Who are You?

Melbourne O’Day has the look of an eighteenth-century schoolmaster who misplaced his patience sometime around 1793 and never bothered to look for it. He doesn’t so much avoid people as sidestep them with quiet determination, like puddles he refuses to step in. Unfortunately, life insists on putting people directly in his path—especially since he manages the local hamburger joint. It’s not a role he embraces warmly. In fact, his employees tend to vanish at a remarkable rate, usually within a week or two. Still, the burgers are undeniably delicious, and customers keep coming back, blissfully unaware—or perhaps simply unconcerned—about the revolving door behind the counter. The “Employee of the Month” spot remains permanently empty.

The only person who ever seemed to last in Melbourne’s orbit was his mother.By most accounts, she made Melbourne seem almost pleasant by comparison—a feat few would have thought possible. When she was taken to the hospital, Melbourne finished his shift before heading over, unhurried but dutiful. The doctor met him with a sympathetic expression and the news that she had passed from heart failure. Melbourne paused, frowned slightly, and nodded. “Well,” he said, “that sounds about right.” After a moment, he added, “Send her along to the funeral home—have them sort things out and forward the bill.” And with that, he went home, set his alarm, and reported to work the next day.

Melbourne has never had a girlfriend. “I have no use for love,” he’ll say, usually unprompted and with the confidence of a man who has already won an argument no one else was having.“Women are just people, and I don’t like people. If pressed (which is a mistake), he’ll elaborate. “They ask questions. Endless questions. They want to know everything—what you’re thinking, where you’re going, why you bought that brand of coffee. And they’re expensive! Always wanting to go out to eat, or shop, or look at jewelry. Gold, diamonds—like they’re casually browsing treasure chests.”He’ll wave a hand, dismissing the entire subject. “No, no.I’m happier on my own.”

And, in his own peculiar way, he is. Melbourne lives a life blissfully free of notifications, updates, and group chats. No TV, no computer, no phone buzzing in his pocket. Instead, he reads thick books about animals and listens to classical music.Instrumentals only. Lyrics, he insists, are just people talking over perfectly good music.

He often claims that if he were rich, he’d build a house in the middle of the jungle and live among the animals. “They mind their business,” he says. “A very underrated quality.”

People sometimes joke that if Melbourne died and went to hell, his only complaint would be that he’s not there alone.

…

After a long day of barking orders at his workers, Melbourne heads out, oddly cheerful. He chuckles to himself, remembering the chaos he left behind—voices raised, tempers flared, at least one paper hat meeting a dramatic and unnecessary ending in flames on the broiler.

“Ahh,” he sighs contentedly, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Nice and quiet again.”

The thought pleases him so much he starts to hum—a soft, tuneless little melody that, like everything else in his life, asks nothing of anyone.

He slides into his old Volkswagen Beetle and turns the key—when poof—a man appears in the passenger seat like he’s late for an appointment.Melbourne barely blinks. He glances over.

“Who are you?”

“I’m you.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Yes, I am.”

“No, you’re not. Nature wouldn’t make the same mistake twice. Get out.”

The stranger stares at him, eyes wide, mouth hanging open. “I don’t believe this! I materialize out of thin air, I look exactly like you—honestly, a better version—and your first reaction is to kick me out of your car?!”

“That’s right. Out.”

“What about curiosity? Wonder?Existential dread? Aren’t you even a little interested in why I’m here?”

Melbourne shrugs and adjusts the rearview mirror. “Look, if you’ve got answers about the universe, great; if you’ve got snacks, even better. Otherwise, you’re taking up legroom.”

The stranger sputters. “I am you!”

“Then you already know I don’t pick up hitchhikers.”

“Listen to me!”

“Why?”

“Because! I’m from the future! I’ve been sent here to warn you about a massive, planet-wrecking disaster caused by your son!” Melbourne 2 slumps in his seat, wheezing like he just ran a marathon through time itself.

“Well, that’s impressive,” Melbourne says. “Unfortunately, you’ve got the wrong guy. I don’t have a wife—never will. That’s problem one. No wife means no son—that’s problem two. And as I’ve already explained, I don’t like people. Wives and children are, regrettably, people. So… no son, no apocalypse. You can relax. Now, please exit my vehicle before you hyperventilate and puke on the upholstery.”

“You’re wrong—you’re completely wrong!” Melbourne 2 insists, straightening up with renewed urgency. “Just because you don’t have a wife now doesn’t mean you won’t! I come from an alternate universe where everything is exactly the same as here, only about a thousand years ahead. I didn’t stop my son because I didn’t know he’d joined a terrorist cult. Next thing I know—boom—climate catastrophe! Total disaster! So when we discovered your timeline, they sent me through a wormhole to warn you, so you can stop him before he ruins everything, thus sparing my planet. It’s actually a very elegant plan if you don’t think about it too hard.”

Melbourne blinks. Slowly.He studies the top edge of the windshield, as if the answer might be written there. Then he sticks out his bottom lip, nods to himself, and says, “I’m still not having a son. Problem solved.”

Melbourne 2 stares at him. “…You’re really going to outmaneuver a cosmic disaster with… bachelorhood?”

“Worked so far.”

“…Do you at least want to hear his name?”

“Nope. Feels like a gateway commitment.”

Melbourne 2 sighs, sinking back into his seat. “I traveled a thousand years through a wormhole for this.”

“And yet,” Melbourne says, starting the engine, “you didn’t bring snacks.That’s on you.”

“NO!” Melbourne 2 blurts, throwing his hands up, wincing as his knuckles strike the ceiling. “You can’t just declare you’ll never have a son when history is literally waving proof in your face. It’s fate! Do you even know what fate means? ‘The development of events beyond a person’s control, determined by a supernatural power.’ Boom. Definition. Case closed. Son is coming.”

Melbourne arches an eyebrow, far too calm for the situation. “Ahem. Now, stay with me—this part can get a bit tricky.” He gestures lightly, as if delivering a lecture to a particularly slow class. “A supernatural power strong enough to override my will would have to be… impressive. Some folks around here call that God. Gave man free choice and all that.”

Melbourne 2 opens his mouth, but Melbourne steamrolls on.

“So if fate barges in and starts rearranging my life like it owns the place, then whose’s doing it? God? Satan? Some cosmic committee I didn’t vote for?” He shrugs. “Either way, I’m thinking you’ve got the wrong man or perhaps the wrong planet.”He flashes a small, amused smile. “If you’ve got a complaint about destiny, I suggest you take it up with upper management. God… or the other guy. You know the one.”

“Oh, and one more thing, ‘me’—you might want to have your historians double-check their notes. I had a vasectomy four years ago. So… no son.Not now, not ever. Bit of a plot hole there, huh?”

He gestures lazily toward the door. “So why don’t you crawl back into your little wormhole, head home, and come up with a better excuse for whatever went wrong?” He glances at his watch with exaggerated concern. “Meanwhile, I’ve got a very important appointment, Master Meow-shan. He gets very perturbed when his dinner is late.”

He pauses, then adds with a sigh, “And seriously—out of my car. You’re starting to annoy me, you stupid piece of shit!”

Melbourne 2 pales as, from the curb, he watches the little VW drive away.