Just the two of us in the room. All gray walls. Gray ceiling with a short gray carpet below. Even the desk was gray. Me on one end, him on the other. Me, being the visitor in his office. The one answering his questions. Him, the middle-aged man with perfectly quaffed gray hair. I got ten years on him at least, but by how haggard I look, it might as well be thirty. He’s holding a gray tablet and wearing a gray suit the same shade of gray as everything else in this room. He looks nearly invisible. A floating head.

“I have a few questions for you before I can approve your permit,” the floating head says.

“I’m here to answer,” I say, hiding my trepidation. He doesn’t know this is all I got left. One last ditch effort at redemption thirty years after the worst decision of my life. The decision that brought me here to California…

“You are seeking a permit….” he scrolls on his tablet. “To send an object back in time…”

“Correct.”

“Now, let’s get the basics out of the way. Can you confirm I have accurate information in front of me?”

I’m about to say yes, but figured I should wait until he says more. He taps with his finger, scrolling up and down. 

“Your name is Simon Germaine-Jacobson.”

“Correct.”

“Birthdate March 28th, 2015. Fifty-two years old.”

“Correct.”

“Current Residence: Palo Alto, California.”

“Correct.”

“Alright, now that we are confirmed, I need you to verbally declare you are aware of the following provisos for a time travel permit.” More quick scrolling. “You certify you understand that the point from which your object arrives will split off into an alternate timeline, which will not affect this one you are in now, heretofore known as ‘The Prime’.”

“Correct.”

“You certify you understand that you will not have visibility into any alternate timelines created by this service.”

“Cor-”

“And that this transmission is for entertainment purposes only, and that it is not subject to any expectation of benefit or detriment to any past, present, and future selves and/or family, friends, coworkers, colleagues, acquaintances  or any other persons known or unknown to you, living or dead.”

“Um, yes.”

“And lastly, you certify that the subject and location, in both time and physical space, must be approved by the lead delegate—me—and that the combination of said subject and location, physically and temporally, will not create any substantial change to said alternate timeline, and the deviation will be kept within acceptable parameters for the safety of The Prime and all its inhabitants?”

“Uh… sure.”

He puts down his tablet, leans forward on the otherwise empty gray desk and plants his elbows, clasps his hands.

“Basically Simon, I need you to understand that if you do this, the Prime will not change at all. So, we will have no way of knowing how your transmission had any effect. And that if it does create an alternate timeline somewhere out in the continuum, I am going to make sure that the deviation is so small that it has no chance of interfering with spacetime, which is theoretically impossible. But better safe than sorry.”

He pauses, sighs, then continues.

“In all honesty, the government is happy to take your money to do this, but we are going to make sure that nothing bad happens, which means all you will get out of this is…. Well, I’m not sure. Let’s talk about what your plans are.” Back to business, he leans back, paws his tablet. “Why don’t you tell me, Simon, what you would like to send back, where and when you would like to send it back to, and what effect you hope it might have.”

I cough, rub my sweaty hands on my pants. Time for the truth, mixed with just the right amount of lie. He can’t find out that this little act will hopefully change another me’s life as he (we?) knows it.

Clarissa may have ruined me… but she won’t be able to ruin all of us.

“Well, sir.” I knew this moment would come, and hopefully practice makes perfect. “I would like to send a seashell back to land on the beach at 10:30 AM on July 23rd, 2039. Nags Head, North Carolina, milepost 11.5, three feet away from the surf.”

“You’ve done your homework,” he says. Is he impressed? Hard to tell. 

Meanwhile, my mind is flashing back to that fateful walk. Me, mid-twenties, on a family vacation, all of my life ahead of me, about to make a decision that keeps… her… in my life. A decision that begins a three-decade-long downward spiral. Clarissa. My downfall. “I was walking down that beach at that exact moment, and I would like myself to find this particular sea shell.” 

All true so far. He is decidedly nonplussed, even though to me, my request sounds nonsensical at the moment. “And what effect will this have on the timeline?” he asks.

“Well, you see, I want to see it and pick it up. It’s a… specific type of shell.”

“Now hold on.” He raises one hand. “I should remind you that you will not be allowed to leave anything of value that your alternate self can use to significantly change their life.”

I wave my hands. “No, no, no. Nothing like that. It won’t be a valuable or rare shell.” Now time for the lie. “You see, my mother was very sick at the time, and she loves the ocean and the color blue. After my walk, I will be going back to see her for, which would turn out to be, the last time. I want to have something nice that I can share with her. Something she would love to see. It won’t be changing anything besides making her happier in her last moments.”

My mother did die soon after that day, but the rest of the story is bunk. She was very happy until the end, and there would be nothing special to her about a blue seashell.

“I see,” he says, then tappity-taps his fingers on his tablet. “A shell native to the area. Blue in color. Not rare, nor valuable.”

“Yes, just in the right place at the right time.”

He nods. Pauses. “For your Mother,” he says. Something in his eyes softens as he looks away at nothing. Conjuring a memory of his own childhood, perhaps? It’s a human moment that is there for only an instant before his eyes land back on me. Then: “I see no issues with your request.” All professional now, he presses more buttons, slides forward and holds the tablet out for my palmprint with an official and joyless pronouncement of “Permit approved.”

The sand is warm in between my toes, even this close to the surf where it is firm and damp from the waves. I didn’t put on enough sunscreen, and I can feel my back heating up and then being pleasantly cooled by the breeze. A few other people are out walking or sitting on beach chairs, but the only sound is the ocean waves rolling in. These are sensations I would love to linger on, but my mind is elsewhere.

Clarissa.

She of the brown hair and the big brown eyes. The black Doc Martens under flowery summer dresses. Great taste in music and movies, and—since she seems to actually like me a lot—men as well. I met her online and we hit it off right quick. A few dates and I was hooked. Six months in and I was in love.

Here’s the kicker: she’s not staying. Her job as a U.I. Designer is moving her to Palo Alto, far away from Philadelphia. Far away from me. Too far, after discussion, for each of us to be comfortable continuing the relationship.

The other option—which she sheepishly offered before I met my family out here at our beach house—was for me to move to Palo Alto with her. Me, the guy who grew up in Philadelphia, has a nice place and a nice job as an employment consultant. The guy who, if he stayed in Philly, would not have Clarissa.

We both agreed it was a lot to think about, and that my family trip to the beach was a fortuitous chance to think it all over while she organized her own departure. 

But how do I make such a decision? This isn’t something I could bring up to family, all of whom are local to where I live and would of course tell me not to go. This is something I need to decide on my own.

I’m not the best at making decisions. I’ve hemmed and hawed for days. These long walks on the beach full of quiet contemplation haven’t brought me any closer to a result. I wish I could just flip a coin and hand off this choice to the unpredictable physics of spinning metal.

Wait, I  think, and stop walking. Feet sinking in the sand. Why can’t I do just that? I would feel slightly guilty handing off a huge life-changing decision to random chance, but I’m not making headway the more honorable route. I’ll just do it. Flip a coin and end this torment of indecisiveness.

Reflexively patting the empty pockets of my swimming trunks for a coin, another plan enters my mind. I’ll count the seashells that I see while walking back to the house. If it’s an odd number, I’ll stay in Philly, but if it’s an even number, I’ll go with Clarissa to Palo Alto. I’ll let the beach decide. Just as random as a coin toss, but more poetic.

Closing my eyes, I make some mental rules as to what constitutes a “sea shell.” Larger than a silver dollar. Mostly complete. Cockle, clam and scallop shells are not uncommon here and I know I’ll pass a bunch. No telling which one will be the last one, so even if I cheat and misidentify, it will still be random.

If I count it, it counts.

Opening my eyes, I begin my walk back to the house, counting shells along the way. The last one I spot just a little bit before I make it back to the wood path leading away from the beach: 

a blue-tinted scallop shell. Number thirty-seven. Odd. 

Looks like I’m staying in Philadelphia.

Just the two of us in the room. All beige walls. Beige ceiling with a short beige carpet below. Even the desk was beige. Me on one end, him on the other. Me, being the visitor in his office. The one answering his questions. Him, the middle-aged man with perfectly quaffed brown hair. I got ten years on him at least, but by how haggard I look, it might as well be thirty. He’s holding a beige tablet and wearing a beige suit the same shade of beige as everything else in this room. He looks nearly invisible. A floating head.

“I have a few questions for you before I can approve your permit,” the floating head says.

“I’m here to answer,” I say, hiding my trepidation. He doesn’t know this is all I got left. One last ditch effort at redemption thirty years after the worst decision of my life. The decision that left me here in Philadelphia…

“You are seeking a permit….” he scrolls on his tablet. “To send an object back in time…”