Page 10 of Harbinger of Destiny

“You mean like if Albert Einstein’s mother were to come back with one of us before she gave birth to him?” one recruit called out.

“Exactly. We’ve carefully selected from the pool of women who died during the 2025 pandemic, so we won’t have to worry about a disruption in the space-time continuum. Only the women destined to die may be brought back to our time. It is the only rule you may never break, no matter the circumstances.”

Then he looked at Joshua. “No matter how ugly the woman assigned to you is.”

Joshua felt heat suffuse his neck and head. Shit! He’d never felt so embarrassed in his entire life. He could hear the snickering behind him, but there was no escape. His only consolation was that he would soon be traveling to another time where nobody knew him.

* * *

Santa Monica, Wednesday, April 2, 2025

The reason why Dr. Mandell hadn’t provided him with newer photos of Amy became clearer with every second. Dr. Mandell and Professor Henley had decided to teach him a lesson, to punish him for his—admittedly insensitive—question.

They had paired him with a woman who could never be considered beautiful, not even pretty. No, they’d assigned him a woman whose left side of her face was marred by ugly scars that looked like burn marks—whether caused by fire or acid, he didn’t know. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was the result.

The pretty fifteen- or sixteen-year-old girl who’d once shown such promise of blooming into a beautiful young woman, looked grotesque. Whatever accident she’d had, had destroyed her good looks.

“How would you like to pay?” Amy asked, her voice a little sharper now, her gaze connecting with his.

He realized that he’d been staring at her for more than just a second. But she didn’t look away. She tilted up her chin as if in defiance, as if daring him to look closer. He felt like a jerk.

“Apologies, my mind was somewhere else,” he lied and reached for his wallet. For today he’d already taken out the maximum allowed from his digital payment source, so he pulled out a twenty-dollar-bill and handed it to her.

Amy opened a drawer underneath the counter and counted out his change. When she handed it to him, and he reached for it at the same time, their hands touched for a second. Instantly, Joshua pulled back. At the same time, he met her eyes. He knew immediately how she’d interpreted his action: as if he was disgusted by her, as if her touch was poisonous.

“I’m sorry,” he said, quickly averting his eyes, unable to bear her hurt look any longer. Fuck! This wasn’t a good start. Things couldn’t get any worse.

Amy pushed the plate with the muffin and the bottle of orange juice toward him.

“Thank you,” he said, then saw a plastic tip jar with coins and banknotes in them. He dropped the change she’d given him into it, not caring that his tip was larger than his bill.

Quickly, he grabbed his food and drink and retreated to a table in the far corner of the coffee shop. He took one bite from the muffin, but had lost his appetite.

6

I WILL SURVIVE

The young man who couldn’t be older than twenty-one or -two stared at her with disgust in his eyes. Amy knew that look all too well. For three years she’d had to endure it from any number of people she encountered. Nobody had ever been able to look past the disfiguring scars to see the girl beneath the ugliness. She’d been popular in junior high, had made friends easily despite coming from a broken home and moving from one foster family to another. But ever since the event that had left her with scars so ugly that she rarely looked in the mirror anymore, everybody avoided her. As if she didn’t deserve friendship or a kind word.

Or love…

She’d never before seen the young man who’d ordered a muffin and orange juice and was now digging into his pocket to pull out his wallet. It gave her time to study him. And why shouldn’t she? He’d overtly scrutinized her as if she were a freak in the circus, or an exhibit in a museum.

He was tall, dark, and so very different from her. Too good looking. Too perfect. Too unattainable. But that didn’t stop her from letting her eyes and her mind wander. His shirt clung to him, indicating the muscular physique beneath. His arms looked strong and could cradle a woman in need of protection. His eyes were dark brown, his nose straight, his dark hair short, his skin flawless. Yes, he was the kind of guy haunting any lonely girl’s dreams. And that’s all he would do, because a guy like this would never touch a girl like her.

The only time she ever felt a man’s arms around her, his lips on her, his cock inside her, was when she went to a dark bar or nightclub—if there was no bouncer to get past—and picked up a guy who was too drunk to care or notice that she was ugly. Her favorite holiday was Halloween, because it was the only night where she could wear a mask that disguised her face, giving her an opportunity to meet others without them recoiling from her.

Amy accepted the twenty-dollar-bill the stranger handed her and counted out the change. She thrust the money toward him, and their hands touched. A jolt akin to an electrical charge went through her, making her keenly aware how much she missed being touched by a man, how much she craved affection and physical closeness. And that the man whose hand she’d touched flinched.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled.

Amy didn’t acknowledge his words, didn’t react, just pushed the plate with the muffin and the bottle of juice closer to him so he would withdraw and leave her alone with the longing that was spreading inside her now.

“Thank you,” he said, then suddenly dropped the change she’d given him—all eleven dollars and forty-four cents—into the tip jar.

He turned quickly and walked to a table in the corner. She followed him with her eyes, allowing herself another second or two to daydream, before she turned back to cleaning the coffee machine.

Minutes later, Mr. Mercola was back. He shoved his cell phone into his pocket and looked at her.