Thirty Minutes of Tomorrow

How it begins

At nine thirty, Hannah watched herself fail to save a man.

At nine thirty-one, Owen watched himself save a woman in the same place.

Neither event had happened yet.

They stood on opposite sides of the emergency-planning desk, looking at two screens showing the same station clock.

Ten o'clock.

"Run it again," Hannah said.

"I did."

"Then yours is wrong."

"That's a comforting review process."

Outside their office, morning traffic moved with the ordinary confidence of people who had not seen the next half hour.

Hannah enlarged the image.

A man in a yellow coat stood beside platform three. In her feed, he fell when the lights failed.

On Owen's screen, a woman carrying a cello stumbled toward the same edge.

Different people.

Same darkness.

Same train.

Hannah reached for the station contact list.

Owen placed his hand beside the keyboard, not on it.

"Before we send anyone, what did you change after the last alert?"

"Asked them to check the lighting."

"I asked them to close the platform."

They looked at each other.

The feeds refreshed.

On Hannah's screen, the man in yellow moved toward the stairs.

On Owen's, the woman remained beside the tracks.

Hannah wrote the time on a blank sheet.

"Every response changes it."

"Some of it."

"Then we need the people."

"Both?"

She looked up.

The question carried more history than either of them wanted in the room.

Two years earlier, they had made one emergency decision together and spent the months afterward explaining it separately.

Hannah picked up the phone.

"Both."

Owen opened a second line.

The station clock on their screens advanced one minute.

At the bottom of each image, a small label appeared.

Optimal outcome selected.

Hannah read it twice.

Then she reached for the system's settings.

"Selected by whom?" she asked.

Owen stopped dialing.