Margen«You have one new message. Received today, at four twelve.»
It was my voice. Broken, urgent, wept-through.
«Listen to me. I'm you. Don't take the car on Friday. No matter what happens, no matter what they tell you: on Friday, not the car. Please. This time, do as I say.»
Today is Tuesday.
I spent Wednesday explaining it away: a prank, a set-up, someone imitating me. On Thursday I rang the garage to have the brakes checked, just in case; perfect. And today, Friday, I've kept my word: the car hasn't moved. I've walked everywhere, almost proud, almost laughing at myself.
At ten past four the phone rang. My sister. Her boy has had a fall at school — nothing serious, but could I run him to the hospital, since she's an hour away?
It's eleven minutes past four. The car keys are in my hand.
Now I know when she was calling from. And why she was crying: because she had listened to this message too. And she said yes too.