Tuesday, December thirty-first. Last day of the year. I have to look at the calendar twice and place myself in Paris' house to realize that what I have lived these months is real. The images come flooding back: the Halls, Greg Gordon, Sophie, Paris, the Goddess...Edgar. Damn it! Now I get it. It was Edgar Scofield who set me up with his own cousin, Rosetta... That's why he was so nice. Besides, how could a Scofield have noticed me? I was just acting on every man's primal instinct. I didn't do anything wrong because Paris only owns me as a slave. I don't know exactly why Paris is like this. Does it mean that she cares for me? That she loves me? Sure, as a brother, she made that clear. Do I love her as more than that?

So many questions lead me to a simple conclusion: I am creating a life that is not my own. With Paris, with soccer, with the future. And I must not forget that I am a slave, that I have an identification number tattooed on my wrist. That I no longer belong to Paris. That I will soon return to the cotton plantation from which I came. I shudder at the thought of Edgar's threat, though I am not afraid of him. I am afraid of his henchmen, whom he will pay to look for me. More than ever, I need the freedom Paris promised me to escape. I must be realistic from now on. I cannot live on dreams and illusions. I want my freedom and I want it now. I want to find my mother in time and get the answers I need. I want to have my own life, with my own choices and decisions, for better or for worse. I don't want to be dependent on anyone.

—I'm so sorry about last night. I shouldn't have behaved that way—Paris attacks me in the bathroom when I look in the mirror and see how I've changed—. Too many feelings and emotions that I didn't know how to control. Edgar kept asking me questions about Isaak Backer and why we had problems with him. To make matters worse, that damn Backer has already sent me his article.

—What do we do now? —I am aware of her apology. That's fine. I'm more concerned about the fear it conveys—. If Isaak Backer does a little digging... he'll find out you're not a journalist and you don't work for New America Today.

—Edgar will fix it—Paris has a blank stare—. Or at least I hope so.

—Your boyfriend is an asshole, you should know that by now—I blurt out—. And his family even more so.

—But you liked Rosetta Scofield Jones, didn't you?—I don't know what she means.

—She set me up and I fell for it, Paris. I admit it. Guilty. Now let's get down to business. I want to be free. Let's go back in time, get your books and take me to my mother. Give me the freedom you promised—I am getting serious.

—Where is the desire to end slavery? To bring freedom to all the slaves of the Provinces? Where is the Goddess? The Priestess? What we have in common...

—Fuck it all, Paris. I want to be able to decide for myself. I'm a slave and I have to become a transporter, go to the desalination plants on the islands or go back to Greg Gordon's plantation. That's my future if I don't do something! That's why I want us to keep our original deal: I help you finish your research and you help me with my freedom and my mother. It's simple.

—And then what will you do? Where will you go?

—After... I'll see what I do. But I want to decide.

-—I need you to complete my project—she says, bowing her head—and to give meaning to my life. Without you, I would not be a follower of the Goddess, nor would I have seen history from the perspective I see now. I need you, Eric.

—They won't let you publish this, I've told you a thousand times.

—I don't care, but I know I can't finish it without you. I still have a lot to figure out...

I take her hand and we walk down the stairs two by two. Mr. Stonecraft is sleeping peacefully on the couch, taking a break after another hard night's work. I wake him up.

—Put your damn machine to work—I say.

—What? I am putting the finishing touches... No...

—Right now, Mr. Stonecraft. We have to get back to the Collapse and we have to do it no—. The father looks at his daughter, who nods.

—I can't assure you that the coordinates and dates will match and take you to the place you want.

—I don't care about the details. Get it done, whatever it takes.

Matt Stonecraft obeys me and gets on with the job while Paris and I prepare for the journey. My only cargo is an empty backpack and a slug gun, which I keep well hidden under my belt. It doesn't take us long to get down to the basement, which is in more disarray than I remembered. We make our way to the small stage and lock ourselves behind the glass. Matt, from the command center, taps and types on various computer devices. He puts the time machine watch on Paris' wrist and they share a knowing look.

—Are you sure? It's risky.

—Absolutely—I say, convinced.

—Let's get it over with—Paris sighs resignedly as the glass closes in on us.

—Magnetic Containers activated—Mr. Stonecraft says from his control panel, looking at three separate screens—Electron Injection activated. Main computer in order.

A white mist comes out of Paris' wristwatch and floods the entire cabin. I feel dizzy. I stop breathing. Everything is dark.

Paris and I are thrown forward and hit the floor face first. I feel dust on the roof of my mouth and sand on my hands. I cough. I sit up and take in as much air as I can. The sun, high in the blue sky, burns my head. All around us is desert and reddish rocks.

—Did it go well? —I ask Paris, who has already recovered from the trip.

—I don't know, but of course, if this isn't the collapse, it's very close.

—Where are we in the Provinces? —I look sideways, shading myself with my own hand, looking for some clue to follow. But it's all a wasteland.

—I am not sure.

—If this is before the collapse, your theories are useless. There's no sign of civilization.

—Shut up—she orders me sharply, wounded in her pride.

We walk in silence towards a rocky mountain on the horizon. From up there we have a panoramic view of the place where we are. The sun was as hot as ever and made us sweat. We did not have a drop of water. The walk is long and gets harder as the ground becomes stony. We are on the way to dehydration. We stopped to rest on a ledge where there was shade. Paris is exhausted and I can see her parched lips. I find it hard to produce saliva. The desert dust has gotten into my lungs.

I let her rest and climb up, not without effort. My legs are sore from playing soccer the day before. From up there, I can see a paved road that the desert is gradually covering. Beyond it is another imposing mountain. This road must lead somewhere.

I go back and help Paris climb up and down the mountain until we reach the asphalt of the road, worn and cracked by the bad weather. We walk down the road at a slow pace.

—We have to go back—I say after half an hour on foot—or we're going to die.

Paris was disappearing and I panicked. I don't know what to do. I have no water, no shade nearby. The sun is at its peak and won't stop beating down. There is nothing and no one around. I can only try to tinker with the clock and get back to our time.

—Let's go, Paris!

A deafening noise fills the desert. Three clouds of dust approach.

—I hope it's not a sandstorm.

I sit down on the asphalt and rest Paris' head on my knees, trying to keep some of the sun off her and ready to protect her. The sound comes closer and closer, and I manage to make out what it is when they are very close. They are three hoverbikes that move by stepping on the ground, with two pneumatic wheels. They are not as big and sturdy as Luke's or any of the others I have seen in New America.

We are surrounded by the three strange hoverbikes. Three men get off, completely covered with their clothes. Only their eyes are visible, behind huge clear glasses.

—What have we here! Two lost travelers. Search them!

I think I'm going to faint. I raise my palms in a sign of helplessness. We're totally helpless. Two men approached us and took our backpacks, while the other one pointed a gun at us from his vehicle.

—They are clean, boss. The backpacks are empty.

—No way! We need everything they have!

—They don't have anything!

—How are they going to cross the desert without food and water? -They must have something. Take a good look if you want to eat today! If I have to go...

I'm exhausted when they drag me across the sand and take me away from Paris. They searched me thoroughly and discovered my gun.

—A pistol!

—A watch! —says the one searching Paris.

Shit! This watch is the only way to get home. If we lose it... we'll be stuck here forever... Does that mean I can be free? We don't know where we are or when we are and it wouldn't be fair to Paris or her research. That's why she bought me. To support and accompany her on this incredible journey. I have to keep my end of the bargain, so I grab the pants of one of the thieves, who struggles and kicks me in the chin. On my knees and in pain, almost shaking, I charge him. We fall to the ground and roll around. I am hit several times.

—Eric! —Paris yells at me, who has come to his senses.

The robbers have tied our hands together at stomach level. Paris looks at me with concern because I'm bleeding from one of my eyebrows. I taste my blood. They put us on the air-wheeled motorcycles and I clung to the driver as best I could as he accelerated. The wind and sand hit my head and made me squint. The sensation of speed, the noise and the smell of fuel is unbearable.

The three motorcycles ride in a straight line through the desert, one after the other. Paris is on the middle one. The road gets wider and wider. We pass bridges and several tunnels. The human remains become more and more visible. Small abandoned houses, others completely collapsed. Abandoned cars with pneumatic tires, others scrapped or burned, huge metal remains of what appears to be a bird with wings, clothes, broken artifacts of aluminum, iron and other materials that I do not know what they are. Soon a small village appears before us, its entrance guarded by two huge olive trees that are practically dry. The desert eats everything. At least the thieves did not leave us to die in this hostile place.

As we move through the town, our captors slow down, allowing me to open my eyes wide. I look at Paris and her windblown hair. I try to focus on every detail that can help us locate ourselves in time and space. The street does not end, but crosses the whole city. On both sides of the avenue we are surrounded by houses with all-white facades, one, two and three stories high. I began to see the faces of people coming and going, fleeing from the sun. Women carrying bags, children playing on the porches of their houses, looking at us with fear, a man with a blue bucket in his hands. Two young men are painting in white a house that stands out from the others. Other houses are in total ruins, only huge walls remain and the roofs have big holes in them. The roar of the motorcycles brings out small animals that have been hiding from the heat. From one of the balconies on the verge of collapse, the face of a man with a bushy beard appears, drinking a beer. He shows it to us, as if to toast with us.

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We arrived in the center of the city, in a large rectangular square where life, which seemed to have disappeared into the desert just a few kilometers away, never stops. In the same square there is a small market full of small stalls. I see fruit, much of it spoiled or rotten. Smelly meat, dirty and torn clothes. Flashlights, cables, and spare parts. I see nothing in good enough condition to be sold. And yet it is sold. The square is surrounded by the oldest and most architecturally significant buildings in town. They are made of brick and wood, with large windows and plaster decorations. The facades are not white, but maroon and dark green. One of the buildings, the largest and most imposing, accessed by a stone staircase, is the town hall, according to a sign I read.

The thieves drive their vehicles around the market, while the people stop for a second to watch us like strangers. They do it out of the corner of their eye and then go back to their business. It reminds me of the market in New America, but here the smell of food is nauseating and the produce is scarce. Nor do I see children running around or hear their laughter, only hisses and murmurs that easily dissipate. As the robbers lead us downstairs and tell us to leave at gunpoint, I feel it was foolish to force Matt Stonecraft to start the machine, because it's clear he's got the time and place wrong again. The big front door of the city hall closes behind us and the air seems to get cleaner, because it no longer smells like the mixture of sweat and rotting food of the market. Instead, the room smells soft and sweet. Someone is baking a cake, for the aroma is the same as Mrs. Hall's kitchen when she would get jam, cream, and chocolate.

We walk on a red carpet. The Town Hall is a luxurious place, because of the furniture in the foyer, the bookshelves, the paintings and the decoration of ceramic and gold vases. A spiral staircase takes us to the upper floor, which leads to a narrow corridor that takes us to the back room. Everything is full of mirrors. The wood on the floor creaks with our footsteps.

We reach the mayor's office and are introduced by our captors. There is no space on the four walls that is not occupied by paintings of various sizes, all of them depicting young women, many of them naked or showing their breasts. Stretched out in an armchair, his feet up on the desk, is a muscular man with long, dirty black hair. He has a mustache and is chewing on a toothpick.

—Mayor—The robber chief coughs. The man sits up. He doesn't even notice us.

—Marco, damn it! —he shouts angrily—It's nap time!

—I'm sorry, sir, we... it's one o'clock in the afternoon.

—I was joking, asshole—he laughs, showing his yellow teeth full of tartar—. What are you bringing me today? You better hope it's something good.

—Two foreigners... —Now the mayor really looked at us with his eyes—. They were half dead in the desert. No water, no food. People are getting more and more desperate.

—Didn't they have anything with them?

—Only this.

Marco, the leader of the thieves, puts my gun and the watch that allows us to travel through time on the mayor's table. The mayor checks the items, paying more attention to the pistol.

—Where did you steal this, boy? —he asks me directly—It looks good—. I must look terrible, because he looks at me with disgust.

—It belongs to me. I'm not a thief—I know this is not the time to be cocky, but I look down at the three bikers who attacked us.

—Liar! —he says angrily. He falls silent for a few seconds, then bursts out laughing—. I like this guy! Where did you say they came from?

—From far away—Paris answers dryly.

—¡Bravo! The pretty girl know how to talk. And how far is far away? Is there anything left beyond Washington? There's nothing left! That's why you've come to the only place you can survive today! Welcome to Monroe! The last living town of all the former United States of America.

I guess the second I see where and when we are, it can't be! Paris and I look at each other, as if we can communicate telepathically. We have traveled back in time to after the Collapse! To the time of the first Priestess! The Bible passage spoke of miracles and the multiplication of food and drink by the Priestess in the town of Monroe. In what year exactly? Even if we haven't gone back to the Collapse years, I know Paris can get some good information here, because the crazy mayor has said something about the United States of America. But now what worries me most is how we are going to get out of this.

—You're not done for the day, Marco. You have to go out there again this afternoon—the mayor turns to the thieves. He motions for them to leave—. Thank you for the goods.

The mayor stands and, despite the heat, puts his hands in his pockets. He continues to admire the gun Paris gave me.

—I am Alecsander Reed, mayor of this city—he says to us—and you will tell me where you came from and what you've seen if you want to get out of here alive.

I remember the scripture about Monroe and the injustices of his governor. Alecsander Reed was a tyrant who kept a community prosperous by plundering. But here I have seen only misery and poverty.

—If you release us and return our possessions, we will be completely honest—Paris is ahead of me. She has the advantage, she has history on her side.

—You? Your belongings? Chiquita, you sound like that real estate bitch who gave me three hundred thousand dollars for a forty square meter closet. I didn't have to trust that bitch, and I'm not going to trust you. You are in no position to negotiate—he grits his teeth to speak.

—We come from the city of Paris—she's taking a chance. We don't even know if this city existed.

—Paris? Do you think I'm stupid? I don't like people who want to stay with me. I'll hang them in public. It's not even worth wasting bullets on them. So don't bust my balls, you cheap bitch! —Alecsander insults her just inches from her face.

Paris closes her eyes and I see the fear on her face. This is how they treat many slaves in our time. It doesn't make you feel very good, really. But what happens to Paris is that she stops breathing because of the smell the Mayor is giving off. I feel it too. Our hands are tied and we can't hold them up to our noses. Alecsander notices and sniffs his armpits.

—Yes, I need a shower.

Two guards appear at the door and the mayor gives his permission. An employee enters with a tray containing three plates of food. One with potatoes, one with roast beef and one with cheesecake. My stomach growls with hunger. The clerk also leaves him a bottle of crystal-clear water. The mayor looks at it with a twinkle in his eye.

—This water must be good!

It's just the three of us again. Alecsander Reed doesn't remember that we are standing in front of him, because he has started to eat like a pig, with his hands.

—Oh, yes! You! —he says with his mouth full. It's disgusting—. You owe a debt to Monroe and its mayor, Alecsander Reed. The only way to repay it is to work for me. Bring food, water, and anything important you find lying around. When you pay me, I will return your things and you will be free. Tomorrow is your first delivery. Three days without bringing anything means hanging. And don't do anything stupid if you don't want to die before your time. I have eyes everywhere.

The guards with dark complexions and threadbare shirts remove our shackles and push us down the stairs until they throw us out of the town hall. My head hurts and I feel my own dried blood on my cheek. It hurts even more when the sun beats down on our heads as soon as we step out into the empty marketplace. No one walks among the stalls, which have been stripped of their canvas, leaving only the skeletons of wood and iron. The whole town is hiding in their houses from the high temperatures.

—Fuck! —Cry of impotence.

—Eric, please.

I help Paris to stand up while she begs me for silence and discretion. But I can't. We are trapped in a time that is not ours, to which we cannot return, and we will have to become plunderers if we want to survive. Paris is not afraid, but her gray eyes seem to analyze everything, despite the burns on her skin and her pale face. I don't know if she was hurt more by the prospect of a life in this place, leaving behind everything she has in New America, or by Alecsander's words, which seemed to pick apart the history of the old city for which it is named. I think she understands now that the illusion she had turned into a nightmare, and that it wasn't just a game. Faced with this possibility, I think she bought a slave as a bodyguard. I don't know if she was looking at the right one. Anyway, I keep my mouth shut and listen to her. I don't want to argue. I'd rather save my strength to come up with a good plan to get out of here.

Paris and I talk while she looks at my eyebrow wound, and we agree that for now it is best to investigate Monroe some more, but we need to get away from the hellish streets that give off a suffocating heat. Following the scent of food that now permeates the market, we arrive at the tavern, located in one of the stately buildings on the central square. Inside we smell sweat. All heads turn as we cross the threshold of the door. They look at us for milliseconds and then return to their work. At various tables, men and women enjoy their meager lunches, others drink dark liquors while playing cards and smoking, filling the air with smoke. We sit at a small table, close to the bar and the door, in case we have to make a quick getaway.

—Two glasses of water, please—I ask the waiter, who is drying the glasses with a dirty cloth. He's a forty-year-old man with a lot of wrinkles.

—New ones, right? Wouldn't you rather have some whiskey? It'll do you good.

—No, no. Two glasses of water, please.

—Do you have any money? Water doesn't come cheap.

—Pour them two whiskies and put it on my account, Carlitos.

The voice comes from a man sitting on a stool leaning against the bar. He has disheveled hair and a bushy beard. His face looks familiar. He looks at us and raises his glass, dedicating the drink to us. He drinks it in one gulp. It's the same guy who drank a beer to our health from the balcony as we entered Monroe. The bartender serves us, and we imitate him by looking at him. It's equal parts strong and disgusting. A huge fire goes through my mouth and stomach. I think I'm hungrier now.

—Don't thank me—he says—strangers who come to stay need a push.

—We're just passing through—I confess. Both he and the innkeeper laugh.

—Passing through where? There's nothing to the north or south. Neither east nor west.

—How sweet, Carlitos! We all said that when we came to Monroe, and most of them—he points to the crowd at the bar—have been here for years and years.

—What about the others?

—Dead—he says. Our faces must reflect panic as he finishes, —. You got yourselves into quite a mess coming here, yes. On top of that, you didn't come at a good time for this town. Monroe belongs to Alecsander Reed, our glorious mayor! —he raises his voice and takes another swig of whiskey, toasting the whole tavern—. Even us. We belong to him, too. We work, forced, for him. There is no other choice. We bring him resources, and he rations them to us. But we have less and less of everything, and it's becoming noticeable—he pulls up his shirt and shows the skin that looks like flesh, where his ribs want to show—. It wasn't like this before, you know? Before, the streets were full of refugees to loot, because they were fleeing from the North with all their belongings. Some of them took their houses with them on trucks. There's nobody left up there, they're all dead!

I grab Paris and we get the hell out of there. This guy is the town drunk who invited us to listen to his sermon. At the tavern it's clear that we won't find much help. Monroe is a ghost town at this hour. The whiskey has only increased my feeling of heat and embarrassment. My back is sweating. We have nowhere to go. We find a small shadow in the doorway of a mansion in the square.

—These are the early years of the Collapse!

—Don't you think so, Paris? —I answer arrogantly. I'm angry and hungry.

—It was you who pawned it! —she throws me in my face.

—I wanted to end it all! But yeah, I'm guilty again for all the bad things that happen to us, that's the thing about slaves, they bring bad luck. Doesn't that work for you? This is the damn time you're studying! Live it for real and stop writing about it!

—You're an asshole, Eric!

I apologize when a few minutes of complete silence pass. The situation has overwhelmed us both, we are tired, sore and hungry.

—Look, Paris, we can only do what Alecsander tells us to do. We loot, pay the debt, get our things back and leave—I think it's the logical thing to do.

—This is a trap, Eric. Didn't you hear that man?

—That drunk?

—The first years after the Collapse were ones of organization and reorganization. Small communities were formed that would later become known as the United Provinces. Monroe was one of them, the most important. They lived by smuggling and pillaging until...remember? The Priestess arrived who, with the help of the Goddess, defeated Alecsander.

—You mean... we have to wait for the Priestess?

—She will save us.

—Are you sure?

—No, but she's the last hope we have. The Bible was written between fifty and one hundred years after the death of the first Priestess, and I don't know how real the facts, dates, and events are. The Monroe passage is one of the most important, so the Priestess had to be in this city.

—It could be years! —I'm still upset.

—Don't you get it, Eric? Monroe is dying. It's not the thriving community it once was. There are no people to plunder, the desert is advancing. The market doesn't have a decent piece of fruit. The meat was rotten, you saw it. This place is dying.

—This very afternoon we'll go to the Monroe Trails and bring something to Alecsander. Let him see that we accept his offer and will deliver—Paris sighs and nods—even if we don't want to, it's what we have to do.

—I'll keep researching, see if I can find out what year it is and what happened in the Collapse. I can ask, the people of Monroe had to live through it.

—You don't even take a vacation when you're lost—I tell her ironically.

She slaps me on the head and we laugh, I tickle her and we end up hugging, even though we've fought we've already forgotten each other. This complicity and being here with Paris makes me not care that we are trapped in time. I feel that wherever I am, if Paris is here, it's a good place.

—I think I'm going to throw up—we're surprised by the drunk, skinny man at the bar—. Are you done yet?

—What do you want? —I sit up. It gives me a bad feeling.

—This is no time to be on the street. I offer you my house.

—Why are you so hospitable? Are you working for Alecsander? —I think he might be one of the mayor's spies, keeping an eye on us.

—Think about what you're saying, boy—he laughs—I've already told you that we all work for him here, there's no other way, but what matters is not who I work for... but whose heart belongs to whom. Whose heart is yours?

I'm getting colorful. He's referring to Paris. But she and I are just master and slave, and no matter how many years we spend lost in time, nothing will change that. I can't speak, so he continues:

—Mine belongs to the Goddess—he shows us the rudimentary tattoo on his wrist—. Will you come with me now? We are too exposed.