“We’re all okay,” the man beside Peri said firmly, a ribbon of sweat inching down his neck, and Sandy looked at her feet, her lips parting. “B-but …,” Peri stammered.
“I said we’re all okay,” the man said again. “Frank doesn’t need an ambulance. It’s just a bloody nose, for God’s sake.”
Frank turned off the water, motions small as he edged out from behind the bar. Shaky, Peri sat against the edge of the table and tried to figure out what had happened. At least she knew where she was and who she was with. Her eyes slid to the Opti stiff now sitting on the raised fireplace hearth, his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands, his curly black hair hiding his eyes. Mostly, anyway.
Feeling ill, she staggered to the bar. Sandy made a tiny noise, looking scared as Peri moved to stand right before her. Frank, too, became oddly alert. “Shit, I’ve got a black eye,” she said as she caught sight of it in the mirror. She carefully prodded it, deciding it was a day old. They’d just come back from task, then. That would explain the aches.
Just that small knowledge made her feel better. “Where’s Jennifer?” Peri asked, her flash of good mood dying when Sandy’s eyes darted to the man at the fireplace.
Peri turned, her growing hunch that she’d overdrafted growing when the man on the hearth looked up, his eyes haunted. “Ah, what day is it?” Peri asked him weakly. Crap, the jukebox was gone, replaced with some new system she’d have to relearn.
“Er, it’s Saturday now. I think.” The man glanced at Frank when the big man cleared his throat in warning. “I’m sorry. I should have asked you before. Are you okay?”
Peri’s throat tightened. Something had gone very wrong. “No,” she said as she turned back to the bar, laying her arms flat on the smooth wood and dropping her head to hide her face against them. It was bad, really bad—so bad she felt sick to her stomach.
“I’ll give it all to you later, but the guy you were watching tried to rob the place. He shot you. You drafted. He ran out in the second weave.”
Why is it I can handle both when told, but remembering them will cause a psychotic episode? “I don’t remember you,” Peri said, her breath coming back from the bar warm and stale. She tensed at his footsteps, then jumped when his hand landed on her shoulder and fell away. A tear brimmed but never fell. Knowing he was still there, she looked up at the stranger with whom she’d been sharing her life for who knew how long. His glasses drew her, as if she should recognize them. “What year is it?”
His smile faded. “Year?” The lump in Peri’s throat grew, and when she did nothing but silently stare at him, he whispered, “It’s February 2030. Valentine’s is next week….”
Peri’s stomach caved in and became a knot. Oh God. She’d lost three entire years. Someone had tried to kill her and apparently succeeded. That’d be the only reason she’d lost so much. Turning away, she held her breath. “I’m sorry, I don’t remember you.” Three years? How could I lose three years?
“Oh …,” the man said, and she jerked, heart pounding when he touched her again. She was angry, as if she’d done something unconscionably stupid. “I’m Allen. Ah, Allen Swift,” he said, his hand falling away with a guilty slowness.
Taking a deep breath, Peri met Allen’s eyes. She didn’t know this man, but Frank and Sandy did, and she was tired of looking stupid. Besides, she’d lost time before. This man would help her find her way. “Can we go home?” she said, and Allen looked so relieved that she couldn’t help but try to smile back.
Her hand in his felt okay as he helped her off the stool. She might not remember him, but he clearly knew her. “You have this?” he asked Frank.
“Yes. You?” the big man answered. Sandy was still pale as she stood behind him, glancing at her feet again to make Peri wonder if she was avoiding broken glass. Her continued frightened silence behind the bar was odd.
Allen took Peri’s coat from the bar. “We’ll figure it out. Peri, you’ve got the keys, right?” he asked as he helped her into it.
Peri touched her coat pocket to find a fob. “Looks like it,” she said, doubting it belonged to the little Beemer she remembered. Her taste in clothes had improved in the last three years, and the coat was everything she liked. Allen pulled a gray scarf from a table and got her moving, and she paused, more curious than shocked at the blood on the door. With a small grunt, Frank hustled over and unlocked it, accidentally kicking the floor sweeper into the wall, where it gave a pained whine and died.
“After you,” Allen said as he wound his scarf about his neck. The cool night air shocked through her as the door opened, and Peri took one last look at Sandy standing stiffly behind the bar. There was a strand of black hair caught in Peri’s fingers, and she pulled it free to let it drift to the cold pavement. Frank was watching from the open door, and Peri’s unease grew.