The bank smelled like carpet cleaner and burnt coffee.
He took a number, sat down, and waited. People around him tapped phones, flipped through forms, stared at nothing. Normal impatience. The kind that assumed tomorrow was guaranteed.
He still didn't know a safe way to warn everyone. He had thought about trying to make anonymous posts on the internet. But he was worried he would be tracked down once it all came out. Then be hauled off for leaking government secrets before the first day even started. He couldn't risk the chance.
When his number was called, he stood, adjusted his worn jacket, and followed the clerk down a short hallway. The clerk was a smaller mousy man, the kind that looked perpetually busy but never seemed to catch up on any work.
The office was small. One desk, two chairs. A framed print of a sailboat that had never seen water. The clerk relaxed behind the desk. He seemed like he actually enjoyed his job.
"Name?" the loan officer asked, fingers already moving.
"Harold," he said, watching it appear on the screen.
"And you're looking to open a business," the man continued. "Food service?"
"Yes sir," Harold said. "Mobile."
The loan officer nodded. "Food truck?"
"With beer." Harold mentioned quickly. "Don't forget the beer."
That earned a second look of mild interest.
Harold slid a folder across the desk. A permit he made up the day before. A simple business plan. Projected costs. Conservative numbers that didn't promise miracles.
Most of it was nonsense. Just clean figures that looked reasonable enough to secure the loan. He only needed the money to last the next thirty days.
"And you brought samples?" the man asked, glancing at the cooler beside Harold's chair.
"I figured it wouldn't hurt," Harold said with a small smile.
The loan officer hesitated, then shrugged. "We're technically not supposed to—"
"I know," Harold said. "But they're sealed."
That much was true. The bottles were capped and labeled by hand. No branding yet. He used to think about starting a brewery but he never really had the chance before. He had always liked the imagery of herbs and plants. There were so many things they could do.
He hadn't had time to make the bottles prettier though. He was counting on the taste to do the work for him.
Honestly, it was good beer.
The man opened one, took a cautious sip, then another. His eyebrows lifted despite himself.
"Did you brew this?" He asked while taking another quick sip.
"In my garage," Harold said. He smiled again, it was always easier to like people who could enjoy a good brew.
"It's clean," the man said. "Balanced."
Harold nodded. Brewing had always been easier than talking. It was all ratios and timing. Temperature. Control without conversation. People always liked to change things.
They talked numbers after that. Revenue projections. Foot traffic. Seasonal slowdowns. Harold answered cleanly, without embellishment. He didn't need this to succeed long-term.
He just needed the cash.
Near the end, the loan officer leaned back. "I'll be honest. This is a little risky. This city isn't exactly known for food trucks. But you've picked decent locations, and you're not promising the moon."
"Nope, I'm looking to build a steady and consistent business model." Harold said.
"You've got collateral," the man continued. "And I like your restraint."
Approval came as a printed page and a handshake. He left him a couple more of the beers and he seemed to appreciate that.
Harold walked out ten minutes later with a loan, a receipt, and the faint sense that he'd just taken the first step.
Outside, he breathed easier. He took his time to look around the busy street. It was hard to imagine it would all come crashing down. At least now he could start moving pieces.
He drove home and went straight to the table, already scrolling through his phone. There was one call he'd been putting off. One that would either help everything fall into place or make things worse.
Josh had always been a skeptic. A big conspiracy guy. Normally that would be a problem. Thankfully, right now, it was an asset.
Last time, Harold had never learned what happened to Josh and Beth. He'd assumed they'd died early, swallowed by the chaos. He had tried to search and ask around. Even made a couple posts on the forums, like the rest of the world when they ended up there. But he never figured it out and the not knowing had stayed with him.
This time, he wouldn't let that happen. He stared at Josh's name and hit dial.
His hand started to shake before the first ring finished.
It rang twice.
"Harold! What's up? It's been a while."
"Hey, Josh," Harold said quickly. "Yeah, it has. Maybe we can fix that. How fast can you and Beth get here? I'll cover the flights. I need you both here as soon as possible."
Silence on the other end.
"How serious is this?" Josh asked.
"Very," Harold said. "I can explain in person. Not over the phone."
He hated leaning into Josh's paranoia, but if it got them here faster, he'd live with it.
There was muffled conversation, then Beth's voice came through. "Harold, can it wait a day or two? I'd hate to miss work."
Harold's chest tightened. Hearing them both made something crack. His voice wavered before he could stop it.
"Please, Beth. The sooner the better. I need you here."
More silence and more hushed voices. He heard a sharp voice but not what they said.
Then Josh came back. "We'll be on a flight in the morning. It'll be good to see you. Prepare some of that beer."
The tension drained out of Harold all at once. Tears followed, heavier now.
"Thank you," he said, voice rough. "We don't have much time."
"We're coming," Josh said. "Just tell me—Sarah's okay, right?"
Harold nodded automatically, then caught himself. "She's fine," he said. "I'll explain everything when you get here. It's going to sound insane. I need you to believe me anyway."
The line went quiet.
Beth's voice came back once more. "We'll be there in the morning Harold. But you owe me an explanation!"
The call ended.
Harold sat there for a moment, phone still in his hand. Josh had been his roommate in university. Both of them engineers. Beth had come later, and somehow fit immediately.
He set the phone down and looked at the table.
The notebooks were still there. Stacked and labeled and waiting on him to continue. He opened the one marked Early Days.
He wrote until his hand cramped.
Dates without years. Names without faces. Events that cascaded because someone made a decision that felt small at the time. He tried to keep it orderly. Lists. Arrows. Cause and effect. But it was too much and it didn't last.
Lines crossed. Notes bled into margins. He wrote faster, then slower, then faster again. His breathing picked up. His chest tightened.
The memories stacked now. Overlapped. Contradicted. He tried to hold them in place and failed.
His hands shook.
"No," he muttered, pressing the pencil down harder. "Stay. Just—stay."
The words blurred. A chair scraped behind him.
Arms wrapped around his shoulders.
He stiffened, then broke.
The pencil hit the floor as he folded forward, breath hitching, the sound tearing out of him before he could stop it. Sarah held him without speaking, one hand firm between his shoulder blades, the other in his hair.
"It's okay," she said quietly. "I've got you."
He couldn't answer. The crying came in waves. Sharp and humiliating. He tried to control them but he couldn't get a hold of himself.
She didn't let go. She just took the time to hold him and Harold cherished the moment.
When it finally passed, he sagged back in the chair, exhausted.
She pulled away just enough to look at him. "It's time you tell me what's happening."
He nodded, once. "Ok," Then again.