The next morning, Greywick pretended nothing had happened.
Kyle noticed because Greywick was very bad at pretending.
The sky was too blue, like it had been adjusted by someone who'd only heard descriptions of happiness. The bakery window across the street had lost its extra pane overnight. Students laughed too loudly, and teachers smiled a second too late, like they were remembering to do it.
Liz noticed too.
She walked beside Kyle in silence, arms folded, eyes flicking to details most people ignored—the clock above the office running a minute slow, the same announcement repeating twice with different wording, a poster for a club that didn't exist.
"Okay," Kyle murmured. "New theory."
Liz didn't look at him. "I'm listening."
"The town panicked."
She considered that. "Towns can't panic."
"Tell that to yesterday."
They stopped at her locker. Kyle leaned casually against the metal, like his heart hadn't sped up every time he got too close to her. Liz spun the dial, missed it, tried again.
"Are you okay?" he asked.
"Yes," she said too quickly. Then she exhaled. "No. But I will be."
Kyle nodded. He didn't push. He was learning.
The locker opened. Inside, taped neatly to the door, was a yellow slip of paper.
Liz frowned. "That wasn't there yesterday."
Kyle leaned in. "Everything says that."
She peeled it off.
REMINDER:
FIELD TRIP PERMISSION DUE TODAY
Liz's eyes narrowed. "What field trip?"
Kyle checked his phone. "None on the calendar."
As if summoned, the bell rang. Down the hall, a teacher called out, "Permission slips, everyone! Don't forget!"
Liz's grip tightened on the paper. "Kyle."
"Yeah."
"This is how it works," she said quietly. "It creates a reason. Then it fills in the details later."
Kyle felt a chill crawl up his spine. "So if we don't go—"
"Then we don't know what it corrects."
They looked at each other. No debate. No argument.
At lunch, the cafeteria buzzed with talk of the field trip. No one knew where they were going. Everyone acted like they always had.
Kyle poked at his fries. "I don't like being scheduled by a town."
Liz smiled faintly. "You don't like being scheduled by anyone."
"True. But this feels personal."
Across the room, a boy Kyle recognized waved—then hesitated, brow furrowing, as if he'd forgotten who Kyle was mid-motion.
Liz followed his gaze. "Did you see that?"
"Yeah."
"Names are slipping," she said. "Faces too."
Kyle looked back at her. "Not yours."
She blinked, surprised, then looked down. "Good."
After school, they met at the pier without needing to say it out loud. The water was calm. Too calm.
Liz leaned against the railing. "The woman at the Archive said we'd be back."
Kyle joined her, their shoulders almost touching. "She sounds very confident."
"And if she's right?"
"Then we don't make it easy."
Liz hesitated. "If this gets worse… you don't have to keep doing this with me."
Kyle turned fully toward her. "Liz."
She met his eyes.
"I'm not here because I'm bored," he said quietly. "I'm here because it matters. And because you matter."
For a moment, the town seemed to hold its breath.
Liz nodded once. "Okay."
A siren sounded in the distance.
Kyle checked the time.
Sixteen minutes early.
Liz's voice was steady, but her hand drifted closer to his. "It's changing faster."
Kyle laced his fingers with hers without thinking. "Then we move faster too."
The siren cut off abruptly.
Kyle's phone buzzed.
So did Liz's.
GREYWICK HIGH UPDATE
FIELD TRIP TOMORROW — 7:30 A.M.
Liz stared at the screen. "Tomorrow?"
"Guess it doesn't like waiting," Kyle said.
At the far end of the pier, a familiar figure stood—hands folded neatly, glasses straight.
The librarian smiled.
"You forgot your permission slips," she called.
Two envelopes lay on the railing between Kyle and Liz, though neither had seen her approach.
Their names were printed neatly on the front.
Liz didn't open hers.
Kyle did.
Inside, a single line:
DESTINATION: TO BE DETERMINED
Below it, already signed:
PARENT/GUARDIAN CONSENT: APPROVED
Kyle looked up.
The librarian was gone.
The water rippled once, then went still.
Greywick had decided.