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“Lots of kids don’t worry even when there’s something to worry about. They’re too insensitive.”

“How about you?” I wanted to change the subject. I was getting way too much credit.

“I don’t know why I’m sad half the time. I just am.”

I wanted to say to her, Now, see, that’s the real deal. That’s being sensitive and screwed up . . . the classic Breakfast Club stuff. I’m an amateur compared to you. But I didn’t. I just nodded, like I knew what she was talking about.

“Do you want to tell me about the things you’re worried about? Would it help?”

“It’d help me. I think it would fuck you up.”

“I can take it.”

“I’m not sure.”

“Try me.”

And I was so sick of being on my own that I took her up on the offer. It’s probably the most selfish thing I’ve ever done in my whole life.

I asked her over to my house for lunch, after a Saturday morning rehearsal. Mom took us back and fixed us sandwiches, and when we’d eaten we went up to my room to listen to music—or that’s what she thought we were going to do. When we got upstairs, though, I explained everything, right from the beginning. I’d prepared this; I’d rewound to the point where the news started taking over the networks, and I’d found a section where they were talking about what happened when, and all the dates they mentioned were in the future. That was my evidence, and Martha believed it. It took a couple more hours to get back to the New York City subway scenes, but she wanted to see them, so we just sat there waiting. And then she watched, and then she started to cry.

Listen: There’s something that’s bothering me. Before, when I said that I asked Martha out on a date because I haven’t done anything in my life yet ... I’m not so much of an asshole that this was the first thing I thought of. It wasn’t. It was one of the first, sure, but, you know—six weeks! There are lots of other things I wanted to achieve in my life, but I’m not going to get them done in six weeks. I’m not going to go to film school, and I’m not going to have a kid, and I’m not going to drive across the U.S.; at least sex is something achievable. And it’s not like I was just looking for the first available piece of ass, either. I really like Martha a lot. In fact, if . . . but let’s not go there. This is the happy ending, right?

Anyway. The next part came naturally. She stopped crying, and we talked, and we tried to understand what had happened. Martha knows more about that shit than I do; she said things were already pretty bad, now, in the present, but because things are happening in other countries a long ways away, I hadn’t noticed. I’ve been watching the basketball, not the news. And then we had this real sad conversation about the stuff I’d already been thinking— about what we’d miss, and what we’d never do. . . .

The truth is, she suggested it, not me. I swear. I mean, I wasn’t going to say no, but it was her idea. She said that she wanted us to get good at it, which meant starting like straightaway. (She said this before, by the way. She didn’t say it in response to anything, if that’s what you’re thinking.) So I made sure Mom was still out, and then we kissed, and then we got undressed and made love in my bed. We didn’t use anything. Neither of us can have any sexual disease, and if she gets pregnant, well, that’s fine by us. We’d love to have a kid, for obvious reasons.

Well, that’s it. That brings you up-to-date, whoever you are. Martha and I see each other all the time, and this weekend we’re going to go away together; I’m going to tell Mom that I want to see Dad, and she’s going to give her parents some other excuse, and we’ll take off somewhere, somehow. And that’ll be something else we’ve checked on the list—we’ll have spent a whole night together. I know it’s maybe not the happy ending you were hoping for, but you probably weren’t hoping for a happy ending anyway, because you already know about the Time of the Static. Unless you’re reading this in the next six weeks, and I’m sure as hell not going to show anybody. How is it where you