Again, But Better

What the fudge?
“Shane?” Pilot eyes me with concern.
“Shane?” Babe echoes. Sahra watches me carefully.
I gag. A mouthful of ravioli and a metal, half-dollar-sized object
spill out into my hand. 
Ew
and 
holy shit
. It’s some sort of locket with
an inscription on it. A bolt of fear rams through me. I clasp my fingers
over the thing.
“Are you okay?” I hear Sahra ask.
My head snaps up. Babe’s fork hovers over her lasagna. Sahra’s
waiting for an answer. Pilot’s staring at my closed hand.
“Shane?” Pilot repeats more forcefully.
I bound out of my seat and break into a run. A second later, I’m
outside, boots slamming against the cobblestones, sprinting back up
through the ruins.
What in the hell am I doing
?
I run until I’m far enough away that I feel confident in my solitude,
then I veer off toward one of the massive ancient structures along the
trail. A plethora of steps lead up into an expanse of crumbly archways.
I clamber all the way to the top step and drop to the ground in a heap,
breathing hard.
Slowly, I peel back my trembling fingers.
In my palm sits a thick, round silver locket. I’ve been gripping it so
tightly, there’s an imprint on my skin. The bottom of it is flat, but the
top’s rounded. The inscription’s on the flat side; it circles around in a

---

spiral formation. I wipe away remnants of sauce and cheese with my
hands and shine the silver clean against my black shirt. I hold it up for
examination, slowly rotating the piece to read the inscription.
Open and press upon the heart
You’ll return to the start
The adventure gained will be lost
Every shortcut has its cost.
I turn it over. The front’s plain silver. It looks like it belongs on a
necklace.
“Shane!” Pilot jogs toward me up the stairs. I tense as he comes to
a stop a few steps away. He’s shed his jacket, now sporting today’s
green-and-black plaid button-up.
“What happened?” he asks, catching his breath. “Is that it?”
I nod. He sags in relief, stumbling up the final few steps to sit
beside me. Stones crunch under his sneakers as he leans forward and
settles his elbows on his knees.
“Okay,” he resolves after a moment. “Let’s do it, then. Press it.”
I look down, my hand closing back over the medallion.
“I…” I trail off, feeling childish.
“You what?” he prompts.
Dread. Anxiety. Fear. They balloon in my chest, making it hard to
breathe. I don’t want to. I don’t think I want to go back.
“I don’t know,” I whisper.
“What do you mean, you don’t know?”
“I just—don’t,” I finish lamely.
“You don’t want to push it?” Bits of frustration leak into his voice.
“Shane, why would you want to stay here? You want to redo a whole
year and a half of college and then four years of med school?”
No, no, I don’t. But I don’t want to go back. Not yet.
“Why do you want to go back so badly?” The words reluctantly
twist their way out of me.
“Are you kidding?” he asks in disbelief. “Haven’t we already been
through this?”

---

I shift to face him, expression hardening. “Have we? I remember
you going off on me out on the street for quote ‘disrupting your life,’
but we never really 
talked
about why we’re here. Do you really think
we both would have been chucked back in time to the very same
moment if we both didn’t 
want,
and/or need, to be here?”
He glares at me. I glare right back. Frustration pulses in the space
between us. I stand up. He joins me a moment later.
“There’s a part of you that wanted to come back. Your whole ‘