Ray ran for ten minutes before he allowed himself to slow down. His lungs burned, his hands were bleeding from the fence climb, and his jacket was torn to shreds. But he was alive, and he was in Milltown.
The difference was immediately obvious.
The streets here were clean—actually clean, not just "less filthy than Dayton" but genuinely maintained. The buildings were painted, the windows unbroken, the sidewalks smooth and even. Street lamps that actually worked lined the roads. Trees—actual living trees—grew in planters along the walkways.
And the people.
Ray stopped near a café, trying to catch his breath and blend in, and watched the people of Milltown go about their day. They walked slower than in Dayton. No frantic rushing, no constant clock-checking, no panic in their eyes. A couple sat at an outdoor table, drinking coffee that probably cost an hour, laughing about something on a tablet. A man in a business suit strolled past, checking his phone rather than his arm. A woman pushed a stroller, cooing at a baby who would live in comfort that Dayton residents couldn't imagine.
Ray glanced at a man waiting at a crosswalk and caught sight of his clock: 7:23:18:45.
Seven months. That man had seven months, and he looked bored.
Ray's stomach twisted with a feeling he couldn't quite name. It wasn't jealousy exactly—it was deeper than that. It was the visceral understanding that he'd spent his entire life drowning while people ten miles away were swimming in an ocean of time.
He pulled his sleeve down farther, making sure his own clock stayed hidden. A century would draw attention here too, just different attention. Questions about who he was, where his money came from, why a stranger with so much time was wandering Milltown streets looking like he'd been in a fight.
Ray needed to clean up. Needed to think. Needed to figure out what the hell he was going to do next.
He walked deeper into Milltown, trying to look purposeful rather than lost. The neighborhood was residential—nice houses with actual yards, children playing in the street without their parents hovering nervously over their clocks. Ray passed a school where kids were being dropped off, their young faces unmarked by the stress that defined childhood in Dayton.
These kids would turn twenty-five someday and get their year, but unlike Ray, they'd have families with time to spare. They'd have education and opportunities. They'd never know what it meant to choose between eating and surviving another day.
"Excuse me, are you lost?"
Ray turned to find an elderly-looking woman watching him from her porch. She appeared to be in her sixties—which meant she'd lived forty years past activation. Her voice was kind but curious, her eyes taking in his torn jacket and bloody hands.
"No, just passing through," Ray said, trying to sound casual.
"You look like you've had a rough morning." She stood, moving with the careful deliberation of someone whose body remembered being old even if it had stopped aging decades ago. "Would you like to clean up? I have bandages and antiseptic inside."
Every instinct screamed at Ray to refuse, to keep moving, to not create connections or memories that could be traced. But his hands really did need attention, and a few minutes to gather his thoughts might save his life.
"That's very kind," Ray said. "Thank you."
The woman introduced herself as Martha Reeves as she led him inside. Her home was modest by Milltown standards—two stories, furnished simply but comfortably. Photographs lined the walls, showing the same woman at various points in her life, always looking the same age, surrounded by different people.
"Sit," Martha instructed, pointing to the kitchen table. She retrieved a first aid kit from a cabinet. "What happened to your hands?"
"Fence," Ray said, which was true enough. "Took a shortcut and didn't realize how sharp it was."
Martha began cleaning the cuts, her touch gentle but efficient. "You're not from Milltown."
It wasn't a question. Ray tensed. "What makes you say that?"
"The way you looked at the street. Like you'd never seen clean pavement before." She applied antiseptic, and Ray hissed at the sting. "I used to work in Dayton, decades ago. Before the walls got so strict. I remember that look. That mix of anger and wonder."
Ray said nothing, unsure how much to reveal.
Martha wrapped his hands in gauze, her movements practiced. "I'm not going to turn you in, if that's what you're worried about. I'm sixty-three years old. I've seen what this system does to people. Whatever you're running from, I'm sure you had good reasons."
"Why are you helping me?" Ray asked quietly.
Martha was silent for a moment, finishing the bandage. "Because I had a son once. He died in Dayton thirty years ago. Ran out of time trying to get to a hospital. He was twenty-six." Her voice remained steady, but her eyes were distant. "So when I see someone from Dayton who's scared and hurt, I help. It's the least I can do."
Ray felt something crack inside his chest. "I'm sorry about your son."
"Me too." Martha put away the first aid kit. "Now, you should probably move on before my neighbors start asking questions. But there's a shelter on Fifth Street—they help people transitioning between zones. No questions asked, no time checks. It's not much, but it's safe for a day or two."
Ray stood, his hands now properly bandaged. "Thank you, Martha."
"One more thing." She studied him seriously. "Whatever you're carrying that makes you so nervous about showing your arm—be careful with it. Time changes people. Having too much of it can be just as dangerous as having too little."
Ray left Martha's house and headed for Fifth Street, his mind churning with her words. She was right—he couldn't keep wandering Milltown like this. He needed a plan that went beyond "don't get caught."
Hamilton had given him this time for a reason. Had told him not to waste it, to make it count. But what did that mean? How was one person with a century supposed to change anything?
The shelter was a converted warehouse with a simple sign out front: "Haven House." Ray approached cautiously, but the door was unlocked and unstaffed. Inside, he found a large open space with cots, a communal kitchen, and a few people scattered around—all of them with that same look of displacement Ray felt.
He claimed a cot in the corner and sat down, finally allowing himself to check his clock properly.
105:16:43:21.
Still so much time. More than he could wrap his mind around. Ray stared at the numbers, trying to imagine what a century felt like. Hamilton had lived 105 years and decided it was enough. Had given it all away to a stranger in an alley. Why?
"Don't waste my time," Hamilton had said. "Make it count."
Ray pulled off his torn jacket and laid back on the cot, his body finally registering the toll of the morning. Every muscle ached. His hands throbbed despite the bandages. His mind felt stretched thin, struggling to process everything that had happened in the last few hours.
This morning he'd woken up with twenty-two hours, facing another day in the factory. Now he had a century, a Timekeeper hunting him, and no idea what to do next.
He closed his eyes, intending to rest for just a moment.
When he opened them again, the light through the windows had changed. Late afternoon, maybe early evening. Ray sat up quickly, checking his surroundings. The shelter had filled up—at least twenty people now, ranging from young adults to elderly-looking folks. All of them keeping to themselves, lost in their own survival calculations.
Ray checked his clock: 105:16:37:54.
Six hours had passed. He'd slept through the middle of the day, his exhausted body claiming what it needed. It was dangerous—sleeping made you vulnerable—but apparently necessary.
His stomach growled, reminding him he hadn't eaten since the noodle stand yesterday morning. Ray stood and made his way to the communal kitchen. A pot of soup sat on a hot plate, and a handwritten sign read: "Free. Take what you need. Leave what you can."
Ray ladled soup into a bowl and sat at one of the tables. The soup was thin but warm, tasting vaguely of vegetables and salt. As he ate, he noticed a man at the next table watching him—middle-aged looking, with sharp eyes and three months on his clock.
"First time at Haven House?" the man asked.
Ray nodded, keeping his responses minimal.
"Figured. You've got that 'just arrived' look." The man extended his hand. "Name's Vincent. I've been here about a week, transitioning up from Dayton."
Ray shook the offered hand briefly. "Ray."
"Where you headed? Staying in Milltown or trying for the higher zones?"
"Not sure yet."
Vincent leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. "Word of advice—if you've got enough time to go higher, do it. Milltown's better than Dayton, but it's still a grind. The real quality of life is in New Greenwich and above. That's where time stops mattering because everyone has more than they need."
"How do you get there?" Ray asked, genuinely curious.
"Legally? You need at least a year on your clock, proper documentation, a reason for being there—work, family, business. Illegally?" Vincent shrugged. "There are ways. Smugglers who run people across for a price. Forged papers. Connections. But it's risky. The Timekeepers in New Greenwich don't mess around."
Ray thought about Leon, probably already putting out alerts, tracking his movements. "How hard would it be to disappear? Change identity, start over?"
Vincent's eyes narrowed slightly. "Running from something specific?"
"Aren't we all?"
"Fair point." Vincent sat back. "Disappearing is possible but expensive. You need someone who can create false documentation, alter the system records. There's a guy—calls himself the Minuteman—operates out of the industrial district here. He specializes in identity work. But his services don't come cheap. Last I heard, a full new identity runs about six months."
Six months. Half a year to become someone new, someone the Timekeepers weren't looking for. Ray had the time to afford it, but the idea of spending half a year on paperwork while Leon hunted him seemed insane.
No, Ray needed to keep moving. Needed to get to New Greenwich where he could blend in with other people who had decades or centuries. Needed to figure out what Hamilton had really wanted him to do with all this time.
"Thanks for the information," Ray said, standing with his empty bowl.
"One more thing," Vincent called after him. "There's been Timekeeper activity today. More patrols than usual, checking papers, scanning people. Whatever you're running from, it's got them stirred up."
Ray's blood chilled. Leon was already moving, already spreading the net. He had less time than he thought.
He returned to his cot and gathered his few possessions—basically just his damaged jacket. The shelter was safe, but he couldn't stay here. Eventually, the Timekeepers would check places like this. They'd scan everyone, find his century, connect him to Hamilton's death.
Ray waited until full darkness fell, then slipped out of Haven House into the Milltown night.
The streets were quieter after dark but not empty. People still moved about, heading to dinner or entertainment, their faces relaxed in a way that still unsettled Ray. He kept to the shadows, moving with purpose toward the western edge of Milltown—the border with New Greenwich.
If he was going to run, he might as well run all the way to the top.
The crossing between Milltown and New Greenwich was more elaborate than the wall between Dayton and Milltown. This wasn't a physical barrier but a checkpoint—a series of gates and scanners manned by private security and Timekeepers. Well-dressed people passed through with barely a pause, their documentation and time verified in seconds.
Ray watched from a distance, studying the process. Everyone who crossed had at least a year on their clock. Most had more. They showed identification, had their arms scanned, answered brief questions, and were waved through.
He couldn't go through legally. The moment they scanned his arm, they'd see the flag on his account, see he was wanted for questioning in Hamilton's death.
Which meant he needed to find another way in.
Ray circled the checkpoint, looking for alternatives. The boundary itself was less a wall and more a transition—the neighborhood simply became wealthier, the houses larger, the streets wider. But the checkpoint controlled the main routes, and patrols monitored the areas between.
As Ray explored, he noticed something interesting. A service entrance, where delivery trucks were passing through after quick inspections. The security there was more lax, focused on cargo rather than passengers.
It wasn't much of a plan, but it was something.
Ray waited until a large delivery truck pulled up to the service gate. The driver climbed out to show paperwork while the guards checked the cargo area. In that moment of distraction, Ray moved.
He slipped around the far side of the truck and climbed onto the rear bumper, finding a handhold in the vehicle's undercarriage. The metal was cold and uncomfortable, but it would work for a short distance.
The guards finished their inspection and waved the truck through.
As they crossed into New Greenwich, Ray held on tight, his hands aching in their bandages, his body pressed against cold steel.
The truck drove for five minutes before stopping at what sounded like a warehouse. Ray dropped from the undercarriage and rolled into the shadows before anyone could spot him.
He was in.
Ray checked his clock: 105:16:29:38.
New Greenwich. The wealthy zone. Where Philippe Weis controlled an empire and people lived like time meant nothing.
Ray looked down at his torn clothes and bandaged hands, then up at the gleaming buildings around him.
He didn't belong here. But neither had Hamilton, in his final hours. And Hamilton had chosen Ray for something.
It was time to figure out what.
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