[ WP ] Every time you die , you are transported to the time of the first event that ultimately caused your death . One day , you are hit by a car and sent 12 years into the past .

“ You going to finish that Mister? ” The waitress asked me as my eyes fluttered open from what felt like a booze fueled fever dream. 
 
 “ I ’ m sorry what? ” Words dribbled out as if I was just coming back into command of my body. 
 “ Ya coffee, you need some more Hun? Sure seem like it. ” Maybe her manager had told her she needed to be more friendly, or it could ’ ve been something else. “ Sure, sure, I ’ ll have another. ” The terse grin that passed her face was like a yellow light flashing green so an impatient driver could blaze past an empty intersection. She filled the mug and strolled back behind the counter, pulling out an iPhone as she crossed the threshold of the wrap around counter. 
 
 I took in my surroundings; small southern pub with wood laminate floors and the same kind of plaid drapes I became accustomed to in… Yes early 2010s. I was working the…my bag. My heart seemed to have calmed down enough for me to think critically. This didn ’ t feel like the first time this had happened. I reached automatically beneath the table to find my old JanSport. Uncharacteristically bare, no patches or pins, the bag was pretty light. Inside, an old trac phone, legal pad, and black pen. 
 
 The door on the bell rung twice as two men in black suits strode in, removing their sunglasses in tandem. “ Two 2s to go ma ’ am. ” She flicks her eyes away from something vaguely interesting and her gaze freezes on the two men ’ s waists. Following her gaze, I see the Department of Homeland Security badges blazing their belts with authority. Wordless she turns and hollers the order into the kitchen. The men sit at the bar, scanning the room. 
 
 DHS, early 2010s, southern pub. It had to have been that fucking missile the North Koreans…No, couldn ’ t be, maybe, Russia? 
 
 “ Hey buddy, you got the time? ” My head tilted up from the legal pad like a rusty hinge resisting fatigue. Both men were now focused on me, reminding me we were the only people in the pub. As I glanced back down at my wrist, I saw both men were wearing watches. “ About a mole past a hair last I checked, but you would know better than me. ” Both men started to chuckle and turn back to the counter knowing the joke had defused any attempt at intimidation. I lowered my head back to the contents of the bag and my mug. The waitress flashed me another green light as my gaze shifted, this time with a different sense of relief. She snatched two brown paper bags off the line, “ Two 2s to go. ” 
 
 “ Take care sir, stay out of trouble. ” Both men dawned their sunglasses as they strode out. As the bell rung on the way out, an image of a 2025 Jeep Forester barreling down a country road late at night jumped in front of my eyes. I grabbed my forehead in pain. Are you serious, I got fucked by a car instead of something interesting, that ’ s such bullshit. I try to reach back for details and the pain continues to intensify. 
 
 I remember the faces, and a, maybe this, fuck this hurts. A woman, late 90s. A man, her son maybe, late 60s. Two kids with these awful contorting faces. They all looked like they were screaming. 
 
 Then I see it. As clear as those asshole's badges I remember it. A holographic projection suspended in air with red lettering as my face smashes into the glass. ‘ T C A P M I ’ It looked like 60 pt 3D Comic Sans. What a tacky font to warn someone of an imminent crash. 
 
 You know what ’ s funny? I don ’ t blame that woman for killing me either. Who expects someone out for jog at 1am on a weekday? You know who I do blame though? Every car in the future is required by law to have an onboard self-driving module to take over in life threatening situations. Because physical circuits can react thousands of times faster than biological ones, the computer became essential to transportation safety in the public eye. Sadly, however, the system wasn ’ t foolproof. 
 
 A tear rolled down my cheek. What about my two Labradors and my fucking laundry. I had a sweet date for Thursday. My whole life started to roll over me like the someone cranking a volume dial. This pub was my favorite haunt before I moved to Pennsylvania to report full time. 
 
 I was so happy and so confused at the same time. Why could I remember these things so clearly? How am I back in my fucking body? 
 
 My eyes dropped to the legal pad and as I scanned the page my heart began to race. On the pad ’ s front page in the top right corner was the number for the paper I had been hired at what seemed like ages ago. 
 
 ‘ CALL ME SOON ’ 
 
 “ So you gon na do it? ” The waitress had snuck up on my again with more coffee. Breathless, I managed to shrug without looking up. She reached for my cup but paused her hand above mine. 
 
 “ Roll with the punches Hun, you seem pretty sharp. ” She switched on her smile, this time brighter and more genuine. Picking up my cup, she poured the dredges of the brew out. 
 
 “ I ’ ll think about it. Thanks for the refill. ” She strode back behind the counter. 
 
 I rustled around my bag for the phone. As I punched the numbers in I could feel my headache beginning to subside; was this relief the coffee or my conscious? Only one way to find out. 

