Kate crosses her arms, face pinching in concentration. “I don’t remember how far back the digital records go. But, I think so. Yes. Sometime in the early 2000s, they digitized everything. It might take some digging, but we should be able to find something. If not a medical record, the news subscription papers you had?”
“The obituaries,” he suggests.
Her face brightens. “Yes. Those. I keep an account because I’m fond of reading about the past through the editorial section.” Her chest brushes against his shoulder as she leans over him to activate the screens. She nods to the network portal on the center screen, where an article from January 15, 2028 is open:
Dating coaches recommend women fulfill more traditional gender roles to attract a partner.
“Regressive, right?” A moment later, she opens an app called Old News, which appears to be the database she referred to, and the cursor is flashing in the search bar. “When did you say you were born?”
“Two thousand.”
Without confirming, she types “James Alexander Fletcher dies death obituary, New York City 2000 2035” into the search.
The screens flash as results populate.
Headlines. Dozens of them.
Infamous vulture capitalist James Fletcher’s plane falls short in landing attempt.
Plane crash kills six, among them up-and-coming equity broker James Fletcher.
Entrepreneur James Fletcher lands in hospital after biggest deal of his career.
Fletcher, James Alexander dies at thirty-five.
Fletcher’s friends and family mourn.
James Fletcher pulled from plane’s fiery remains. Dead hours later.
Entrepreneur James Fletcher donates remains to science.
Fletcher’s big bet pays off.
Fletcher poised to join the Forbes Real-Time Billionaires list.
Fletcher’s untimely death instigates federal investigation.
With each headline, James becomes greener and greener. He places his clammy palms flat on the cool desk as if it might steady him. It doesn’t. “Make it stop,” he pleads. By the time Kate shuts down the screens, he is certain his flesh resembles a stagnant, algae-ridden pond.
He died.Died.
Bile swirls in his stomach, bubbling up to sting the base of his throat. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” What type of sick joke is this?He pushes past Kate, racing for the kitchen. The few sips of Vine he drank come up, coating the sink.
She rushes up behind him. “Oh dear. I suppose I should have fed you before the Vine.”
Another dry heave. Another wave of violence. James can’t remember the last time he cried. A surge of emotion he is wholly unprepared for gushes to the surface. A tearless sob wrenches itself free. Another. And another until his fingers come away wet as he brushes them across his cheeks.
No. NO! This isn’t happening. It can’t be.He refuses to accept this reality.
He stands, gripping the sink, gasping for an indeterminate time. Hyperventilating, really. Then he gathers his senses, stepping away from the counter. Kate hovers near, quietly observing his meltdown. His implosion. He died almost four hundred years ago, if the woman beside him is to be believed. On the cusp of something he could no longer conceptualize. Success. Wild success.Billionaire, the headlines read.
Suddenly, he remembers exactly who he is. He’s the founder, president, and CEO of Tiger Capital, an up-and-coming private equity brokerage in Manhattan.Not anymore, a disembodied voice says. He looks around for who it came from, only to find the 3key seeming to chuckle at him.You’re in the future and you’re losing your mind, it says.Where did all that money go?
He blinks, considering the question. If he’s truly in the future, does his money even exist anymore? If he had ancestors, maybe they’d have it, but he never had kids, much less a wife. Some people who were born to privilege dedicated their life to building family legacy, philanthropy, or a hobby like alpine exploring. But he’d been so focused on amassing as much wealth as possible. No matter what he had to do to get there. His drive had been singular: make it on his own.
There’d been a moment at thirteen when the idea crystallized for him. He hadn’t quite grown into his looks, but that hadn’t stopped him from asking Amelia Beckett to the annual Dwight Spirit Day carnival. Amelia had bouncy blonde hair and the prettiest smile of all the girls in his grade. He might have been intimidated, but he was a Fletcher, and that gave him an innate confidence. So he asked, and she said yes. But when he showed up with her, the boys, who he now understood to be jealous, were relentless in their teasing.
Imagine asking an innocent thirteen-year-old girl how much she got paid to go out with him. His classmates were ruthless when they wanted to be. As if his overly proud father would have agreed to bankroll such a thing. Plus, their accusation was hypocritical, considering all their parents shelled out ridiculous funds for the prep school, too. Admittedly, his family was elite among the elite. But teenage boys didn’t consider those things, and Amelia, embarrassed by all the negative attention, never spoke to him again.
