Layla Cross, another name added to my list.

  After sitting in my rotting driver’s seat for about thirty minutes, processing this new revelation, I decided it was finally time to check out the other cars, starting with the one directly to my left, an old Datson pickup truck. Somehow, this one looked to be in better condition than mine. I sat in the driver’s seat and looked around. Other than the stale smell of cigarette smoke, there was nothing in the car that might indicate its owner. The registration told me it belonged to a Michael Burroughs. I didn’t recognize the name, but there was practically a whole town’s worth of people I hadn’t met yet. After adding it to the list, I moved on to the next car, an early 2000s Ford Focus. This one was a Hertz rental and had no useful information about its driver, however I did find one of those CD holders with some real 2000s classics like Sean Paul, The Black Eyed Peas, and Snow Patrol.

  The next two cars were similarly useless, though I got a few more names added to my list. A 2012 Civic registered to Carla Franklin and an 80s BMW registered to Stephen James. The final car was a black 90s Mustang. It had a “COEXIST” sticker on the bumper and a Thomas Guide for Northern California in the driver’s seat pocket. A pair of red fuzzy dice hung from the rearview mirror, faded from the sunlight. I figured there was no way this one could be Anne’s, but I checked the registration anyway. Sure enough, it was registered to Anne Florence in 1998. This was good. I went over the whole thing with a fine-toothed comb, hoping to find any clues about who Anne was before she came to Elk Valley. I took down notes on everything I found just in case, but I’m no Sherlock Holmes, and I couldn’t begin to put together what any of these clues actually meant. I almost gave up, until I opened the driver’s visor and saw a Polaroid of two women in extremely 90s garb. One of the two women was instantly recognizable, despite the drastic difference in appearance. One was in a white floral dress and had messy blonde hair like Courtney Love, and the other had baggy pants and an oversized denim jacket, and her dark hair tied up in a bunch of little knots. It was Anne. On the back, written in Sharpie, it said, “Darla and Anne, 1999.” This would be the way to remind her. If the Polaroid didn’t work, nothing would.

  I put all my new knickknacks in my car for safekeeping, I didn’t want anyone to find them and freak out on me like Benny. They would be helpful if I forget any more than I already am, or if I find anyone else.

  With all this new information, it was clear that anyone could end up in Elk Valley, from any time. I wondered if anyone here was from before the 50s. With my ever growing list, I decided it was time to come up with a name for all of us who came here from another time. I landed on Visitors, in the hope that we’d eventually figure out a way to get back home.

  “So there’s one of these… Visitors out in the woods?” I met up with Fritz the next day at Starlight Diner to talk about what I found. “And they’re somehow broadcasting a radio signal.”

  “Yep.”

  “From the woods.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

  “Huh. Wait. Woahhh…” Fritz looked as though he’d just had a revelation.

  “Well, a few years ago there was a break-in over at KLKV. It was a pretty huge deal, made the paper and everything. Some equipment was stolen, the kind of stuff that someone could use to rig up a rudimentary broadcasting system.”

  “Woah, so they’ve been out there for years?” That was a long time for someone to be out in the woods, alone.

  “We have to find her,” Fritz said. “I think I might have an idea, but I’ll need some time.”

  Fritz and I made a plan to meet at the park the following week.

  In the meantime, I finally worked up the nerve to show Anne the Polaroid. We had a date Saturday night, and it was all I could do not to picture her with that 90s haircut. I hinted at little things the whole time, shoehorning in 90s bands like “Letters to Cleo” and “Smashing Pumpkins,” and movies like “Look Who’s Talking” and “Home Alone.” They all went over her head, although I swear I saw a little glint in her eye when I mentioned “Homeward Bound.”

  “What are you saying?”

  I waited until the date was over and we were back at her apartment before I really dug into it.

  “That you’re from the future? And I’m also from the future?”

  “Yes, as far as I can tell.”

  “Are you feeling okay, Emmett? You’re really starting to freak me out.”

  “No, listen, I can prove it. Do you have a mirror?” I thought I’d show her the tattoo first, then finish it off with the Polaroid.

  “Uh, yes I have a mirror.”

  “No, I mean, like, a hand mirror.”

  “I have a compact mirror in my purse,” she dug around her purse and pulled out a pink compact mirror.

  “Okay, come with me,” I got up from the couch and held out my hand, then led her into the bathroom. “This is going to sound weird, but you have to trust me, okay?”

  “You’re starting to scare me, Emmett…”

  “Just trust me, okay? Take off your sweater, I have to show you something.”

  “You know, you don’t need to make up some crazy story just to get me into bed.”

  “Trust me.”

  She hesitantly pulled off her sweater and blouse, and I stood behind her with the compact mirror, pointing it at the butterfly tattoo.

  “What the heck is that?!” She freaked out and brushed her back, trying to brush away the tattoo. I held her and rubbed her back, trying to calm her down. Her breathing was quick and shallow, like she was having a panic attack.

  “I don’t understand,” she said. “Is it a tattoo? How did it get there?”

  “You’re not from here, Anne. Try to remember your past. You drove a black Mustang and had a friend named Darla.”

  “Darla…?”

  “Yes, Darla. Do you remember?”

  She pushed me away and sat at the edge of her clawfoot tub. I could tell she needed a second, so I left to grab her a glass of water.

  “Who am I? Am I still me? Is my name even Anne?” Mascara tears were running down her face.

  “Yes, you’re still you, and yes your name is still Anne,” I said, rubbing her back again. It was time to show her the photo. “Here, look.”

  I pulled the photo from my pocket and showed it to Anne. She looked at it, confused. Then her face changed. It looked like she was starting to remember, like everything was coming back to her. Then her eyes rolled back as the glass shattered on the bathroom tile, and she collapsed into my arms.

  - Emmett Brewer, memory jogger