Page 29 of 72 Hours of You

And so I hear myself say, “Okay.”

Thirteen

THE EARLY-MORNING SUN is excessively bright and piercing compared to the dull yellow of the school’s fluorescents, and I have to shield my eyes with my hand just to see in front of me.

Peter runs his hands through his hair. “Well, that was—”

“Fucked?”

“Yeah,” Peter says. “That was fucked.”

“It always is.”

He sits down on the curb and rubs his hands over his knees. “How do you do this all the time?”

“I don’t. A teacher dying isn’t an everyday occurrence.”

“You know what I mean.”

I do. He means how can I possibly live with the constant threat of death literally hanging over people’s heads?

“How does anyone live with anything? There are people way worse off than me. People living in war zones. People who don’t know where their next meal is coming from. People who—”

“I’m not talking about people,” Peter says, cutting me off. “I’m talking about you, Syd.” He looks up at me from the curb, the sun illuminating the top of his head. It makes him look intensely angelic. It’s a little excessive, honestly. “How do you deal?”

I shrug.

He looks like he wants to press the issue but doesn’t. Instead, he just exhales a little breath and looks back out at the parking lot. He’s trying to act like he’s cool, but his pinkie is trembling a little. I guess it’s one thing to hear that a teacher you barely knew died, it’s a whole other to live through a premonition fulfilled.

“Have you ever …” He pauses and glances back at the school, like he’s deciding if he should say his thought out loud or not. He probably shouldn’t. “Have you ever told a person—a clock person—that their time is up? Sorry, is it bad to say it like that?”

My body tenses, like a thousand tiny knives are stabbing me. “I don’t get involved.”

“I don’t mean trying to alter their destiny or whatever. I just mean—”

“I said I don’t get involved.” I cross my arms, my fingers squeezing until I feel my nails pushing into my skin. I stare at Peter, waiting for his face to change. Waiting for judgment to cloud over his eyes. Waiting for him to say something like Really? Not even one time? or But what if you did! He looks like he doesn’t quite believe me. And why should he? I’m full of shit. But at least he’s smart enough to let it go. Sort of, anyway. Because he gives it about two seconds before he asks me another question.

“Does anyone else know what you can … do?” As if it’s an enviable skill.

“No.”

“Not even your sister? Or your dad?”

“No.” A car squeals out of the junior parking lot, flying over the speed bumps and blasting an Olivia Rodrigo track as the passengers laugh hysterically.

“I told my parents once,” I say. “But I was so young. It was like saying I saw dragons or elves in the pantry. It never really became a thing. And then my mom died pretty soon after, anyway.”

“That must’ve been—”

“It’s whatever. I didn’t even connect the clocks with dying until I was older. And by that time it was just easier to keep it to myself.”

“Easier for who?” His eyes flick to my fingers, which are still digging into my arm.

“Jesus, Peter, should I be lying down on a couch and paying you a hundred dollars an hour for this?”

“Sorry,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just wanted to—”

“Make me feel all better?”