8 Seconds

The countdown starts the moment I enter the stadium. I relish my minute and thirty seconds, tossing a blonde French braid over my shoulder and posing with my tongue out for the nearby Jumbotron camera. Rancorous applause follow me as I skip past fans and jump atop the bullpen platform.

I wave while my coach catches up, taking in the massive space. The Calgary Stampede generates larger crowds every year, but this is my first summer attending. My nerves are eclipsed by my excitement.

Holand arrives with thirty seconds to spare, sauntering up in a checked shirt to match my own. I tip my favourite cowboy hat to the jumbotron, then sling it on Holand’s brown coils.

“Keep an eye on this for me, won’tcha darlin’,” I smirk. The time to talk strategy has long passed. Instead, we perform.

“Of course.” He bows like a gentleman. “Give’em hell!”

“You know it.” I nod to the handler, then mount the tightly penned bull.

3 seconds.

Deep breath. I focus on becoming one with the fuming animal.

2.

Left hand raised. I can do this.

1.

Let’s go!

The front gate falls, and we bolt onto the dirt stadium floor. I’m shoved back in my seat, then thrust forward as we come to a screeching halt. Thrown to the side and half out of my seat as my ride starts doing donuts. I brace every muscle, trying to flow with the beast.

2 seconds have passed. The dirt blurs beneath us and the cheers fade, but my internal clock never stops.

4 seconds. Halfway to the start line.

At 4.3 seconds, we dive into a front leg plant, then buck. I feel us slow near the top, my hand still raised. I’m nearly horizontal. I tuck into a better position, anticipating our fall back. But we’re still tipping forward.

I change course, moving to follow the bull’s twisting landing. The ground veers into sharp focus. I’m instinctually scouting for the last threshold before bailing. Spotting a landing.

But the deep seeded need to win that pulled me through five years of training will not bail. Not when I’m so close.

We tumble forward further. I hang on past my threshold. Watch my landing disappear behind me.

At the last instant the bull twists, and we are falling back on our feet. I crouch back in my seat, every muscle strained, to avoid the horns that smash through where arms were moments before.

We land and immediately buck, and I know I’ve messed up. My weight is too far back. I go flying over the bull’s head, into the dirt. I roll on the mud, something in my shoulder pops and the wind is knocked out of me, I trip over my feet trying to stand and roll a second time over my dislocated shoulder, struggling to get any useful limb beneath me. That’s all it takes.

I fall back to see a hoof traveling towards my head at an incredible speed, encompassing my entire vision as the crowd cringes and there’s a loud crunch.

3.6 minutes later.

I’m walking in the deserted field outside the stadium wearing a jean jacket bearing my team logo. I’m in the middle of a sentence.

No. I’m doubled over trying to catch the breath I already have. I’m alive I’m alive

I’m...

The hell?

I’m leaning on my knees, panting and shaking and gulping air.

My shoulder feels fine. My cowboy hat is falling in my face. I’m. Not. Dead.

What just happened? Was this some creepy... daydream? Premonition? It felt so vivid. Should I book an emergency appointment with my visualisation coach?

Then, I hear the sirens, and my frail hope dissolves like sugar cubes in a rainstorm.

Just when I think I’m having a mental breakdown, a voice appears out the void and confirms it.

“Jump 1: Complete.” It sounds like God-damn Siri. I reach into my pocket, but my phone is off for the competition. No distractions.

“You have... 3... jumps remaining. Battery life... 60%.”

Ugh! Where is this voice coming from? I dig through my pockets before finally rounding on my watch.

“Do you want to enter power-saving mode?” it chirps.

“What is power saving-mode?! What the hell is going on!” I'm irate and delusional.

“Power-saving mode increases your jumps per charge by 30%. This action would reduce your jump time from 1 hour to 8 seconds. Would you like to take this action?”

“Yes?” What else should I say?

“Okay. You will not be able to recover your 1-hour jump time until 1 full hour after reinstating this jump time. Would you still like to take this action?”

“Yeah, whatever.” My attention is captured by the growing crowd emerging from the stadium.

“Action... success. You have... 4... jumps remaining.” I’ve completely tunned Siri out.

People look more confused than subdued, and a person causes a stir when they spot me, pointing and shouting.

They draw an even larger crowd, but I’ve already started jogging. Heading for my truck parked in the neighbouring field, I’m relieved to find my keys in my pocket. I climb in and power up my phone before turning the key and gunning the engine.

I swing out of the lot as fast as I can without skidding on hay. I don’t think there is a long enough road on the planet for me to comfortably disappear down right now, but I’ll try.

I check my phone. It powered up but reads 56 minutes slower than my dash clock. It’s never done that before. Whatever. I call Holand. He picks up on the first ring, frantic.

“Angela?”

“It’s me-”

“Are you okay? What the hell happened out there?”

“I don’t know,” I step on the gas, watching for cars on the horizon behind me. “I was riding, then I fell and-”

My heart seizes and my breath shallows. I died.

“I saw you fall, and then I couldn’t see you anymore and they couldn’t find you on the Jumbotron. How’d you get out of there so quickly when the paramedics descended...” Holand yammers on, but my mind is reeling.

“Are you still wearin’ my hat?” I blurt.

“Yes, of-” The other end of the line rustles. “Actually, no, I’m not, and I’m sorry I lost it but there are more important things going on right now.”

“Yeah there are. Cause I’m wearin’ my hat.”

“What?”

“I’m wearin’ my hat. The hat I gave to you.”

We sit in silence.

I pull the phone away from my ear to add Holand on video, glancing away from the road. “I know it doesn’t make sense, but I didn’t leave the stadium. I-”

That’s when the truck appears. I slam on my breaks as I collide with an oil tanker at the only intersection for miles while running the red. The last thing I see is metal crunching in around me with a concussive boom.

80 milliseconds later.

I’m clutching my phone and slamming on the breaks.

No, I’m falling out of thin air at 40 kilometres per hour and rolling. I tuck my chin in a I spin on my side, picking up gravel.

Finally, the world straightens. I untuck myself and check for injuries. My back’s stiff and my thick denim is shredded, but my head seems to be on straight. I feel heat radiating from the oil truck on fire next to me.

Shit. I pull myself up and run for the crash. Only the back tanker of two has exploded, but flames are licking at the first. I lost my phone in the roll, so I can’t call for help.

“Jump 2: Complete.” I block Siri out. “You have... 3... jumps remaining. Battery life... 45%.”

I skid around the front of the truck and pull open the cab’s driver side door. It’s hot from the blast and stings my hand, but I manage to pull it free and reveal the driver slumped on the wheel.

I pull him out of the cab, and we tumble a short distance to the ground. Sweat from the heat is stinging my eyes. I keep my arms around his shoulders to protect his head and start backing us away from the trailer.

BOOM. The front tanker explodes, and I throw myself in front of the unconscious man as scalding heat envelops us.

80 milliseconds later.

I’m pulling a heavy body out of the cab of the truck.

No, I’m standing in front of charred metal and bubbling paint. Sweat stings my eyes.

“Jump 3: Complete.” I block Siri out. “You have... 2... jumps remaining. Battery life... 30%.”

“Shut UP! Shut up shut up shut up!! Let me out of this hell hole!”

“Silent mode: Engaged.”

My breathing is laboured and my head spins. I fall forward and vomit, knees digging into hot asphalt. I've been dying. Again. And again. And I might have killed someone else this time.

I turn and sprint to where I abandoned the man. There’s an outline of burns on his face and neck that reveals where I stood, but he’s breathing. Shallowly breathing.

This dissolves my last grain of cool. I force myself to take in every burn. One tear leaks out, then they’re all falling. I manage to pull the man further from the wreak. I find his phone in his jacket pocket and call emergency services, stumbling through their questions. Then I sit down and wait.

I know I should run. I messed up. 25 years to life messed up. But I can’t make myself leave. So, I watch the fire burn brightly, cooking in the Calgary sun, and I wait. Everything else falls away.

_

A woman with neat brown hair pats my shoulder before sitting down on the opposite side of the steel table. I stare at her suit jacket and the water cup they gave me and her wedding ring, instead of looking her in the eye.

“That man will survive thanks to you. You did a wonderful thing, stopping to help him.”

That is the most misleading sentence ever spoken. I want to correct her, but shame strangles my words.

“The doctors expect he’ll wake up soon. You’ve waited long enough while we sorted this out, but you can get going now. Thank you for your service.”

I’m hollow. Something is wrong. But one thing is sure: I wouldn’t accept this outcome if I was that man’s family.

“That not-”.

“Sweet-pea,” the detective says forcefully. “You’ve been through a lot. I think you should be on your way now.”

She holds the thick door open for me. I swallow. I can come back tomorrow and turn myself in. Right now, all I want is to go home and sleep.

I let the woman guide me out to the lobby. I look around hopefully, searching for Holand, or maybe my mom. She lives a few hours out of town, but I’ve never needed a hug more.

A thirty-something man steps forward with a somber smile, saying he’ll be driving me back to my apartment.

“Thanks.” I mumble.

Outside, the station is glaringly loud and sharp. Morice-not-Detective-Cole-that-was-my-father opens the passenger door of his old two-seater for me. Beige on tan on reflective steel fuse together as we drive. I don’t recognize the streets we take, and I don’t care.

After about 20 minutes, we pull down a side road into a small empty lot facing Louise Bridge.

Good. I don’t know what was going on back at the station, but I can’t deal with the mounting guilt anymore.

“I crashed into the tanker. I think I ran the light, and I was speedin’, and I was on my phone, and I am so, so sorry.” I don’t feel any lighter having confessed.

“I know. You really made quite a mess for us to disappear. We were hoping we’d only have to explain your sudden disappearance from the stadium.”

What? No. Hell no. I really have gone insane. And I've already hurt one person. I need help.

“Sir. I think I may be hallucinating right now, maybe all day. Can we go to the hospital?” I watch Morice’s face twist with amusement.

I feel sugar cubes dissolving. I start fiddling with my watch. This stupid, hellish watch.

“It’s a nifty little thing,” he says, holding up his wrist for me to see an identical model. “When someone first told me we could travel into the future, I thought who’d bother if you can’t get back? Why, you’d be stuck.

“But then again, being stuck is better than being dead.”

“No. I don’t want this. Why me? This is horrible." The point, the thrill, of life is knowing it could be over at any moment. It’s what drew me to bull riding. “Why did you do this to me?!”

“We only gave you the watch. You chose to put it on.”

I remember the single unsigned present on my 16th Christmas. I teased my parents endlessly, saying they didn’t need to shop on behalf of Santa anymore. I overlooked the confused glance that passed between them.

“I didn’t know it led to a future of pain. I nearly killed that man.”

“Well, that was completely your own doing. No one to blame but yourself.

"But to answer your question, we chose you because you're a risk taker with a good internal clock. We want to recruit you.”

“Take it back,” My hands are shaking, but I still try to unclip the device. “Take the offer back, take the watch back, take everything back and leave me alone.”

The watch is cold, dead against my skin, dragging me down.

“I’m afraid it’s a bit too late for that,” he clucks. “At least this will be very easy given you only have two jumps left.”

Morice pulls out his gun and shoots me in the gut.

It burns, stings, feels like the single 9-caliber bullet is tearing me apart. I gasp. He hit something important. This hurts more than every broken bone I’ve earned combined.

“Sorry about the whole strung out death thing,” he yammers as I curl in on myself, “but you need to be dying for longer than your 8 second jump time.”

3 seconds. I think back to the first aid my mom insisted I learn, but my mind is clouding over. I don’t know what to do.

“Don't you see, we even customized your jump time for you. And we have such great benefit packages. Two months paid time off, can you imagine?”

7 seconds. I know I should be putting pressure on the wound, but it hurts too much.

“Sorry, but we’ll have to wait a little longer just to be sure.” He glances at his watch, but I don’t need to.

10 seconds.

“Well, that should be enough. I’m sorry we can’t welcome you to the team.”

“Go to hell.” I cough up blood.

“Okie-dokie.” Morice raises the gun, and the world disappears with a bang.

900 milliseconds later.

I’m ready for it this time, so I leap out the passenger door the moment I return to myself. I hear Morice fumble in surprise, then two shots ring out and the window shatters. I crouch behind the back wheel well, putting as much of the car between myself and Morice.

“I don’t know why you bothered,” Morice taunts as he carefully gets out on the driver’s side. “You’ll bleed out faster if you move.”

But I’m not bleeding out. I set my watch back to 1-hour jumps the moment he started cackling like a crazy person. I don’t know exactly how far back it went, but it was far enough.

Jump 4: Complete, my watch flashes silently. You have 0 jumps remaining. Battery life 0%.

The screen goes dark. I have one chance.

Morice starts moving carefully around the car, his footsteps crunching on scattered rocks with each even step. I glance tentatively under the car, looking for the gas tank.

“Just get out here already,” he snaps. Morice talks a big game, but I think he hates dying as much as I do. He’s cautious, biding his time.

I spot the gas tank and position myself so I’ve tucked one leg underneath and kick as hard as I can. The small spur on the back of my cowboy boots pierces the old tank.

A small trickle of gas soaks my foot. At the sound, Morice crouches and haphazardly fires under the car without looking, trying to keep his head out of danger.

A bullet tears through my calf, and I stifle a scream. I crawl back around the front of the car through shattered glass, gasping, as Morice rounds the back bumper.

“I know where you are, Angela. You’re only prolonging the inevitable.”

“Oh really?” I toss my lighter in a graceful arc towards Morice. It whips past his head and away from the pooling gas.

He laughs, and I want to rip the smile off his face. I settle for sliding the pack of cigarettes I lit under the car. Then I roll. I roll like a child down a hill, like when I fell from my truck. This is the thrill I live for.

1 second.

2.

The car should have exploded by now. Morice’s footsteps crunch forward confidently.

BOOM!

A wave of heat passes over my head. It’s significantly weaker than when the tanker went up, but it still scalds. I immediately hobble to my feet.

Morice is on the ground, stunned but reaching for his gun. I stumble the last few steps and kick the gun away before picking his head up and driving it into the ground.

He’ll be fine.

As I pull off my watch, I feel a gripping urge to keep it. Instead, I drop it next to Morice’s body and limp away.