NINE TIME MACHINES: Do you want to undo your entire life on planet earth?

CHAPTER 25

I pop three pills as soon as I get back to my room, wishing my mind can stay blank until they melt into my bloodstream. What the hell just happened? You know what? I don't understand and i don't care. The important thing here is that it didn't happen to me.

Dammit! Why doesn't this pill work faster? And what's that smell? Ugh! I lift my left arm and push my nose closer. Zero. Maybe it's the clothes. I drag them off and fling them on the floor but nothing can get that hospital stench off me. Perhaps it's my hair. No, don't let it be the hair. There's no shampoo left and barely any soap. I open the door quietly and step out into the hallway. As usual, I'm a lone ship in calm waters. I can run about naked if I want. Well, thank goodness for that because what I'm about to do is disgusting.

Both toilet and bathroom doors are closed. I push them open like I'm punching buttons. Let's see. What do we have here? Door one only reveals pieces of soap. I grab them up and examine door two. And there you have it. I unscrew the bottle and take a long whiff. This is my neighbour's shampoo. Tessa uses it twice each week. I know – everyone knows – because the scent forces its way into our rooms and lingers for hours. But just how many hours exactly? Too bad I never thought to check before. Information like that can come in handy right about now. Perhaps the question I should be asking myself is why her shampoo lingers that long. What if it has something to do with where she opens it? You know what? That can be my solution.

I tiptoe downstairs to check out the landscape. The top and ground floors are known to be consistently quiet and loud; but the middle floor is a bit bipolar. You never can tell when a door will swing open. And even if the going in is stealthy, I can be trapped here for a lifetime. Good. The coast is clear; for now. I push the first bathroom door and cringe. There are balls of light grey hair on the floor. Plus there's a dark red stain right beneath the shower head. Hell no! Door number two it is. I do a quick scan for red flags. There aren't any. But does the water work? Ah, yes! I tug on my blue ribbon until my micro twists hang loose then stand beneath the water for a few minutes, eyes closed and in heaven. Since there's no pump, sometimes the water behaves like a jilted lover for those on the top floor. We have to either hope for excessive pressure from the main or for everyone below us to die. But this right here is perfect. It's pouring down on me like the mythical falls I always hear about from the other Karmic Islands. I lift the shampoo bottle to check how high she left it then pour some into my hand. The smell is as good as I remember. Yes, there is a God. Or not! Is that a door I hear opening?

"Smells good," she just has to say.

What do I do? Suppose she knows every voice on her floor? Be normal, Mary. She won't know.

"Thanks," I say, standing beneath the water to mask my voice.

"What's the name? I need to get me some of that."

"Er, it's a secret family blend." Then I build on it. "My mom sends me four bottles each year."

"Lucky you." Her voice trails off. Then she flushes. "See you around some time."

"Yeah, sure."

Not if I have anything to say about it.