The Price of Control

"Saturday works," Dee says, taking another sip of coffee. "Where should we meet?"

"How about that big shiny pink hotel on Ocean Drive? Then go to a Cuban café nearby."

"I've never tasted real Cuban cuisine before, just snacks from stalls."

"Then you're in for a treat. Meet you there at seven?"

She nods, finishing her honeybun. "It's a date."

After Dee leaves, the store falls into that particular midnight quiet. The fluorescent lights hum overhead, casting everything in a sickly glow. I straighten magazines, restock cigarettes, and count the minutes.

My mind bounces between Saturday's date and tomorrow's meeting with Miguel. Two paths diverging, one normal, one dangerous. One leading to Dee's smile, the other to whatever Miguel has planned.

I tap my finger against the counter. Tick-tock.

The sensible choice would be to skip Miguel's offer, focus on Dee, build a normal life. But normal doesn't get me rich. Normal doesn't leverage my abilities.

***

I wake with a jolt at 11:04 AM, sunlight slicing through the gap in the motel curtains. My body's still adjusting to the night shift schedule, but I've got enough time before meeting Miguel at noon.

The revolver sits hidden under my mattress where I stashed it that first day. I've been careful not to touch it since. Having an illegal gun is one thing, carrying it around is another level of risk. But today might require it.

Before dealing with Miguel's mysterious offer, I need answers about my ability. Time to run some experiments.

I pull out a wad of bills: about two hundred dollars. I separate a few bills with a lower face value, and put the rest aside separately.

Standing in the center of the room, I hold a single dollar bill. "Let's get scientific about this."

I focus on the bill, willing it to activate. Nothing happens. I try harder, concentrating until my temples throb. Still nothing.

"Maybe it needs a clear mental direction." I picture myself going backward in time. The bill bursts into blue flame, disintegrating without burning my fingers. The world blurs and—

I'm standing in the same place, but I feel a slight shift.

One second of rewind for one dollar. Exactly as I thought.

Next test: emotions. I pull out another bill and think about the ICE agents chasing me in 2025, the fear and desperation. The bill ignites, time rewinds another second.

I try anger next, remembering the Colombian with his knife. Another second back.

Two more tests with different emotions. Grief over my mother's death, joy from my first kiss, both work perfectly. Emotions don't seem to affect the power.

Now for the cooldown theory. I grab another bill and immediately try to rewind. Nothing happens. The bill remains intact in my hand.

I count silently. One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. Three—

The bill suddenly burns away, sending me back another second.

"Three seconds cooldown. Good to know."

I spend the next twenty minutes running variations. Multiple bills at once? Works fine. Five dollars gives me exactly five seconds back. Partial bills? Useless, tearing a dollar in half creates worthless paper. Attempting to rewind while holding objects? Only my conscious get to travel through time.

The most crucial test comes last. I deliberately cut my finger with my room key, just enough to draw blood. The sharp pain makes me wince.

"Now, let's see if injury affects the power."

I activate a bill. The world shifts backward, and my finger is whole again. Pain gone, cut erased.

By 11:40 AM, I've spent forty dollars on experiments. Two full night's wages at Manny's gone. But the knowledge is worth it:

One dollar equals one second of rewind

Three-second cooldown between uses

Emotions don't affect the ability

Physical injuries didn't travel with me

So why did it fail during the fight with the kidnappers?

I stare at my last remaining bill, turning it over in my fingers. Something's not adding up.

I pull out the rest of my money and try a bigger jump, ten dollars at once. The bills ignite, time rewinds, and I find myself ten seconds earlier. But when I immediately try to rewind again, nothing happens.

One Mississippi... Two Mississippi...

I count to thirty before the power works again.

"Shit. That's it. Longer rewind means longer cooldown. 3 times multiplier?"

The equation makes perfect sense. Ten seconds back means thirty seconds of vulnerability.

No wonder I couldn't rewind during the fight.

I check the time, 11:43 AM. Time to get ready. I pull on the jeans and loose T–shirt I bought with my first paycheck. The jeans pockets provide easy access to both my wallet and the bills I'll need for emergency rewinds.

I step outside my motel room and immediately shiver. The Miami air hits differently today. Cool, almost crisp. Nothing like the sweltering heat I'm used to. Even in Miami, weather is not always friendly.

"Damn, it's actually chilly," I mutter, zipping up the light windbreaker I grabbed at the last second.

Walking toward the bus stop, I count my remaining bills, thirty dollars in future currency and hundred local. All tens and twenties. A strategic error I hadn't considered until today's experiments.

"Need to break these down," I whisper to myself, shoving hands in my pockets against the breeze. "Small bills equal faster reactions."

The math is simple but critical. If I'm carrying tens and twenties, I'm looking at thirty to sixty second cooldowns after each use. That's an eternity when someone's pointing a gun at you.

A car backfires down the street, and I instinctively reach for my pocket before realizing it's not gunfire. My heart pounds against my ribs.

Singles. I need singles. With one-dollar bills, I can make constant micro-adjustments. Rewind just one or two seconds, then wait only three to six seconds before I can do it again. Much safer than these larger denominations that leave me vulnerable for too long.

The bus rumbles to the curb, belching diesel fumes. I climb aboard, drop my coins in the box, and take a seat near the back.