Ray spent the first hour after the Timekeepers left sitting on his mattress, staring at the wall, watching his clock tick down. 5:41:09... 5:41:08... 5:41:07.
Every second felt like a punch to the gut.
He'd been careful for three years. Lived frugally, worked hard, never took unnecessary risks. And now, because he'd helped a friend, because the factory had decided to shut down without warning, he was staring at his own death.
5:38:22.
Ray stood abruptly. He couldn't just sit here and wait to die. There had to be options. There were always options, even if they were all bad.
He grabbed his jacket and headed out. The hallways were more crowded than usual—other factory workers who'd gotten the same news, all of them trying to figure out how to survive the next three days. Ray caught fragments of panicked conversations as he passed.
"—heard there's day labor at the docks—"
"—costs three hours just to get there—"
"—wife's got twelve hours, maybe we can—"
"—not enough, it's never enough—"
Ray pushed through the crowd and hit the street. Morning in Dayton looked different today. There was a current of fear running through everyone, a collective understanding that hundreds of factory workers were now in the same boat—too much time to give up, not enough time to survive.
He needed a plan.
Option one: Find work. Ray headed toward the job boards in the market district, where employers posted temporary positions. By the time he arrived, a crowd had already gathered—at least fifty people, all of them checking their clocks, all of them desperate. The boards themselves were nearly empty. A few postings for hazardous waste cleanup (pays three hours, requires eight hours of work). A night security position (pays five hours, must have two days minimum balance to qualify—Ray didn't). A medical trial study (pays twenty hours, must pass health screening and commit to three-week study period—Ray would be dead long before the payout).
Nothing. There was nothing.
5:22:47.
Option two: Borrow from a time lender. Ray knew where they operated—shabby storefronts with barred windows and armed guards. He'd passed them a thousand times, always telling himself he'd never get desperate enough to walk through those doors.
He walked through the doors.
The interior was sterile and cold, lit by harsh fluorescent lights. Behind a thick plexiglass barrier sat a bored-looking woman with three months on her clock. She didn't look up when Ray approached.
"I need to borrow time," Ray said.
"How much?"
"Two days."
Now she looked up, her eyes calculating. "Current balance?"
Ray held out his arm. She scanned it and her expression shifted to something between pity and contempt.
"Five hours and twenty-two minutes. You're a high-risk borrower, Mr. Shivers. The best I can offer is one day at eighty percent interest, payable within one week. If you default, we seize all assets and remaining time."
Ray did the math. Borrow one day, owe one day and nineteen hours in a week. Even if the factory reopened, even if he worked every shift, he'd never earn enough to pay it back plus survive. He'd be trapped in debt until his clock hit zero.
"That's predatory," Ray said quietly.
The woman shrugged. "That's business. Take it or leave it."
Ray left.
5:18:33.
Option three: Cross into Milltown. It was illegal to cross time zone boundaries without proper documentation and payment. The toll was one hour each way, plus you needed to show at least forty-eight hours on your clock to be allowed entry. Ray had neither the time nor the documentation.
But the walls had weak points. Everyone in Dayton knew about them—places where the fencing was damaged, where guards were lazy or corrupt, where desperate people took desperate chances. Some made it through. Many didn't. The Timekeepers shot on sight if they caught you.
Ray walked toward the wall.
It took him forty minutes to reach the boundary, forty minutes of his precious remaining time. The wall itself was twenty feet of reinforced concrete topped with razor wire and surveillance cameras. Guard towers dotted the length every quarter mile. This was the physical manifestation of inequality—the literal barrier keeping the poor in their place.
Ray followed the wall east, away from the main checkpoints, toward an area Marcus had once mentioned. Industrial sector, lots of warehouses, fewer patrols. The kind of place where a person might slip through if they were fast and lucky.
4:34:11.
He found the spot Marcus had described—a section where the wall met an old factory building, creating a blind spot between camera angles. The fence here was chain-link rather than solid concrete, and someone had cut a hole at the base, then tried to repair it with wire that could be pulled aside.
Ray crouched and examined the gap. It was barely large enough for a person to squeeze through. On the other side, he could see Milltown—cleaner streets, better lighting, buildings that didn't look like they were one strong wind away from collapse.
His clock read 4:31:56.
This was it. This was the moment. Either he crawled through that fence and took his chances in Milltown, or he went back to his apartment and waited to die.
Ray reached for the wire.
"I wouldn't do that if I were you."
Ray spun around, his heart hammering. A man stood ten feet away—tall, well-dressed, with styled hair and an easy smile. But what caught Ray's attention was the man's arm.
105:17:42:33.
One hundred and five years.
Ray had never seen that much time on a single person. This man was wearing more time on his wrist than everyone in Ray's apartment building combined.
"Who are you?" Ray demanded.
"Someone who noticed you're about to make a very stupid decision." The man walked closer, his movements relaxed, unhurried. "Crossing illegally? The Timekeepers catch you, they don't just send you back. They drain whatever time you have left as punishment. You'd be dead before you hit the ground."
"Then what am I supposed to do?" Ray's voice was raw. "I've got four and a half hours. No work. No options. What would you do?"
The man studied him with curious eyes. "I'd probably do exactly what you're doing. Which is why I'm here."
"What does that mean?"
"It means I've been watching Dayton for a long time. Watching people struggle, watching them die. And I'm tired of it." The man held out his hand. "My name is Henry Hamilton. And I think we should talk."
Ray didn't take the hand. He was too suspicious, too aware that nothing in this world came free. "Talk about what?"
"About why the system is broken. About why people like you have hours while people like me have centuries. About what would happen if someone with nothing to lose decided to do something about it." Hamilton smiled. "You're going to die today, Ray Shivers. I can see it in your eyes—you've already accepted it. So let me ask you: if you had more time than you could ever spend, what would you do with it?"
Ray's clock ticked down: 4:28:17.
He should walk away. This man was clearly insane, or worse, dangerous. Rich people didn't just appear in Dayton offering salvation. It was a trap, or a test, or some kind of sick game.
But Ray was out of options.
"I'd make them pay," Ray said quietly. "Everyone who designed this system, everyone who profits from it while we die in the streets. I'd make them all pay."
Hamilton's smile widened. "Good answer." He gestured to a nearby alley. "Walk with me. I promise you'll have more time at the end of this conversation than you do now. What have you got to lose?"
4:27:33.
Ray followed Hamilton into the alley.
Behind them, the wall loomed, still unbreached. But Ray had the strange feeling that he'd just crossed a different kind of boundary—one that couldn't be seen but was just as permanent.
Hamilton led him deeper into the industrial district, away from cameras and witnesses, until they stood in the shadow of an abandoned warehouse. The man checked his own clock casually, as if a hundred years meant nothing.
"I'm going to tell you something that will sound impossible," Hamilton said. "But it's true. There's enough time for everyone. Enough for every person in Dayton to live comfortably, to never worry about running out. The scarcity is artificial. The system is designed to keep you dying so people like me can live forever."
"I know that," Ray said bitterly. "Everyone knows that. Knowing doesn't change anything."
"No. But doing something changes everything." Hamilton moved closer. "I'm going to give you a gift, Ray. And then I'm going to give you a choice. The gift is time—enough to live for more than a century. The choice is what you do with it."
Ray's breath caught. "Why? Why would you do that?"
"Because I'm one hundred and five years old, and I'm tired. I've lived long enough to see that immortality without purpose is just a prison. I've lived long enough to know that this system needs to burn." Hamilton held out his arm. "I'm giving you my time. All of it. And then I'm done."
"That's suicide."
"That's release." Hamilton pressed his arm against Ray's before he could protest.
The transfer began.
Ray felt it immediately—a strange warmth spreading through his arm as the numbers on his clock began to climb. 4:26:11... 14:26:11... 34:26:11... 64:26:11...
The numbers kept rising, faster and faster, year after year flooding into his system. Ray tried to pull away, but Hamilton held firm, his grip surprisingly strong.
"Wait—stop—you can't—"
"Don't waste my time," Hamilton whispered.
105:17:13:45.
The transfer completed. Ray stared at his arm in shock. One hundred and five years. More time than he'd ever imagined possessing. More time than most people in Dayton would see in ten lifetimes.
He looked up at Hamilton, whose clock now read 00:00:13... 12... 11...
"Why?" Ray asked desperately.
Hamilton smiled as he sank to the ground, his time running out. "Because someone has to break the cycle. Because you're angry enough to try." His eyes began to glaze. "Don't waste my time, Ray Shivers. Make it count."
00:00:03... 2... 1... 0.
Henry Hamilton died with a peaceful expression, finally released from his century of existence.
And Ray Shivers stood alone in an alley with enough time to live forever, staring at a gift he didn't understand and couldn't refuse.
His clock glowed green in the dim light: 105:17:09:22.
Everything had just changed.
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