his voice is clear and steady. “I appreciate you all coming out tonight, especially on such short notice. Real quick, I also want to thank Tango for allowing us to do this here tonight. He has offered to stay open later than usual to accommodate us, which is super helpful. Give it up for him!”

The crowd claps and cheers. Tango flashes a grin, and takes an exaggerated bow.

“Now, let me fill you in on what we’re aiming for here. When we called the National Pinball Association last loo- I mean, yesterday- they told us the number we’d need to beat on this particular machine is 3 million, one-hundred forty-one thousand, five-hundred ninety-two. As long as we bet that, and get it on tape-” He gestures to Ren, who is holding a hefty-looking camera. “-we’re officially a world-record holder!”

The crowd cheers again.

“I do want to point out, I say “we” because I wouldn’t be doing all of this without all of you. I am truly grateful for y’all coming to support me tonight. Now, enough chatter! I’m going to get warmed up real quick, and then we start on the hour!”

—

Gem and Pearl are situated right up close to the action. Neither of them have ever played pinball, but they were involved in competitive events together in college, so this scene feels comfortably familiar. Nothing brings people together quite like cheering, or sometimes booing, together.

Someone bumps into Pearl.

“Off- sorry about that,” says the person. As they make eye contact, they both are hit with a sudden realization.

“Grian?!”

“Pearl?!”

“What are you doing here?”

“I live here! What are you doing here?”

“We just moved to town! You didn’t tell me you lived here!”

Gem taps Pearl on the shoulder. “You want to fill me in here?”

“Yeah, sorry! Let’s all move out of the way.”

They find a slightly-quieter corner of the arcade, and Pearl introduces Gem to her cousin. They spend a little while excitedly catching up.

Across the room, the score is ticking up into the low hundred-thousands.

—

Tango leans against the counter and takes it all in. When Joe approached him this morning and pitched this party, he was surprised. For one, he didn’t even know Joe played pinball, much less played well enough to attempt a record. He also didn’t realize he had so many connections. And yet here he is with a full house!

He isn’t complaining, of course. It’s nice to see the place so alive. He makes a mental note to look into updating the decor.

A voice to his right shakes him out of his introspection.

“Hey, buddy.” Impulse slides up next to him, a can of soda in each hand. He offers one to Tango.

“Hey, thanks!” Tango accepts the can from him. His finger flicks the side of the can twice before he pops the top open.

They sip their sodas and take in the scene together.

“Nice to see the place like this again, huh?” Impulse says.

Tango raises his drink up in a ‘cheers’ motion. “Never thought I’d see the day again, to be honest.”

They sip on their sodas for a moment in comfortable silence as they drink in the commotion.

“You ought to think about doing events like this more often,” says Impulse.

“Hm. Not a bad idea.”

Impulse gently elbows him. “Maybe the next one can be the debut of your game.”

“Ah, that old thing?” Tango says, looking at the ceiling. “I don’t know if it would be worth this much fuss.”

“Sure it would! Are you kidding me?”

“Alright, alright." He takes another slow sip. "One thing at a time.”

Across the room, the score has passed five hundred-thousand.

—

Bdubs is waiting by the door, trying to keep the action in his line of sight while also being able to quickly turn his head every time the door opens. He sighs. This is just like him to be late to something like this.

“Whatcha looking for?” says a voice to his left. He spins around, startled, to find Etho already standing between him and the main floor of the arcade.

“Wha- how did you- Etho!” he cries. “Do you know how long I’ve been standing here waiting for you?!”

“Sorry, Bdubs.” Etho’s eyes crinkle like they always do when he’s grinning. “Couldn’t resist the opportunity to scare you.”

Bdubs scoffs. “You did not scare me.”

“Right, right.”

Etho turns to check in on the game. “Looks like they’re getting on halfway there.”

“And how do you feel about that?”

“Ah, it’s about time someone got around to beating that dusty old score,” Etho says. “If he can manage it, good for him.”

There are scattered cheers from the crowd. The score has just ticked over the halfway point.

—

The three million mark has been reached, and anticipation among the onlookers is reaching an all-time high. Cleo watches on intently, more focused on Joe than the rapidly-ticking score. There are less than a hundred-thousand points to go.

“How are we, Joe? Are we hanging in there?”

“I’m great,” he says, and breathless though he is, he means it. Sweat drips from his brow, and he blinks against it, careful to not lose sight of the ball. “Never felt more alive.”

Nearby, Ren re-situates the camera on his shoulder. He has been trading it back and forth with False for the past hour.

Someone calls out that there are less than fifty-thousand points to go.

Thirty-thousand.

Twenty-five.

Fifteen.

Ten.

“Don’t lose focus,” Cleo says. “You’ve got this.”

Eight.

“C’mon.”

Five.

“You can do it, Joe!”

Four thousand.

“Three!”

“Two!”

“One!”

Time slows down as the last digits tick up and up to the magic number. The lights of the room grow brighter and blurrier. There is no sound apart from the blood roaring in his ears and the clicking of the buttons.

3 million, one hundred forty-one thousand, five hundred ninety three.

And then, the crowd roars.

Joe keeps playing for another minute, but he is soon shaking enough to fumble the ball.

The pinball machine flashes and sings as its game-over sequence plays. As soon as he steps back from the machine, he finds that his feet are no longer on the floor. Cleo has picked him up and is spinning him around and around.

The rest of the evening is a blur. They celebrate into the night. There are plenty of congratulations to go around, but soon it becomes clear that this gathering is less about any one thing. The only thing that matters, between shared hugs and laughter and greetings of friends old and new, is just the state of being together.

Joe and Cleo concur that this is a success beyond their wildest imaginations.

—

The four of them make it back to the apartment building close to two in the morning. The energy that had carried them through the day is long gone by now, and they all amble up the stairs like zombies.

They reach Joe’s door first, and Gem and Pearl step around them, murmuring a sleepy “goodnight.” Joe waves back, and puts his hand on the handle to his door.

It doesn’t budge.

“Um.”

“What’s the issue?” Cleo asks.

“Door’s locked.”

“Do you not have your keys?”

“I thought I left them with you?”

“You did not.”

“Welp. That means they’re inside. And since I didn’t prop the window this morning-”

“We’re locked out,” Cleo finishes dejectedly.

Joe slumps against the wall and laughs deliriously. “Whomp whomp.”

Someone clears their throat. Cleo and Joe turn their heads to see Gem and Pearl still standing at the end of the corridor.

“Do you want to stay with us tonight?” Pearl says. “I doubt you’d reach a locksmith this time of night.”

“Our couch isn’t very big,” adds Gem, “but it’s a pull-out and we have plenty of blankets to spare.”

Joe sighs with relief. “That would be fantastic.”

At the very least, they are grateful to not have to spend what remains of the day slumped over in the hallway, even if the couch is a little cramped. In any case, it’s not like they’ll feel it in the morning.

—

Sunlight creeps from the window gently until its warmth reaches their faces. The faint smell of coffee drifts from somewhere nearby, as well as the sound of something sizzling in a pan.

Joe is the first to stir. He sits up slowly, stretches, and unleashes a great big yawn.

His back is sore. Whether that be from the exercise he got from running around all day yesterday or from sleeping on a bad spring on the pull-out couch is anyone’s guess. Honestly, he probably should have left his sleeping-on-couches days in college when his back was more forgiving to begin with…

Hang on a sec.

“Cleo,” he says.

She grumbles and pulls the blanket over her head. “Five more minutes.”

“Cleo,” he says more urgently. “Where are we?”

“I don’t know,” she mumbles groggily. “I’ll tell you when I have coffee.”

“Cleo!” he hisses. “It’s Wednesday!”

“It’s- what?!” She bolts upright as the words sink in. “Is this real?”

“As far as I can tell.”

They take in the room around them. It looks quite a bit like Joe’s apartment, save that there are still boxes everywhere instead of a normal, lived-in clutter. There is faint snoring from an adjacent bedroom, and a softly-hummed melody joins the kitchen sounds.

“So then…” Cleo starts carefully, as though the wrong word would shatter whatever illusion or dream they might be in. “...we’re free.”

Joe hums. “Unless today is the start of another-”

“Don’t.” She claps a hand over his mouth. “Don’t you dare speak that into existence.”

And then they both laugh.

They keep laughing, until they cry from laughter, until their sides hurt, until Gem pokes her head from around the corner of the kitchen to check on them.

“Are you okay in there?”

“We’re fine,” wheezes Cleo. “Everything’s fine.”

If Gem believes them, her face doesn’t show it. “Ooookay. Well, breakfast is almost ready.”

As soon as he can compose himself enough to speak without his voice breaking, Joe asks, “Do I smell coffee?”

Gem disappears into the kitchen and returns a moment later, bringing each of them a cup. As Cleo takes the first sip she feels she could cry.

The diner is busier than ever tonight. It’s just another Tuesday, but something is in the air, something beyond the first crisp notes of autumn on the breeze. It is carried through the refrains of laughter that bounce off the walls. It is conducted through the gentle connections of elbows to ribs, hands to shoulders, palms to backs. It is movement, connection, mirth.

It is a homecoming.

“Congrats, Cleo!” says Beef. He sets a plate in front of her. “So we’ll be seeing more of you around?”

“Most definitely,” she says. “You’ll get sick of me soon enough.”

“Oh, don’t say that!” says Gem from the next booth. She and Impulse are turned around in their seats to follow the conversation. Pearl sits opposite them, polishing off a bowl of soup.

“You especially have no room to talk,” Cleo shoots back, although there is a levity to her tone that diffuses any genuine self-deprecation. “Try that again after your first class.”

“Nonsense! I was born to jazzercise!” Gem boasts. “I’ve even bought my leotard!”

“It’s incredibly gaudy,” Pearl teases. “So you know she’s all-in.”

There is chime from across the room as the door opens and Joe appears. A chorus of greetings rises to meet him.

“Sorry I’m late, y’all!” he says cheerfully. “Time got away from me this evening. And speaking of time-”

“Oh, not this again.” Cleo puts her face in her hands.

"Listen, Cleo, I know I've said this before but I think I'm on the verge of a breakthrough this time! We need to revisit the couch-"

“I don’t get why you’re so hung up on this hypothetical, Joe,” says Impulse. “I mean, it was a fun thought exercise the first time, but there’s only so much you can get out of a time loop.”

At the mention of the word “hypothetical,” Joe and Cleo exchange barely-suppressed smirks. There are some things that persist even several months free of the loops, not least of all being the patented First Rule of Time Loops™. They still doubt anyone would believe them if they tried to explain what they’ve been through, but Joe has found that there are ways to get around this limitation. Loop-holes, if you will.

“I don’t mind it,” Xisuma says from the bar. “If I could just play devil’s advocate here-”

“I’ve changed my mind,” Cleo groans. “I’m moving as far from here as I can.”

The laughter comes in full again, and it echoes into the night. It is an omen of many like nights to come.

The End