The bell above the shop door jingled with a sharp clatter as Arthur stepped into Barlow Tires. The scent of rubber and oil was immediate—nostalgic and nauseating. It hadn't changed in any of the loops, and the familiarity made his pulse spike.
He approached the front desk where a heavyset man in a navy blue uniform looked up from a clipboard. Gary Barlow. Owner. Mechanic. The guy who'd once offered Arthur a job in another life—or rather, another version of this one.
Gary squinted at him. "Help you, son?"
Arthur took a breath, pasting on the story he'd practiced like a script. "Yeah. I'd like to order a tire replacement—four tires, actually—for a Ford Taurus. Burgundy. 2004 model. I have the plate number."
Gary raised an eyebrow. "For your car?"
Arthur shook his head. "It's for my dad. Surprise gift. He's been talking about new tires for months, and my mom's birthday's coming up. Figured I'd do something useful for once."
Gary chuckled, flipping his clipboard to a blank form. "That's a first. Most people your age are buying Bluetooth speakers, not all-weather treads."
Arthur smiled stiffly. "Yeah, well, she's a practical woman."
He recited the plate number, each digit etched into his muscle memory. He selected the same tire model as before—Michelin HydroEdge, one of the best for rain at the time—and handed over the cash. Gary whistled softly.
"You come into some inheritance or something?"
Arthur shrugged. "Saved up. Side jobs. Part-time tutoring."
It was always cash. Cards left a paper trail, and too much interference in his parents' finances might change things he couldn't anticipate.
Gary tapped at a terminal, entering the appointment into the system. "Earliest I can do it is tomorrow morning, 8:15. We'll need about forty-five minutes. That okay?"
Perfect. He knew from the loops that his parents didn't leave until just after 9:00.
"That's great," Arthur said. "Could you maybe frame it like… I don't know, a loyalty promo or something? I want it to seem like it came from you, not me."
Gary raised a brow, clearly entertained. "Trying to score brownie points, huh?"
Arthur nodded, forcing a grin. "Is it working?"
Gary smirked and made a scribble. "You got it, kid. 'Customer Appreciation Program.' Your dad'll be bragging about it for months."
Arthur thanked him and walked out, the receipt tucked safely in his wallet.
Outside, the air felt colder. Or maybe that was just his nerves catching up to him.
One variable accounted for.
But it wasn't enough.
He still had to deal with Mark Jenkins.
Arthur sat in his car—an aging Corolla with a stubborn ignition—and flipped through his journal. The page he'd marked for today had a single underlined phrase:
Delay the Truck. No direct confrontation. No violence
That rule was burned into his bones after the loop where he'd tried to block Jenkins' driveway with a trash bin. Jenkins had driven through it like it was made of paper, cursing as he sped away. The accident had still happened. And Arthur had spent that evening crying in a police holding cell.
He started the car.
He had four hours left before Jenkins's truck would hit the highway. Just enough time to make his move.
He parked two blocks away from Jenkins's house, heart hammering.
It was a modest ranch-style place, beige siding, sagging porch. The truck was parked out front like always—white cab, faded decals, a rig that looked too tired to be on the road.
Arthur checked his surroundings, then reached into the glove compartment for the stolen license plate—the one from a junker he'd swapped in another loop. It was battered, rusted at the corners. He stepped out, tools in hand.
The street was quiet. Suburban stillness. No barking dogs, no lawnmowers. Just the whisper of wind and the rustle of leaves.
Arthur approached the truck, every footstep deliberate. He worked quickly, unscrewing the back plate and replacing it with the fake. It was crude. Obvious. But Jenkins wouldn't notice until he was pulled over—and even then, it would take time to resolve.
Just a few hours. That's all Arthur needed.
He put the real plate in a paper bag and buried it in a public trash bin a block away, wiping his hands on his jacket.
By the time he was back in the Corolla, his hands were trembling.
He drove.
Not home. Not yet.
There was still one place he had to go.
Arthur found himself standing in front of his childhood home, watching from across the street like a stranger. The porch light was on, and through the living room window, he could see his parents—his mother folding laundry on the couch, his father reading the paper.
He hadn't spoken to them yet.
Not in this loop.
He didn't trust himself not to break.
Every instinct screamed to rush inside, to hug them, to beg them to stay home tomorrow. But that had never worked. It always unraveled things. Always led to another reset.
This had to go right.
He stepped back from the curb and walked away, disappearing into the orange-hued shadows of a perfect October evening.