When Sarah Wright's day begins moving backward, she must uncover the truth about her mother's death before time catches up with her.
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It's no surprise that chronically late Sarah Wright wakes up late. Unfortunately for her, she's about t...
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"So interviewing fossils and reading about caves named after dead fish parts is just how you spend your weekends, or are you some kind of detective?" From the way Max holds the steering wheel with one hand while the other rests on the gear shift, I can't help but feel like he's too calm.
"Journalist." I correct.
"Kind of the same thing, isn't it?" He smirks. "You end up neck deep in people's ugly pasts, either way. Don't you think some things are best left buried?"
I note the hint of cynicism in his voice and wonder if he's mad at me. For what? It's not like I woke up this morning hoping to run into my mother's ghost and stumble across a rift in time.
"Your father's considered one of the greatest anthropologists, living or dead. A lot of people would love to hear and learn from what he has to say. Plus, an interview with him is a one-way ticket to a job at The Beacon Chronicle.
"So, for you, it was selfish."
"I can't really make a career, let alone a difference from the basement of some printed newspaper, can I? We deserve to hear what wisdom Dr. Anthrop can share. Few others have seen what he has in their lifetimes."
"Do they? What does he owe them? What does he owe you? Why does he deserve to have people practically knocking down his door every day just to hear what he has to say? Have any of you ever wondered why he became so reclusive? Or why he has the insane yellow tape just to get to him? I mean, come on," he slams his hand on the wheel and I can tell whatever he's feeling is something old, something bubbling up after being repressed for so long. I can thank my therapist for that revelation. Two years ago, I would have been a slobbering mess at the insinuation that I was the problem.
"We're going save him, Max."
"We are going to try. I gave up on the idea that I had much control in life a long time ago. Our current situation only reinforces that, but seeing how we happen to be the only ones unaffected... I can only hope we're meant to have an effect on the outcome in one way or the other."
If anyone can relate to being powerless, it's me—dead mother at eight, a handicapped father. But Max's statement reminds me of something I read in my research on Professor Anthrop. He is a widower. Wife and daughter dead in 1993. Max has probably suppressed so much shit; if he's poked enough, he may just explode.
"Listen, I know none of this is easy. I was never close with my mother to begin with, and now I'm not even sure I knew her." A highway marker blows past us, and I eye the speedometer. Max, we're almost going 100."
"So what? We'll be fine... and if not, time will just jump back an hour, and it'll be like nothing ever happened." He laughs.
"The cave is still an hour away; it's not going anywhere, and I'd love to be in one piece when we do." Max glances over at me and opens his mouth, but he thinks better of it. "Yeah, alright." The car begins to slow, but it's too late. "Are you kidding me?"
