\u201cThey\u2019re here.\u201d He turned toward the children to inventory fear the way he would inventory a problem. \u201cHey, buddies. I\u2019m Ethan. I\u2019m here to help.\u201d He had no idea why he said his name. Habit, maybe. Or conscience wanting a record.<\/p>\n
The boy lifted his head. He couldn\u2019t have weighed thirty pounds, but the moment he looked up felt heavier than any room Ethan had ever walked into. Gray eyes\u2014steel 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\u2019s gaze followed a second later, a mirror the city had tilted back.<\/p>\n
Ethan\u2019s 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\u2019s voice. He was seeing himself in miniature, twice, and the ground under him shifted the way a stage does when a trapdoor opens.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat\u2026 what\u2019s going on here?\u201d 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.<\/p>\n
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