What the Notebook Said

By the end of the third month the notebook had fourteen pages of observations.

He had counted the activations. Nineteen in total. Nineteen times the click had happened and the world had gone back ten seconds and he had used those seconds to prevent something. Nineteen people who had walked away from a moment that had, in some other version of events, been worse for them.

He had also counted the times he had been present for something difficult and the power had not activated because it was not that kind of difficulty. Seven of those. A friend crying in the school bathroom. A kid being left out at lunch. The conversation on the bridge. Moments that needed something different from ten seconds, that needed sitting with and talking through and staying for.

He wrote at the top of a fresh page: The power is one tool. It is not the only tool.

He thought about this for a while and then added: Actually it is not even the main tool. It just gets used first because it is automatic.

The tiredness after each activation had not gone away but he had learned to manage it. He kept a small bottle of water and something to eat in his bag at all times because food and water helped. He had learned that the tiredness was worse if he was already tired to begin with, so he tried to sleep properly, which was advice he had always been given and had never previously followed very well.

He had told nobody about the power. This was the thing he thought about most, in the quiet before sleep, whether keeping it to himself was the right thing or not.

There was nobody he was afraid to tell. He trusted his parents. He trusted his best friend Cass, who was the most sensible person he knew and who would not make it strange. The reason he had not told anyone was not fear. It was something harder to name.

He wrote it down one night, trying to work it out by putting it in words.

He wrote: If I tell someone, it becomes a thing that is known about me. Right now it is just a thing I do. I am not sure I want it to be the main thing about me. I am not sure I want to be defined by it.

He read this back.

Then he wrote: But not telling anyone also means carrying it alone. And carrying things alone gets heavy.

He looked at both things he had written for a long time.

Then he put the notebook away and sent Cass a message asking if she wanted to meet for a walk the next day because he had something to tell her.

She replied in under a minute. Yes obviously. Also I have been waiting for you to tell me for about six weeks so please do not make me wait any longer.

Eli stared at his phone.

He typed back: How did you know?

She replied: You get tired in a specific way after specific things happen near you. I noticed. I did not say anything because I thought you would tell me when you were ready. Are you ready?

He smiled at the screen for a moment.

He typed: Yes. Tomorrow. Bring snacks because it is a long story.