Page 75 of In What World

“Oh my god,” I say.

“What? What?” Priscilla asks, matching my energy with desperate interest.

“4-2-7-9-3,” I say.

“Is that your phone passcode or something?”

“It’s today’s date. Today here, in the past.”

“Okay…”

“In the last reality, just before Dallas got too choked up to continue talking about Teddy, he mentioned Labor Day weekend. And when does Labor Day usually fall?”

“The first week of September?” Priscilla’s eyes flit back and forth, running the same mental math I’ve just completed. “9-2-9-5! A potential sequence for the padlock!” she says. “Oh my god! Marlowe!”

“We can set an intention to reach September 2, 1995,” I say, getting excited jitters in my hands and feet. “And maybe we can also intend to find our Dallas there?”

Priscilla holds up a stop hand to our still-applauding audience. “Guys, I’m so sorry, we have to go,” she says. “We are time travelers. Well, more technically, we’re actually universe hoppers, but we hopped into one that’s also back in time. It’s a whole thing. If only you had access to the Reddit threads I’veread. Whew. Anyway, I don’t know how any of you will ever make sense of this, but we’re about to go through that coffin’s door and disappear forever. We hope you have a lovely life. Thank you for supporting the arts!”

“Losers,” I whisper, only loud enough for Priscilla to hear.

She leads me to the Memory Machine by hand. Before we step inside, she turns to look back one last time at the crowd. “Also, we kiss girls. And weloveit.”

To really sell it, she kisses me.

“Memory Machine,” I say, “take us to the version of September 2, 1995, that holds our Dallas.”

26

Priscilla

The wings arethe cleanest we’ve ever seen them. There are no stored props or old set pieces that never got disassembled, but the stage doesn’t have the desolate feel of the reality where Dallas stopped running the program either. When we open the curtains, the red seats in the audience are easily ten shades lighter.

Marlowe hops down to run her hand across one. “No questionable stains or faded butt imprints.”

“This might be heaven,” I say.

“Or it’s right after the seats got replaced.”

“Was that in 1995?”

“Yes.”

“Then my statement still stands.”

We exit through the main auditorium doors and head toward the building entrance, to the lobby where ol’ Beth put us through the wringer. Where that visitors’ entrance should be, there is now a wall of phones.

Pay phones.

“I think we did it,” Marlowe whispers, but I’m already running.

When I hold one of the receivers to my ear, I hear the static of an active line. “Holy shit. Itworks.”

Marlowe presses her head beside mine to hear for herself. “Who can we call?”

“Dallas?”

Marlowe takes the receiver to start dialing, then pauses. “Wait. He wouldn’t have his cell phone yet. I don’t know his landline number.”