Sam looked at the clock. The secondhand was raging and wouldn’t stop.

“I can’t believe that they’re going to kill me on my birthday,” Sam lowered his head as the words escaped his lungs. There was resignation.

“We’re still trying, Sam. We have an appeal with the governor tonight at 11:00. We’re hoping for a stay or a pardon,” said James, his lead attorney, as he tried to be upbeat. “It’s just a coincidence that your execution was set on your birthday.”

State Courts had rejected his appeal. The Federal District court had turned him down. Yesterday, the Supreme Court refused to hear his appeal. Sam was desperate.

“It was just a stupid mistake,” said Sam.

It was actually more than a stupid mistake. Sam was a mean drunk. He only meant to shoot the idiot who insulted him in the bar. But once he pulled the trigger, he kept shooting. Five people, including a child, were dead. Now it was Sam’s turn. For nineteen years, he had been waiting on death row. Tonight, at one minute past midnight, he would die by lethal injection.

“They execute you at midnight to avoid another full day of appeals,” mumbled James. Their only hope now was the governor.

“Sam, its time to go,” Four other guards were behind Thomas as he unlocked Sam’s home.

11:00 pm. As Sam was being taken to the holding room, next to the execution room, the Governor was just beginning to be briefed. There was a phone on the wall. Sam willed the second hand to stop sweeping in circles. The clock won.

It’s funny how you can’t stop time. It can be passing faster than a freight train with the second hand cruelly mocking you while the events seem to be in slow motion. That’s how Sam felt. His life was in the hands of one single person now.

“No word yet,” said James.

“No word yet,” mocked Sam.

Sam’s last meal was giving him heartburn. He could feel the acid rising up in his throat.

“Some last meal,” thought Sam.

As hard as he tried, Sam couldn’t stop the clock. Every ounce of will power didn’t slow the clock in the least. At 11:30, Sam went beyond himself. He lowered his head and for the first time in his life, he prayed. The clock continued to move.

“Sam, its time.”

They took him to the sterile execution room. Sam was frantic. No call yet. Thomas pointed to the phone on the wall. His only hope was a call from the governor.

It was surreal as they strapped him down in the gurney. The doctor rubbed alcohol on his arm to avoid infection. He inserted the needle that led to a bag of death. 11:58.

Pleadingly, Sam looked at his attorney.

The phone on the wall startled everyone. The warden picked it up. He listened and looked at Sam, shudddered, and then hung up.

11:59 pm.

“It was the Governor. All he said was, “’Happy Birthday.’”

Here is something the history books don’t describe when they recount August 6, 1945 in Hiroshima: In the moments leading up to the nuclear detonation, dozens of people materialized at ground zero. I know, because I was one of them. There were quite a few Hiroshima natives milling around at a bit after eight in the morning, starting what they thought would be just another day. This being a time of war, they were alarmed by these strangers suddenly appearing, as if by magic. This was made worse by the fact that the strangers ran screaming as fast as they could from the spot where they had appeared. It would do them no good. With less than a minute to run for their lives, all they would succeed in would be changing their fate from a merciful, instantaneous death, to one preceded by a few moments of searing pain. I stood my ground.

Looking up, I saw a plane (the infamous Enola Gay, I had no doubt) pulling up and away, engines screaming in protest. My eyes strained. I thought I caught a glimpse of death falling from the sky but who knows? Knowing there was something to look for, perhaps I imagined it.

No more than fifteen seconds now.

This was considered a clean and merciful form of execution for those who dared violate the laws of time travel. There were any number of events throughout human history, exact moments and locations of certain death, where bodies would never be recovered for identification; where there would be no witnesses surviving to recount the miraculous appearance of the doomed time travelers.

I had to admit, there was a certain poetic justice to it. Especially when you consider that my crime was being the only man in history (if that word retains any meaning in a world with time machines) to engineer an escape for someone condemned to such a death: My wife, who due to my efforts, found herself on the 103rd floor of the World Trade Center on the morning of September 10, 2001, rather than that fateful day after. She, in turn, had been condemned to death for her crime of traveling back in time to prevent my own death in an accident. It’s a lot to get your mind around if you’re not used to it.

A screaming whistle from above, not my imagination now. Looking up, a tiny speck falling, growing larger. For the second time this morning in Hiroshima, the sun comes out. A giant flashbulb. Then black.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

After this, a whirling tunnel of light. I feel like I'm being stretched and pulled like putty. A silhouette in front of me.

“Darling! I’ve found you at last!”

The smell of jasmine.

Twenty-three hours, that’s the important number. Oh, it’s been forty hours since I had a wink of sleep, maybe a half hour less since I showered or shaved and 10:45 and… twenty seconds since I ate anything substantial. But my mind keeps coming back to twenty-three – twenty-three out of twenty-four.

23:06:56, to be precise. It’s hard not to wince at every movement of the watch, not to cringe at every impersonal, unyielding “tick” sound it makes. Though life hasn’t been easy lately, I know this next hour (or less) will be the hardest.

They’ve told me not to think about it, to put it out of my mind and live my life. But how can I? It’s like being told to not think about a polka-dotted elephant: suddenly it’s difficult to think about anything but that. Even my watch (showing it’s now been 23:19:40) reminds me of him.

My mind goes back more than a week. That’s when my father had a stroke, and was rushed to this hospital. He’d made a recovery, and I was able to visit and talk with him for a while. But before they could clear him for release, a second stroke hit. He’d been hooked up to machinery, but he wasn’t coming back from this one, they said.

There was a lot of talk, and eventually it was decided that they could pull the plug – in twenty-four hours. I was (and really, still am) against it, but it wasn’t my call, and I was assured that they’ve done all that they could. That part was horribly true, as I’d found out during the nine hours the hospital allowed no sort of visitors. I’d done a lot of studying, and it boiled down to one thing: if he didn’t make a miraculous recovery in the next 22:39, I’d seen him alive for the final time.

Speaking of time, it was time to make some preparations. Empty my bladder, comb my hair, greet and console the few relations that could make it here. With exactly ten minutes left we were led to a place where we could try to relax and observe. I couldn’t look at him, though. Maybe I’d have to see his body later, but I’d seen him alive -- lying in the bed but alive , and smiling -- and this was the image I wanted to prevail.

The last 4:32 then took on a sort of rhythm. A beep of the machine, followed by a tick from the watch. Occasionally a cough or sniffle joined these sounds, but did not interrupt them. Time ticked away until…

The beeping stopped. The room fell silent for a moment, but for that small ticking. I turned my head and cried. I couldn’t tell you exactly how long I stayed that way, with my arms cradling my head. I was still staring at that watch my father had given me as a present, but for a change, the last thing on my mind was the time.

Tapping. That is all she can do to keep her wits…tapping. Fingers against the table, foot on the floor, tapping rhythmically. Her eyes dart around the room, searching for the thousandth time for a way, any way…tapping.

Breathe in. Foot. Breathe out. Fingers. Her eyes land on the clock, the same model that she remembers from algebra class in high school. She closes her eyes, trying to listen to the faint tick of the clock, willing it to slow down, to stop.

Tapping. A sob escapes from her constricted throat, a small moan of pain and anguish that makes her heart race, her head throb. Her fingers slam on the table, sending shock waves of protest through the tender tips to her brain. The clock won’t stop. Nothing will stop. Time goes on and on, faster and faster, blurring the minutes and days and years, till the moment we end up waiting…waiting…tapping.

She hears the footsteps, senses the whispers before they reach her ears. Her foot taps faster, trying to win a desperate race against the furious beating of her heart. “This morning everything was ok. This morning everything was ok. This morning…” She keeps repeating the words, her mantra, not even realizing she’s speaking aloud.

She inhales shakily and rises from her chair, a contraption of vinyl and wood that is the complete antithesis of comfort. The ticking grows louder, like the countdown at a shuttle launch, a football game, New Years’ Eve. Her arms cross over her breasts, her fingers still tapping, against her arm now, stiff. She finds comfort in the slight pain, an anchor keeping her tethered to humanity. Tapping, standing… Footsteps and whispers growing louder…

Her vision begins to blur, and she slides back down to her seat, gripping the cool vinyl, willing the tears back. Waiting…ticking…whispers…words.

“…everything was ok.”

The door swings open, and activity ceases. Silence takes over, louder than the tapping, the algebra class clock, the footsteps combined. She stops breathing and stares at the intruder.

“Is…is he…”

The doctor pulls his mask off his face and clears his throat.

I blame it on Dolores. She’s the one who told me that a great way to lose weight is to drink lots of water. It satisfies the need, she said, and delays the hunger for just a little while longer. Well, true enough, Dolores, but if we don’t get out of this traffic soon, I’m going to lose a lot of very embarrassing weight right here on the bus.

And coffee. What was I thinking? I never drink coffee after dinner, but I could tell Auntie Ruth was already ticked that I wasn’t eating her carrot cake. She makes the most absolutely scrumptious carrot cake, and she knows I love it, but I can’t just go off my diet the very first day, for cripes sake. She looked really offended. I was amazed. I guess that’s why I had the coffee. If that driver slams on the brakes one more time, I swear I’m going to pee, boom, right here on the spot. There will be a great big tidal wave of steaming pee roaring from here to the front of the bus. That guy in the side seat with the red shoes, his shoes will be ruined, and it will slosh up against the ticket machine and splash all over the dashboard, and the driver will be so shocked the bus will crash into a pole and we’ll all be killed. Oh cripes I hope it happens soon.

Okay. Okay. It’s only about six blocks, and it’s dark. Even if I can’t hold it and I absolutely void myself the exact second I get off the bus, probably nobody will notice because it’s pretty dark and it’s a quiet street. The only thing I have to worry about is the lobby. And the elevator. Oh jeez, the elevator. Wait, that’s okay, because by then I won’t have to go anymore, so I can hang around outside until the coast is clear. Ohmigod, where did that pothole come from? They’ve got to spend a little more money on street repairs in this town. Somebody could be killed. Or just pee herself to death. I swear I’ve read the same sentence a dozen times. My brain is flooded.

I figure I have exactly two minutes and fourteen seconds of sufficient muscle tone left before I explode. That would be the best, actually. “Mysterious explosion kills pretty girl on bus while reading”. An honorable death. There are eleven other people on this bus, I hope they’re not injured, but you know what would be worse? They find out who I am, and they tell the newspapers, “Oh yeah, that Janet girl, she was really pretty, but she couldn’t hold her water”.

One more block. Pull the cord, Janet. Hey, standing up is actually easier, I wish I had tried that earlier. Okay, not so easy any more. I forgot about gravity. My inside muscles are starting to vibrate. Just a few seconds …

RUN THE AMBER, DRIVER! RUN THE AMBER!

Oh, lordy.

Frail and malnourished her innate will to live pushed her on in search of sustenance to keep her alive. She weakly made her way through the woods, its cool dampness the only resource available.

In spite of her desperation for nourishment she had mixed emotions when she came upon the cabin in the clearing. It was not readily apparent if there were occupants and food inside. She saw no signs of life but a jalopied, rusty blue pick-up truck parked at the side of the house. This gave her hope but also caused her doubts. This was dangerous, she’d heard about others being slaughtered here in the woods; she hadn’t come this far to be just another statistic. If people lived here then food was a certainty, but these same people could be killers, perhaps she should be more cautious. If she tried to find a town she would be safer but there was slim chance she’d make it that far. She had to risk it.

Taking a stealthy approach towards the window she saw no movement, no sign of life. Maybe the owners were out, maybe they were asleep, maybe they saw her coming and were hiding. Maybe they were dead. She had to take the chance; she had to get pabulum.

She spotted a small opening in the screen of another window and struggled to widen it enough for her body to fit through. Inside was dark and quiet, her heart pounded but her mind focussed on finding something to eat and leaving as fast as she could.

She cautiously made her way through the maze of rooms, past a deer head trophy that seemed to sneer at her, through a lacy cobweb that briefly snared her. Her heart in her throat, the anxiety palpable, she pressed on undaunted and determined.

In the kitchen she spotted her bounty, FOOD! In all it’s splendor, delicious, life-giving food. She quietly went to it and began to feast, slowly at first so as not to be detected. Soon though, the rapture of the meal engulfed her and she forgot her vigilance.

She saw the blow coming, the blow that would kill her, a moment before it hit. Not enough time for evasive action. And the scream! Oh that scream of death that accompanied it rang in her ears as she died…

DAMN MOSQUITOS!!!!

We set our stopwatches to count down from two minutes, and stepped into the bank.

Rob was always smart growing up. I could never understand why he stuck with the kids from the neighborhood instead of meeting his potential. He saw the world in a different way than the rest of us, all numbers. He'd explain something every once in a while, but it all came out gibberish. He wouldn't get frustrated or make fun of us. He'd just give a faint grin and say, "It's not important. Life goes on," then ask how our favorite athletes were doing.

Rob did all the talking. My job was to wave my shotgun around and keep my eyes open. I didn't notice anything, but we had to expect that the silent alarm had been triggered. There were only two customers and five employees. All except the manager were face down on the floor in front of me with their arms spread out in eight seconds. Rob had allotted 15 for that, so we were good for time. Then there was a problem with the manager.

The economy hasn't been good lately. It was never good in our neighborhood, but it was good enough when we helped each other out. Then a lot of people lost their jobs when some suit decided he could buy more Ferraris for himself if he moved the plant to Mexico. We did okay for a while, picking up work here and there, but with less money going around many of the other shops closed. Sure, some people moved, but not me. And not Rob.

The manager threw up. Then he started gulping air and turned red. He grabbed his chest and fell down. Rob tried to calm the guy down, but it didn't help. He said later that it probably wasn't a myocardial infarction. Whatever the hell that is. This wasted 27 seconds.

High school bored Rob. He read library books in class, and the teachers didn't stop him. Not story books. He got college textbooks. He didn't go to college, but he sure learned stuff. When he first told me about this heist, he showed me pages of numbers and equations he had figured. He'd been watching the police, the traffic, the bank, the weather. Looked like he thought of everything. Two minutes was way below the average amount of time we would have, but he said something about standard deviations and base rates and relative risk. He lost me.

Rob grabbed the manager's keys and systematically tried them in the locks. With 54 seconds left, he calmly asked one of the cashiers to get up and help him. Sobbing, and with shaking hands she went station to station handing him the money. $2,300. 36 seconds left. $5,100. 21 seconds. $6,800. Nine. I heard sirens.

Rob looked at his watch. "Ninety-seventh percentile. Damn. Let's go."

We made it three blocks before the cops boxed us in.

"I'm sorry, Steve."

"It's not important, Rob. Life goes on."

She was doing it again!

The incessant whining was getting on his nerves. So what if it was dark and the car had broken down? They were together. That should count for something. But she just had to whine, had to whimper her distress. From the night air turning chilly to the long walk back to town, everything was whined out in agonizing short bursts of teeth-clenching frustration. Just when he thought she was finished, when she had calmed down and could just enjoy the walk with him, she’d restart.

“But, Bob, it’s dark.”

“But, Bob, I’m cold.”

“But, Bob, I don’t have a sweater.”

“But, Bob, my feet hurt.”

If she “but Bobbed” him one more time, he wasn’t sure what he’d do!

This was their third date and he didn’t see another one in their future. He couldn’t believe he had tolerated her behavior for the first two. Then when he’d found himself on the phone asking for the third, he had seriously wondered if he was losing his mind or just desperate for company.

They walked on in the dark. The silence a solid, tangible thing. “Cut it with a knife” came to mind. His nerves were on edge as he waited for her to restart her tirade. He knew it was coming. It had to be. It was just a matter of time. She would start again soon. The “but Bobs” never seemed to end. He’d hoped the car ride after dinner and parking at the lake would relax her, at least enough for him to get more than a peck on the cheek. He’d tolerated an awful lot for just a peck on the cheek.

She hadn’t given an inch though. Not at dinner! What had made him think to buy her a lobster dinner? Not on the ride! She wouldn’t even sit next to him. “But Bob, I can’t wear my seatbelt sitting there.” She hadn’t even loosened up at the lake! He’d brought a basket filled with wine and cheese and even a blanket to lay down on. All she’d said was “But Bob, I’ll wrinkle my clothing.” They hadn’t even gotten out of the car! “But Bob, the moist air will mess up my hair!” His teeth ground together as his memory replayed the night so far.

He was seething with pent up emotion. His hand wandered into his pocket and he fiddled with the knife he always carried. He wondered what it would feel like to end her babble. To cut the words from her throat before they reached her lips. He looked around at the night and saw only trees and miles of winding darkness stretched in front of them. They were alone; the sliver of moon above their only company.

If she “But Bobbed” him one more time he knew what he would do! He relaxed. His hand tightening on the object in his pocket.

”But Bob....”

Paul fumbled through the front pocket of his blue jeans searching desperately for his car keys. The pouring rain was quickly soaking through his clothing. Paul glanced down at his infant son, Jacob, who was now screaming from the bitter cold water drops that were stinging his little cheeks.

“I know, buddy. Just a second.” Paul attempted to sooth his baby boy. He then patted each of his coat pockets, still feeling for his keys. A smile came across Paul’s face and he sighed with relief.

“There they are.” Paul quickly unlocked the passenger side door to his Chevy Blazer. He gently set Jacob, who was still screaming, in his car seat.

“It’s OK buddy. You want your bottle?” He caressed Jacob’s tiny head. “Coming right up.” Jacob immediately began to suck and his screams turned to pathetic little whimpers. Paul finished hooking the straps to Jacob’s car seat and then hurried around the back of the truck to the drivers seat.

It was about a twenty-minute drive home from the babysitters house. It was unusually dark, given the time of day. Only three o’clock and the sky was black. The wipers moved back and forth in a hypnotic rhythm. Paul yawned as his gaze drifted.

Paul returned his eyes back to the road and standing only a few feet in front of him was a little boy. Time turned to slow motion and lightning struck directly behind the boy, yet he did not flinch. Paul stared into the boy’s glistening, crystal blue eyes with disbelief. The boy returned the gaze with empty eyes.

After what seemed to be an eternity, but was really only the fraction of a second, Paul slammed his right foot down on the break with extreme force. Simultaneously, he cranked the steering wheel left as far as it would go. The Blazer swerved out of control, barely missing the boy. Paul looked back over his shoulder where the boy had been standing and saw nothing.

Quickly he turned his head back toward the road just in time to see the huge oak tree directly in front of him. There was no time to react and the Blazer wrapped itself around this beautiful old tree. The shattering of the windshield rang in Paul’s ears. The front of the truck morphed into an unrecognizable piece of scrap metal.

Paul felt as if he were dreaming. He was sprawled across the driver’s seat, blood dripping from his chin. The only sound he heard was that of his own breathing. “This isn’t real.” He said under his breath. Again, “This can’t be real.” A little louder. “Jacob!” He screamed. “Jacob! Oh my God!”

Lucinda turned the dial of the bright yellow timer to three, let it go, set it down on the dresser, and stepped back. Immediately, it began ticking. She looked at Paulo, paused, and took six hesitant steps across the room to join him on the bed.

“We have three minutes,” she thought. Words echoed in her head, despite the timer, seemingly thunderous in the silence.

“We have three minutes,” Paulo thought. Frantically, he searched his male repertoire for the right words.

Lucinda bit her lower lip, pulling the soft flesh inward with a hissing inhale. This startled Paulo, and he turned to her. She began to rock softly. The ticking of the egg timer continued. Paulo was still. He turned his gaze from Lucinda back to the small ticking bomb.

“If I look at her when she’s about to cry, I’ll cry too,” he thought. “That’s not what she needs now. I should say something, I know I should.”

Lucinda began counting ticks in her head. “Fifty-five, fifty-six, fifty-seven . . . why doesn’t he say something? Anything, dammit, what is he waiting for? We only have two minutes.”

Paulo was lost in thought. “What do I say? Should I tell her it doesn’t matter? Should I tell her which I’m hoping for?”

The egg timer let out a loud clack, as the dial moved from three to two. Startled, they looked at each other, then quickly looked back to the timer. Still it ticked, the sounds quickening as their heartbeats raced.

“What do I say? Should I tell him it doesn’t matter? Should I tell him which I’m hoping for? Hell, we’re in this together, what’s wrong with him?”

“She’s looking at me again, what should I say? I don’t want to go through this again. How many times can we go through this?”

“What is he thinking? What should I say? I don’t want to go through this again. How many times can we go through this?”

Lucinda released her lower lip as she exhaled sharply. The timer ticked from two to one. Each of them was caught up in their private paranoia. Neither knew what to say. Neither moved.

Paulo reached for Lucinda, encircling her with his tanned, muscular arms. He noticed the contrast of his dark skin with her ivory complexion. He noticed the blue clarity of her eyes, as she looked up to him, a tear just beginning to form.

“What would our child look like?” he thought. “My brown eyes, dark skin, black hair; her blue eyes, fair skin, strawberry ringlets, who knows?”

“Ding,” the timer sounded the finality of the moment.

“Well, I guess this is it,” whispered Lucinda, “are you ready to find out if we’ll be using that crib your mother sent?”

“Yes,” said Paulo, finally finding his voice, “no matter what, Lucy, we’ll be fine, and if it’s not this month, we’ll have our family someday. We’ll make it happen. I love you.”

Lucy sighed, her tension ebbed, “I’m ready.”