“Jesus.” Jesse took another hit. When he went to pass it back, Abby shook her head.

“I don’t have much tolerance in this b—…” She smiled goofily and shook her head. “Mm. Hey. Do you have any cigarettes?”

Jesse pulled the packet of Reds from his coat and handed her one. The lesser of two evils, he figured. Abby smoked the cigarette like a death-row inmate, head thrown back. When she coughed, she giggled, which made Jesse giggle.

Abby brushed off a patch of snow and sat next to him on the swing. “I want to ask you a question,” she said. “It’s… for a story I’m writing.”

“Okay.”

She stared at the house as if searching for words in the grooves of the aluminum siding. A sudden breeze blew snow from the roof, a starburst of particles and light.

“Say you had a kid.”

“Oh…kay?”

“And… say you found out you were going to die. But. Say someone could make it so that you didn’t. Have to die. Maybe.”

“What, like… they found a cure?”

“No. I mean… well. I just mean what if someone could fix things? Fix… your life.”

“Abs, I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

“I’m talking about second chances, Jess.”

Jesse shrugged. “Whatever. Sounds great.”

“But…” Abby took a deep breath. “If someone could give you another chance, to do things differently… so that maybe bad things wouldn’t happen… it might mean she wouldn’t ever be born.”

“She who?”

Jesse caught a flash of Abby’s eyes, and then she was examining her nails on either side of the still-burning cigarette. “Your daughter.” She put her nail in her mouth and chewed it off. Spat, took a drag from the cigarette. Looked at him. “Would you do it?”

Jess laughed. “I’m confused.”

“Damn it, listen. If you could live your life differently so that you might not die, but it meant your daughter might not be born, would you do it?”

“I don’t know. No.”

“No?”

“Nah.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know. What do you want me to say? I’m not a father.”

“But if you were.”

“But I’m not. And people don’t get do-overs. This is stupid.”

“But say you could.”

“How?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“What. A time machine? Aliens? A magical doorway?” He was teasing, but Abby wasn’t smiling.

“Damn it, Jesse, how is not the point.”

“Is there something about my future that I should know?”

The cigarette was burning to ash between Abby’s fingers. Jesse took it from her, smoked it down to the filter, and crushed it out.

“If I had a kid,” he continued, “… even if I could make it so they never existed, somewhere they would have existed. Right? On some… level? Or whatever? Well… you know what Mom always says. Once you have a kid, your life isn’t just yours anymore.”

He’d been looking at the side of the house. When he looked back, Abby was staring at him. It was getting creepy. “What?”

“So…” Abby whispered. “No?”

Jesse shrugged. “It just wouldn’t be right. Right?”

Abby’s eyes filled with tears, sparkling like snow-dust before cascading down her cheeks. In the next moment, she was hugging him. Jesse’s hands went awkwardly to her back. He hadn’t held her since she was small enough to carry.

“Hey, it… s’ok. What’s wrong?”

“I’m sorry, Jesse, I’m not a genius. I kind of figured you’d say that. But I hoped... I don’t know. I love you.”

“I… love you, too?”

Abby disentangled herself and swiped at her runny nose. “I gotta go.”

“Okay.”

She jumped off the swing and looked at him. She looked way older than she should.

Then, for just a moment, Jesse saw Abby standing on a ridge over a forested valley. She wore hiking gear and a cowgirl hat over short blonde hair, and that was weird. He’d never been hiking with Abby.

The wind kicked up, stronger this time. Abby bristled, her ponytail (black, not blonde) striving to break free from her head.

“It’ll pass,” she said. “It’s just the distortion.”

“What?”

“You won’t remember this part, anyway, but Jess... I only had a few minutes. I didn’t know what else to do.” She looked like she was about to start crying again, but she turned away.

Jesse watched her crunch back to the house. He felt dizzy and sick, like he used to get from reading comic books on long car trips. His head was full of Abby images—Abby in her car seat, sleeping slack-jawed and drooling. Abby in a cap and gown. Abby a grown woman on a mountain top, on a rooftop, in a white room. Abby yelling, crying, staring down at him while the world spiraled, shuttered, faded.