Leave the heat at the door. Drenched through and still a bit dehydrated, I unlock the door and carefully trudge into the house. Home. Greeted by the dogs, each one requires a word, a pet. They’ve learned to be quiet when Amanda’s asleep. Sometimes when I don’t work too late, she tries to stay up and see me. Tonight she fell asleep, exhausted after a hard day. She does the Good Work of the World, this present world. I am working my way into the future past. This house is where our timelines join.

She tells me about her day in brief. I have learned how to let it roll over me. Was a time I worked in her world. Was a time and though it was a good time it was also not a good time. The world was in the process of another in a long number of unspoolings. 2020 was an unspooling year. A year of lines coming unwound, like the lines tying the Belle to the wharf.

We are all held by figure eights and two half-hitch knots. We are all floating, an endless fleet. She and I are two boats tied together. When she tells me about her day I think of the madness chasing the walls of the old church, and remember why I am in the future past.

The boat I work on is a memory machine. It’s docked on the edge of four worlds. On days like today, I leave the heat outside the door and sink into the comfort of this now. It will be waiting for me when I go back out tomorrow.