On this particular day Mr. Wallace was not up to anything good.

By that, I mean simply that he wasn’t doing anything one might consider worth his while. Indeed, this guy was just wandering around the city wasting both his time and his life.

So it had been since he was born. This man was never up to anything good or sensible.

. . .

Yeah, I think that’s about how most folks would describe me.

Hiya. I’m Lynnrd Wallace. Don’t ask why it’s spelled like that—my dad has a superstition about vowels in first names. He’s a real murder-board guy, you know? Got a handful of screws rattling around up there. Anyway, all of my good friends call me Lenny, and since I’m giving you a front-row seat to observe my life, you count as a good friend. Just call me Lenny.

Oh yeah, if the ITSA comes knocking, this is your evidence. Please don’t forget it. It’s the only thing standing between me and a hot date with Death.

Anyway.

On the particular morning of April Ninth, Two Thousand Seventy-Seven, the Year of Our Lord, I was delivering mail.

With my little cap on my head and my big bag on my shoulder, I walked through rain-misted streets and doffed to everyone I passed. I made sure to give them all very vapid smiles. That’s part of the sell.

See, something kinda weird happens when you spend extended periods of time in any place. You’ve heard of the ripple effect? Well, that’s no joke. And if you spend too long in one place, you really start to see it.

It always starts out with just the landlord, then the neighbors. Maybe the folks at the local grocery or convenience. Then it’s the boss, the coworkers, the friends and relatives of all those folks, and then before you know it the NSA or its equivalent and nineteen foreign governments are all demanding to know where the fluff you came from.

Usually happens in six months, or less. This Ninth of April happened to be two days after my sixth month in this timeline. I was kind of feeling good about this one. Secluded apartment, stable job—there was even a little cutie on my route who always caught me coming by and liked to chat. My looks and name were both pretty plain here—a little quirky, maybe, but nothing that’d make you look twice.

Pro tip: Always trust the bad feelings, and never trust the good ones.

That Ninth of April, I stood at the bottom of Tiomas’s steps, leaned on the rail with my ankles crossed, listening to him talk with a smile. Tiomas is always a treat, and not just for the eyes—though with those pointy canines and dimples, he isn’t a slouch in that department either. But he has this accent I can never put my finger on, something like Italian but not quite, and the way he talks with his hands is just adorable.

On that morning, he was telling me about visiting some tropical island. I didn’t catch its name. When he described the sparkle on the sea at midday, I looked at the gleam in his eyes and could suddenly picture it perfectly.

He talked for a good ten minutes before pausing. It was then that realization bloomed on his face. “Sorry, I ramble. You have nice day, Mr. Wallace.”

I straightened up, still smiling. “I said Lenny’s fine.”

“Right. Lenny.”

I fixed my cap and lifted one hand in a lazy wave. But when Tiomas was about to shut his door, he froze.

I frowned and leaned back a bit to better get a look at him. “Something the matter?”

“Uehh. . .Yes, I just remember, the lightbulb in here broke. Not tall enough to fix. Can you help?”

“Sure, let me take a look.”

Tiomas opened the door up for me and stood to the side to let me in.

When I climbed the steps, I just happened to glance to the right, up the street.

Chills possessed me. What did I see then? A little troupe of Itsies.

Gee golly. Just what I needed this early on a Ninth of April.

I coughed into my fist. “So uh—” When Tiomas looked back at me, I swallowed the words I’d been about to speak and instead asked weakly, “where’s this busted bulb of yours?”

“Ehm, cellar. Went down for potato yesterday and couldn’t see a thing. Bothersome.”

“I bet. You have a spare bulb?”

“Yes, let me go get.”

I watched him disappear upstairs and wondered if maybe I shouldn’t just drop out. But I’d already agreed to fix his lightbulb—I could at least stay long enough to do that, right? It wasn’t like the Itsies could just bust his door down—

Tiomas hustled back down the stairs with a box in his arms. It was so big that he could barely keep a secure hold on it and still see over the top, and inside was a mess of bulbs in every shape, size, and color imaginable to mankind.

I refrained from commenting on this, and Tiomas refrained from informing me of the reason behind his bizarre collection of lightbulbs. Together we trudged like a couple of fools into the cellar.