Everyday, with Dr. Elias Locke
The Time Traveler Who Arrived Early
Monday, October 26, 2026
Monday.
At six twelve this morning, a gentleman walked into the Last Chance Diner carrying a metal box and the expression of a man who’d misplaced an entire Thursday.
He ordered coffee, pie, and directions to last week.
“We don’t serve last week,” Miss June informed him. “We barely serve breakfast.”
He sat down across from me.
“I’m from next Thursday,” he said.
“Which one?”
“There’s only one next Thursday.”
“Son, I’ve been to three of them. Two were disappointing.”
He placed the box on the counter.
Across its lid, somebody had written THURSDAY ONLY in letters large enough to discourage a moderately intelligent raccoon.
“I’m here to prevent a catastrophe,” he explained.
“Big one?”
“Depends how fond you are of the space-time continuum.”
“Not particularly. It keeps changing the price of groceries.”
He explained that the box contained a device capable of correcting a mistake that hadn’t happened yet.
Naturally, I asked why he hadn’t simply corrected it himself.
“I tried.”
“And?”
“That’s how we got the second Thursday.”
Miss June stopped pouring coffee.
“There’s two Thursdays now?”
“Not yet.”
“Well, when there are, somebody better tell payroll.”
I examined the box.
There were no hinges, no visible lock, and a small red button marked PLEASE DON’T.
Now, I’ve spent a considerable portion of my life investigating things that reasonable people have explicitly requested I leave alone.
A red button marked PLEASE DON’T is practically a marriage proposal.
The traveler noticed my expression.
“Whatever happens, don’t open it before Thursday.”
“Why bring it to me?”
“Because every other version of you opened it.”
“How many versions?”
“Enough to require a committee.”
That was troubling. I’ve never trusted a committee that contained more than one of me.
He stood, adjusted his coat, and headed toward the door.
“Wait,” I called. “How do I know you’re telling the truth?”
He looked back.
“You’ll find out Thursday.”
Then he disappeared.
Not in a flash of light or a burst of cosmic energy.
He simply stepped outside, and when I looked through the window, he wasn’t there.
Miss June examined the box.
“Should we call somebody?”
“Who?”
“The sheriff?”
“June, the sheriff still thinks daylight saving time is a federal conspiracy.”
She considered that.
“Fair point.”
By lunchtime, the box had acquired three additional notes.
SERIOUSLY. THURSDAY.
DO NOT OPEN. I SAW YOU TOUCHING IT.
And one from the dog, who had taken up residence beside it.
I’M WATCHING YOU.
Nobody knew where he’d found a pencil.
At closing time, Miss June asked whether I believed the future could really be changed.
“I reckon it can,” I said. “But I’m beginning to suspect the harder part is knowing when to leave it alone.”
She nodded toward the box.
“Think you’ll manage?”
“I’ve made it through Monday.”
“That’s not Thursday.”
“No, ma’am. But it’s farther than the other versions of me apparently got.”
She switched off the lights.
The box remained unopened.
And somewhere in the future, I sincerely hope a committee of disappointed Lockes was taking notes.
A fictional column from the Electric Icarus universe, created by Jon LaBelle
