The crowd in front of the diner kept staring at the screen.

  Some people were afraid.

  Some were confused.

  A few were still trying to convince themselves the broadcast was fake.

  John stepped away from them quietly.

  He’d learned something after bouncing through a dozen strange universes:

  When something big starts moving, the smartest move is usually to start walking before everyone else realizes they should.

  The old man from the pawn shop followed him down the sidewalk.

  “So you’re going.”

  John shrugged.

  “Apparently I’m the dealer now.”

  “That wasn’t the plan.”

  “Nothing has been the plan since the casino.”

  The city around them buzzed with growing panic.

  Phones rang.

  Sirens started somewhere downtown.

  A helicopter thundered overhead heading toward the desert test facility.

  John kept walking.

  The whisper followed him.

  Not faint anymore.

  This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

  Just quiet.

  …Wednesday…

  The old man glanced at him.

  “You still hear it.”

  “Yeah.”

  “What does it say now?”

  John listened.

  Not words this time.

  Just a rhythm.

  Tick.

  Tick.

  Tick.

  “Clock’s running,” he said.

  They reached the pawn shop again.

  John pushed open the door.

  The bell rang.

  Inside, the Zybourne Clock was moving faster now.

  The gears slid across one another like a deck being shuffled in midair.

  The wall clocks disagreed violently.

  Some ran too fast.

  Some too slow.

  Some skipped seconds entirely.

  The old man stepped behind the counter.

  “You’ll need something.”

  John leaned over the strange machine.

  “Like what.”

  The old man opened a drawer.

  Inside were objects wrapped in cloth.

  Tools.

  Old ones.

  Dice.

  Cards.

  Coins.

  Things gamblers used.

  Things dealers used.

  John stared.

  “You’ve been collecting these?”

  “For a long time.”

  John picked up a coin.

  It felt familiar.

  The same weight as the ace chip he’d left behind.

  “Luck tokens,” the old man said.

  “From earlier games.”

  John set it down again.

  “I don’t think luck works on this thing.”

  The old man nodded.

  “No.”

  He pointed at the Zybourne Clock.

  “That one runs on choices.”

  John smirked.

  “Great.”

  He wrapped a deck of cards from the drawer and slipped it into his jacket.

  “Just in case.”

  Outside, the city was louder now.

  News alerts blasted from phones.

  Another broadcast began on a nearby screen.

  The Martian facility again.

  The machine had moved closer to the camera.

  Its clock-face head rotated slowly.

  “Dealer required.”

  John looked up at the screen.

  “Yeah yeah.”

  He stepped back out into the street.

  The old man followed.

  “Do you know what happens if the dealer doesn’t show?”

  John glanced over.

  “I’m guessing it’s bad.”

  The old man nodded.

  “The table collapses.”

  John looked down the road.

  Emergency vehicles screamed toward the highway.

  Beyond the city, the desert shimmered under the afternoon sun.

  “That far, huh.”

  “Yes.”

  John stretched his shoulders.

  “Well.”

  He started walking again.

  “You ever notice something funny about clocks?”

  The old man frowned.

  “What.”

  “They don’t run forward.”

  “They just count how long it takes for something to happen.”

  The old man thought about that.

  “You planning to hurry?”

  John grinned.

  “Dealer’s privilege.”

  Across the desert, the machine from the gate stood motionless.

  Waiting.

  Its second hand ticking slowly.

  Tick.

  Tick.

  Tick.

  Because until the dealer sat down—

  the next move of Wednesday could not be played.