It’s like the digital display on a bomb, slowly clicking down to an explosion, or the lines a prisoner chalks on their wall as they count the days to release. Time has never been her friend, she thinks, as she stares blankly at the computer screen. But it’s always been her companion. She remembers back to the days after Brodie died. When a week had passed, Tess couldn’t believe it. Seven days, each one as long as a year. How had time slowed down so much? She knew that the older she got, the quicker time passed. When she was one, a year was the sum total of her life—her entire existence; then of course when she was two, it became half. That was why, she reasoned, her birthday seemed to come sooner each year, why she never had to wait so long for Easter, or Christmas. The older she got, the faster her life passed by. That made sense. So what of the inversion? After Brodie died she would read a book, and look at the clock—ten past ten. She’d read another three chapters—thirteen minutes past ten.
