Yeeted Through Time.

Thomas hadn’t planned on stopping in Chicago. He’d been driving for hours — Ohio to Illinois in one long, caffeine‑fueled trip — and his GPS kept glitching like it was possessed. By the time he rolled into the city, his eyes were burning, his stomach was growling, and his car smelled like fast food and regret.

He pulled into the first place that looked open: El Flying Dragon, a small Hispanic bar‑and‑grill tucked between a laundromat and a tattoo shop. Neon lights flickered in the window, and the smell of coffee and ham croquetas drifted out every time someone opened the door.

“Perfect,” Thomas muttered. “Food that isn’t gas‑station junk food.”

Inside, the place was warm, loud, and alive. Early 90s reggaeton music played from a speaker in the corner, and the walls were covered in colorful neon signs. Thomas walked up to a seat at the bar and waved the bartender over. The bartender asked Thomas what he wanted, but before he could finish, someone slid into the seat next to him.

“Hola, amigo,” the stranger said, grinning. “I'll have dos of what he’s having.”

(Hello, friend… I’ll have two of what he’s having.)

“Two tequila?”

“Sí.”

(Yes.)

Thomas blinked. “Uh… hi?”

“I’m Miguel,” he said. “You seem like you’ve been traveling awhile, amigo. ¿No?”

Thomas laughed. “I mean… yeah.”

Miguel leaned in. “Do not turn around. No te muevas.”

(Don’t move.)

Thomas immediately started to turn.

Miguel slapped his arm. “¡Ay, por favor! Why do people always do the opposite of what I say?”

(Oh, please!)

Thomas whispered, “Then tell me who’s behind me.”

Miguel lowered his voice. “There is a man watching you. He has been staring at you since you walked in.”

Thomas risked a tiny glance — and nearly choked. The man wore a top hat, a trench coat that looked older than the building, and a modern digital watch on his wrist.

“What… what is he wearing?” Thomas whispered‑chuckled.

“Ropa from every century, I guess,” Miguel joked.

(Clothes.)

Thomas snorted. “Okay, but why is he staring at me like I owe him money or something?”

Miguel shook his head. “No, amigo. He is not normal. He is… cómo se dice… fuera del tiempo.”

(Out of time.)

“Out of time?”

“Exactly. He is a time traveler.”

Thomas stared. “Miguel. Buddy. You can’t just say that.”

“I know what I saw,” Miguel insisted. “He ordered a beer earlier and said ‘thankee.’ Who says ‘thankee’ now-a-days?”

Thomas peeked again — and the man was still staring, eyes wide, like he’d found his “chosen one.”

“Why me?” Thomas whispered.

Miguel grabbed his wrist. “Because he needs someone. Someone fuerte de voluntad. Someone strong‑willed enough to survive whatever curse he carries.”

(Strong‑willed.)

Thomas groaned. “Well, he can keep looking.”

The man stood up and started walking toward them.

Miguel ordered, “Vámonos. Now!”

(Let’s go!)

Thomas quickly plopped a twenty on the table and ran.

They bolted out of the restaurant, sprinting to Thomas’s car. Thomas fumbled with his keys.

The two of them didn’t stop driving for nearly an hour. Chicago faded behind them, then the suburbs, then the endless stretch of highway that looked the same no matter what state you were in. Miguel kept twisting around in his seat like the man might be hiding in the backseat.

After another thirty minutes of silence, Miguel finally said, “Okay… I think we lost him.”

Thomas wasn’t convinced, but his hands were cramping from gripping the wheel. “Yeah? Well, my hands are about to stop working in a minute. We’re stopping.”

He pulled into a half‑empty parking lot beside a 24‑hour convenience store. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead.

Miguel stepped out, stretching. “Ay, my legs were falling asleep. I thought I was going to die before the time traveler even got us.”

Thomas leaned against the car, rubbing his eyes. “Maybe he gave up. Maybe he realized I’m not ‘strong‑willed’ or whatever.”

Miguel snorted. “Please. You’re stubborn enough to argue with a GPS.”

“That thing… was wrong,” Thomas muttered.

For a moment, everything felt normal. Quiet. Safe. Miguel even wandered toward the convenience store doors.

“Want anything?” he called. “Chips? Refresco? Therapy?”

(Soda?)

Thomas laughed. “Surprise me.”

Miguel disappeared inside. Thomas took a deep breath, letting the cool night air settle his nerves. Maybe Miguel was right. Maybe the guy had finally stopped following them. Maybe—

“¡Mira, mira, Thomas, a tu izquierda! —There he is!”

(Look, look, Thomas, to your left!)

Miguel burst out of the store, dropping a bag of chips and two sodas.

Thomas looked left.

The time‑traveling man was standing at the edge of the parking lot.

In that moment, everything Miguel had warned him about came rushing back.

Thomas looked at the time‑traveling man — the same man who’d been stuck jumping back and forth through the years for an eternity. He’d witnessed countless historical events but couldn’t change a thing. Not until he found a successor. Someone he could pass his “curse” onto. Someone strong‑willed enough to survive an eternity of time‑jumping.

That someone, unfortunately, was Thomas.

Thomas had been trying to get away from the man ever since Miguel warned him back in Chicago. Miguel had taken one look at the stranger and said he could tell the guy was a time traveler because his clothes were all mismatched — a modern watch paired with a top hat and an old trench coat. The man had followed Thomas all the way from Ohio.

Everything Thomas knew about him was from Miguel; the traveler couldn’t stop time‑jumping until he passed the curse to someone who could handle it. And apparently, Thomas fit the bill.

As Thomas turned to look at the man, the traveler spoke.

“I shall take thee into the wormhole to which I have been bound, by giving this curse to thee,” he said in a Shakespearean‑sounding voice.

Before Thomas could react, the man grabbed him, and Thomas began to levitate. The traveler pushed him farther away, then let go. Whatever power the man had conjured was strong enough to incapacitate Thomas — he could only see and talk.

Thomas stared at the time traveler, trying to figure out who told this man that his outfit was a “good fashion choice.”

“What are you going to do?” Thomas asked.

“I shall cast off this wretched burden and bestow it upon thee!” the man replied.

“Tsk. Wow, dude, you’ve been around how long, traveled through thousands of different time periods, and you still talk like it’s the 1800s?” Thomas joked.

“Ay, no, Thomas, don’t joke with da man. He might get mad,” Miguel warned.

“Thou jester,” the traveler snapped, “thou dost hold thy jokes in high regard, yet I assure thee, such tom‑foolery shall wither away in what must now transpire.”

“Huh?”

The man whirled Thomas and himself into a wormhole, soaring through the tubular spacetime “throat” that fed into different time warps. Thomas could see each era as they zoomed by, faster and faster, until the time windows blurred into streaks of color.

The traveler suddenly veered into an 1800s time warp, dragging Thomas with him. Once inside, he turned to Thomas.

“I am now free, for I have brought thee into this wretched world. But thou must take me with thee to modern day, or I am stuck here.”

Thomas stared at him.

“Ha. Peace, bye!”

Thomas yeeted himself backward through the wormhole and shot out into the air right where he’d been taken. He dropped to the ground in front of Miguel.

“Hey, Miguel,” Thomas said, trying to sound sly, “I think I may be cursed now.”

“Good luck with that one, amigo.”

(Buddy.)

“¿A dónde irás ahora?”

(Where will you go now?)

“Anywhere but the 1800s, man.”

Miguel squinted. “Amigo… you smell like the 1800s.”

(Buddy.)

The End.