“They’re here.” He turned toward the children to inventory fear the way he would inventory a problem. “Hey, buddies. I’m Ethan. I’m here to help.” He had no idea why he said his name. Habit, maybe. Or conscience wanting a record.

The boy lifted his head. He couldn’t have weighed thirty pounds, but the moment he looked up felt heavier than any room Ethan had ever walked into. Gray eyes—steel gray, a color Ethan had been teased for as a child and complimented for as an adult. A dimple on the left that appeared when his mouth tried to settle. The girl’s gaze followed a second later, a mirror the city had tilted back.

Ethan’s breath stalled. His body knew before his mind assembled the evidence: the slope of the brow, the way the mouth quirked when unsure what to do with a stranger’s voice. He was seeing himself in miniature, twice, and the ground under him shifted the way a stage does when a trapdoor opens.

“What… what’s going on here?” he heard himself say, though the question was less about logistics than about time, about how eight years could fold in on themselves without warning.