It’s Sunday night, which means it’s our Friday night, which means the Doorkeepers go out and get absolutely blasted.

It’s not as messy as it sounds. We’re polite drunks; we make a point of it actually, because we deal with our fair share of liquid-courage-gone-south on the job. And we know what we don’t want to be.

Sunday night means there’s three pitchers of beer and a dayglo orange mixer waiting on the table in the backroom of Dogma’s Bar. We will be there for hours and tip well and spill all the gossip and the bullshit of the week, but never ourselves because Doorkeepers know how to hold our liquor and our poker faces. It’s a professional hazard.

Except for me, apparently. For the third Sunday in a row, I’m weeping messy, vodka-infused tears into Pip’s shoulder as she calls me a cab home.

“I’m sorry,” I’m saying, words sliding together, “I’m sorry I’m the worst.”

“You’re not the worst, Wenda,” she says, her own syllables have lost some of their crispness too. “No one thinks that. Any of us would be the same in your shoes.” But I can’t tell whether she’s saying that because that’s what you’re supposed to say to a sloppy colleague/friend or if there’s any weight behind those words.

The rest of the night is a blur anyway. I make it home and I spend Monday under the covers, deliberating not looking at the photographs plastering my bedroom walls. My mom called it the inspiration board that kept growing. But I think the muses have left me for dead—I can’t even muster up the creativity to make lunch. Instead, I just hide underneath the blankets like Tuesday morning is some sort of monster in the closet.

Like maybe if I ignore it, it’ll just go away.

But Tuesday (which is our Monday) comes for me anyway. Fine, I can still pretend to be a functioning adult. So I go to work, stand in front of Door 2032 aka Powerball 65, smartly dressed in the Doorkeepers’ uniform—white button-downs and black slacks. A smile’s hanging on my face as I tell the ticket payers, Welcome. You can explore anything you want behind this Door, but you can’t change anything and you can’t take anything back with you.

Not like they’ll listen anyway.

I think my act is pretty good, composed and professional. I don’t say “Dude, I told you so” to the weeping man as he comes back through, the notepads and phone he stole in ruins, demanding a refund. But then Dominic comes up to me as soon as the last visitor leaves, puts his big hands on my shoulders and says:

“I’m going to prove you wrong.”

“I’m fine, Dom. Really.”

He nods, understanding. Then he grabs my arm.

“This is harassment! I’ll report you to HR!” I shout as he drags me to a Door at the back of the warehouse. Joke’s on me, though—Infinite Possibilities, Inc doesn’t have an HR department.

The other Doorkeepers are waiting by Door 2029 (Powerball 31). There are five of us; me and Dominic fighting it out, and Pip, Mattis, and Ting standing there and watching with polite interest.

“Are you all plotting against me?” I say, when I realize that no one’s taking my side against Dom, who is two heads taller and twice my weight.

“Think of this as an intervention,” Pip says and presses her fingers into the scanner beside the Door.

“That makes it worse, actually,” I say, giving Dom one last shove. Not that it makes much of a difference. Not that any of this makes a difference.

Door 2029, like all Doors, is an impressive affair—overlarge and ornate and full of promise. Too big and weighty to simply use the doorknob, naturally. Instead, there’s this dramatic pause before the lock unclicks and the Door swings open.

“Guys, we’ve already finished our shift. We don’t get overtime,” I say reasonably even as I flail against Dom pushing me forward.

“When was the last time you had some fun, Wenda?” asks Ting with a grin that only means trouble.

“You can’t make me,” I say, less reasonably.

“Sure,” say the other Doorkeepers.

Then, they shove me through.

The time loop behind Door 2029 hasn’t been as popular since it became outdated, but it’s still pretty swank. The natural light coming through the glass ceiling is a harsh, but pleasant shift from the fluorescent lights in the warehouse. The hotel lobby we are in is large and lush with well-tended plants around indoor fountains. There are tables scattered around the open-area layout, though the population is sparse.

In the world outside, it’s a Tuesday evening in 2030, but in the time loop behind Door 2029, it’s Thursday afternoon and there’s a sign at the hotel restaurant advertising a special for blistered Brussels sprouts at happy hour, though the establishment still has the trappings of a place stratospheres above marketing gimmicks. But desperate times make hypocrites of us all and in the year 2029 (or this preserved version of 2029) the tourism industry is gasping at the bottom of a barrel.

The news reports on the TV screen by the check-in desk are dire, but we Doorkeepers breeze right by them. Just like we sweep past Jason and Anita sitting at one of the tables in the corner. They looked annoyed at each other, but it’s going to get worse.

If you’re feeling overwhelmed, just look at the good things that are still happening, I tell the ticket payers during their visits. Sometimes it even works.

“‘Kay,” I say to the others, “So…why are we here?”

“To look at the good things that are still happening!” says Dominic, cheerfully, like he means it. I make a face, because that’s bullshit. We’ve experienced these time loops (over and over and over) and we never get the answers we want, no matter how many times we try. But his earnest expression doesn’t crack as we walk up to the hostess worrying at her nails at the restaurant.

Oh my god, he means it.

“Hi there…Macy,” he says to the hostess, ducking slightly to pretend to read her nameplate. “A colleague told us to ask you about the rooftop bar.”

“I’m sorry, there’s a private party,” she says, but her sentence trails off as she notices the fifty in Dom’s hands and her eyes go wide. “Well, actually…”

And just like that we’re following Macy to the third floor, taking the stairs because the elevators are out of order and the lightness of her movements shows how desperate things in her life have gotten.

But who am I to judge? I know firsthand how a generous tip can change the course of your life. Dom gives her the bill at the top and thanks her profusely. It feels like a dirty trick though. When this time loop resets in three hours and four minutes, that fifty is going to be back in Dominic’s pocket and Macy will be right back at the hostess stand, worrying at her peeling nail polish, with no memory of this or the millions of other times she’s re-lived this day.

“What you got, Dom?” asks Mattis as we emerge on the roof. Over the railing we see the lobby and through the glass ceiling, Jason and Anita sitting at their little table. We hear the rising pitch of their voices as their argument heats up. We can mouth the words along with them if we want to. But we don’t.

“Well for starters, it’s a great view,” says Dom, turning away from the drama below and looking out.

It’s true. The sky is clear and vibrant and we have a good view of the lake, wide and shimmering like an ocean, and there is a slight breeze. It is easy to forget about the deep drought that the city is in the midst of in moments like these.

Pip orders a round of gin and tonics. My drink of choice. Which I appreciate, but also, what if I don’t want to be buttered up or cheered up? Not that it matters, my friends are relentless.

The private party we’re crashing is a group of twenty or so people with glasses of wine in one hand and notebooks in the other, in deep conversation and serious expressions. They are mostly women, of all different ages and backgrounds. There’s a half-hearted sign by the cash bar that reads “Welcome to the Thornsville Disaster Relief Initiative.”

“Oh, I’ve heard of these guys. They have monthly meetings at the library,” says Ting. “Nice find, Dom.”

“It’s their first big outreach event,” replies Dom, with a pride I’ve never seen from him before. Drunken Dominic has been known to proclaim that his goal in life is to become like helium—to bond with nothing heavy and just float above it all. It’s a completely ridiculous aspiration. I hate it.

Also, I’d do anything to be that unburdened.

“I didn’t know you paid attention to grassroot movements,” I say. “I thought you just charm your way through problems.” It comes out meaner than I intend.

“Surprises all around tonight,” he replies, his big shoulders hunching in defense, promptly making me feel like an asshole. “They actually helped my parents out in the last major storm that took out the power for two weeks. I’ve been a member ever since.”

What do I say to that? I haven’t been in a club since middle school. (Unless you count the Thornsville’s Nature Photographer Collective, which is more like an anxiety meetup these days, or the Dead Mom Cancer Club.) But the other Doorkeepers don’t know what to say either. The silence is like the lake before us. It stretches on.

“So, this is secretly a recruitment ploy?” teases Mattis. And like an exhale, we all laugh. Even Dominic.

“Nope,” says Pip. “We’re going to sit here and enjoy the beautiful evening. There’s an awesome sunset and something meaningful is taking root next to us.”

Is that true? I sip my gin and tonic and sneak glances at the group holding court. There is an exhaustion and fear to them, something I can relate to. But there’s also a grim determination. Something I felt once too, but has since become a ghostly, foreign memory.

“So did you join this cozy rooftop meeting when it happened last year?” I ask Dominic. Outside of this time loop, it’s Tuesday, but it’s also 2030 and storms that rip through here in summertime keep intensifying.

“No, it wasn’t held here. They got more funding, more members. They moved it to the convention center down the street.”

We are all impressed.

“See, Wenda,” Dom says. “Time loops aren’t always the best-case scenarios.”

Just then, a loud “YOU ASSHOLE” breaks through the pleasant moment. Three stories down, Jason and Anita’s fight has reached a crescendo. We Doorkeepers groan in unison.

“Jesus, they are unavoidable, aren’t they?” says Pip.

And that’s the problem. Even when you see the good parts, the worst ones are still there.

It’s Wednesday and I’m exhausted from another sleepless night where my thoughts keep going around and around, down and down. But I put on my work slacks and a crisp collared shirt and head to the warehouse. The Doorkeepers are nothing if not stubborn.

It’s Ting who tries next.

I’m manning Door 2033 (Powerball 42) today and the ticket payers are particularly rowdy. Ting saunters up behind me as I’m herding my group through the Door.

“I’ll come with you,” she says and lowers her voice to a whisper. “Let’s mock their terrible choices together.” Which admittedly, is one of the best parts of being a Doorkeeper and what makes up the bulk of our weekly booze fueled post-mortem sessions on Sunday nights.

Even in my antisocial state, I don’t say no, especially because this group is made up of sleazy looking blue suits and frantic nerds. A terrible and sometimes volatile combo. “What about your group?” I ask. On Wednesdays, she’s in charge of Door 2030.

“No one wants to be in the present these days,” she replies with a mock sad head shake and a silly grin. The snippet of 2030 caught in a time loop behind that Door is a distant, barely related cousin to the 2030 we’re living in now. Like how peace talks in Russia were a success last summer in the loop, but only lasted three months in real life.

We follow the visitors through, and Door 2033 snaps shut with a finality that is all for show. When this time loop resets in four hours and twenty-three minutes, we will find ourselves back in our own non-cyclical timeline one way or another.

We’re standing on a beach on a lake, dotted by white lounge chairs, towel service, and drinks. The same hotel from Door 2029 is on one side, and the lake stretches into the horizon on the other. It’s a gray and moody day, low-hanging clouds, but a perfectly pleasant place to linger for an afternoon. Not that the visitors even notice. They have stock portfolios to analyze! Quantum entanglements to unravel! If there’s any unaltered glimpses into the future left, you bet your ass these opportunists will ogle at it.

They are already scattering. Some are running towards the hotel business center, some of the more intrepid visitors, to the library down the street. Our cell phones don’t work behind the Doors, which we Doorkeepers have learned to relish, but it makes the ticket payers feral. By the lounge chairs, one guy in a blazer snatches a phone out of a hotel guest’s hands, saying, “Sorry bro, this is way more important than whoever you’re messaging.”

Which I can tell you is not true. I asked the victim once who he was texting (because this was not the first time it’s happened) and he said, voice tight with worry: “My friend was just in an accident, I’m trying to figure out how bad.”

“Well, this is going to be a fantastic group,” says Ting, with plain disgust at the human race. “Bets and mai tais?”

“Sure.” We make our way to the outdoor bar and order our drinks, perching on the high-tops. Jason and Anita are sitting on the other end of the bar, their voices low and serious. I usually don’t like to be around them, but Ting’s half in love with the cute bartender who takes our order with addictive kindness and a stunning smile.

Ting writes down our bets on the back of a cocktail napkin. The ink’s not even dry when the first argument breaks out between two business suit visitors.

“Doesn’t count unless it gets physical,” Ting says. A second later, one shoves the other. “Damn it,” she says and writes my name next to When will the first fight happen? My guess was under an hour. By the time our mai tais arrive, they are pulling each other’s hair. Ting and I don’t interfere.

We Doorkeepers are advertised as “time loop guides” but in practice we’re just here so that Infinite Possibilities, Inc has babysitters on site in case a ticket payer is one of those creeps that crosses the line from “douche bag” to “criminal.” (It was worse in the early days when customers thought they weren’t actually going to be banned and blacklisted.)

The other bets include things like “Who will try to smuggle something out?” “Who will try to stay?” “How long until the first visitor breaks down in despair?” It’s a little mean-spirited, admittedly, but you can either laugh about this job or be a constant depressed mess.

At the end of the bar, Jason and Anita are discussing why their beta time loops have stopped working, one after the other after the other. It’s a disquieting conversation to eavesdrop on if you’re sitting in a time loop fashioned by the less ethical of the two parties.

“Can you imagine figuring out how to time travel and using it to try to get your girlfriend back?” I say.

“Can you call her his girlfriend if they only meet in person once a year?” says Ting.

“Can you not not call her his girlfriend, when they do that?” I ask, tilting my frilly drink to Anita who takes Jason’s hand and says “Always.” The relief that blooms on Jason’s exhausted face is like the sun. It’s hard to look at directly.

Sometimes, I wish I could take things back from behind the Doors. Then I could photograph this moment—the emotion and the lighting are stunning, like a movie still. It’s the last tender interaction they’ll have together, preserved forever on loop.

Which is probably how the CEO of Infinite Possibilities justifies the huge energy and money drain of this venture to herself.

The moment’s ruined when one of the nerdy visitors plants himself between them and starts peppering Jason with questions about how he did it—how he managed to capture pieces of the future like a video clip. At first, Jason and Anita laugh awkwardly at this random person and the random twist in conversation, trying to get their footing by asking “Wait, do we know you?” and “Where did you get that theory from?” But then Anita’s face goes rigid in realization. (It’s always Anita who figures it out first.)

“I just think it’s, like, super selfish of you guys to keep this technology to yourself,” says the nerd. “These time loops he created shouldn’t just be about you two.”

“Is that so?” says Anita, glaring hard at Jason, who is just now catching up.

“Oh shit,” whispers Jason. “Anita, I swear, no one else was supposed to use these but me.”

“Yeah, super selfish,” says the nerd nodding.

Anita calmly rises and lifts her wine glass like she’s going to take a sip. Instead, she dumps the contents on the nerd’s head. But her furious gaze is pinned on Jason.

And then she’s striding towards the hotel, as Jason chases after her, shouting “Wait, Anita, please!” leaving the nerd spluttering in their wake.

“Damn it,” Ting says and writes my name next to another bet.

We have two hours and forty minutes left and are three mai tais deep when a ticket payer comes striding up to us. She’s well-dressed but wearing sensible shoes, early fifties maybe and determined, but not in a misanthropic way. She was one of the few on this tour that looked like she was here for personal reasons.

“This time loop is all wrong,” she says. “There are photos of my husband and I together in 2031, with rings on our fingers. We divorced last year!”

“You’ll be shocked how often that happens,” says Ting. “Would you like a mai tai?”

“No, I want to know what the fuck is going on.”

Ting points at me and I mouth Traitor. But I suppose it’s fair. I am the assigned Doorkeeper here today. “This is the future that existed before anyone saw it,” I explain. “Trouble is, every time someone comes here, it changes what actually happens.”

“So let me get this straight,” the ticket payer says, her voice going up a tick. “What will actually happen on June 8th, 2033, has been changed hundreds of times because of us?”

“Thousands, actually,” Ting says under her breath. I kick her foot.

“Yeah,” I say. “It’s called the Aquarium Effect.” A name I always liked actually—it’s easy to imagine all the oily nose prints smudging up the plexiglass window into this time.

“So the Powerball number on each Door is…” the ticket payer starts to ask and trails off. I see the exact moment her hopes for this trip shatter.

“One part joke, one part warning,” I say. (“Not that it stops people from buying lotto tickets,” Ting adds unhelpfully, and I kick her again.) The woman opens her mouth to argue, but then her posture wilts when she finally realizes that, actually, time loops suck. “Sorry. But it’s in the brochure and our intro speeches,” I say, grateful that I don’t get angry when I drink. Otherwise, I would be shouting: WE TOLD YOU. WE ALWAYS TELL YOU AND NO ONE LEARNS.

“I didn’t want to believe it,” says the woman and there is such sadness in her voice that I’m tempted to ask what personal answers she was looking for. But I know from experience that the question is a steep and dangerous hill where, at the bottom, a thicket of emotional labor lies in wait. “You know,” she says, straightening. “I will take you up on that drink.”

“Finally,” Ting whispers and writes her name on the cocktail napkin.

The ticket payer joins us Doorkeepers and introduces herself as Julia. When she’s not having her hopes crushed by Infinite Possibilities, Inc, she is a VP of Product at a jewelry company and has a stiletto sharp sense of humor. It’s honestly one of the most pleasant experiences I’ve had with a visitor in a long time. Even as a business-type and a nerd chase each other into the lake, fighting over a tablet and some notes on printer paper. No one wins that one.

“How the hell do you stand this?” Julia asks. “Living the same handful of days over and over again.”

Good question.

“Is it any different really, than having a regular dead-end job?” I say.

“Ouch,” says Julia with an uncomfortable laugh.

“What’s crazy is this is one of the best-paying gigs I’ve ever had,” Ting says. “And I’ve had a lot of jobs. Like a lot a lot.”

We Doorkeepers joke that Ting has tried every customer-facing job out there at least once, which is how she ended up working here. It’s probably why she’s the most resilient Doorkeeper of all of us.

With one hour left in the time loop, Julia decides to make use of the lounge chair and we cheer her on. The cute bartender comes over with a hummus platter. “On the house,” he says with a wink at Ting. Her ears go pink.

“We’re dating you know,” Ting says, watching him walk away. “I came across his profile a few months ago.” I blink, caught off guard.

“You’ll probably be a broken-hearted mess by the time 2033 rolls around,” I say. Again, I’m surprised by the acidity in my own voice. But I can’t seem to muster even false hope anymore.

“Maybe,” she says. “But I think it’s a mistake to not to try. We still don’t know what the future will hold, Wenda.”

“In my case, I’m pretty sure I do,” I say and boy, do I sound bitter.

“Things can get better,” Ting insists, like she always does. But she doesn’t say You’re not your mom this time, which I appreciate, because we’re still at work. Instead she orders some soda water, and we sober up in silence as the time loop finishes out its course.

The second it’s over, we Doorkeepers and the visitors are suddenly standing in a gray and empty room, too small to hold all of us, like an overstuffed elevator. There’s a chorus of swears and groans and a terrible bouquet of lake water and body odor. Door 2033 swings open and we all stumble out of those great, ornate, needlessly big doors.

“Well. Good news is I’m covering your tab on Sunday,” Ting says when we’re on the other side, meaning I won more bets. “Bad news is,” she says with a sorry smile. “I did a shit job of cheering you up.”

“Do you really think things can get better?” I ask, as we walk to our lockers to gather our keys and coats and uneaten lunches before heading home.

For the first time all day, Ting doesn’t meet my eyes. “I have to,” she says.

It’s Thursday morning and I open my eyes and have a moment of peace, where I don’t remember.

And then I do.

Prognosis doesn’t look good, friends.

Just like that, I can’t bring myself to go to work, to get out of bed, to do anything besides call Infinite Possibilities, Inc and tell them I’m sick.

It feels true, even if it isn’t yet.

It’s Thursday. No, wait, it’s Friday. Damn it. Bam! Another week of my life is gone. What do I have to show for myself?

Not much, I realize as I’m assigned Door 2032 again. I’m sipping a limeade by the pool like a halfhearted undercover agent, because I really do have to act like a professional today. Mrs. Lim is here, which means we’re all on our best behavior, including the ticket payers who are usually not dumb enough to disturb the CEO of Infinite Possibilities, Inc.

Usually.

I stand guard anyway. Jason and Anita are floating in the pool, arguing about how time loops might theoretically affect the course of time, and it’s like some sort of sick joke, because if you watch closely, Jason’s poker face occasionally slips and a look of pure panic lightnings across his features. Anita misses it though; she’s too involved in the theory. All while Mrs. Lim sits at the veranda a few feet away, wearing massive sunglasses and a sunhat she practically disappears into. It’s not the best disguise, but they never notice her. These two geniuses are too wrapped in their conversations, in each other to look up once in a while.

Which kind of explains how we got here.

Anyway, it should be a relief not to have to deal with the ticket payers’ usual obnoxiousness, but it’s its own sort of hell to watch Mrs. Lim watch her son with such longing and grief. It sucks the joy out of having an easy shift.

But it’s Friday and there must be some generalized depression in the air today, because Ms. Lim does something she’s never done before in the dozens of times she visited this time loop. She begins to cry. It’s quiet, subtle, but I can see the tears streaming from behind her sunglasses and her nose turns inelegantly red.

Apparently, I still have a shriveled kernel of compassion left because I do something I swore off forever. I order a gin and tonic and bring it over to Mrs. Lim, serving a drink like I did once, a million times before.

“Thanks, Wenda,” she says, accepting the cocktail with a wobbly smile and I’m a little shocked she knows my name. “Jason always had a talent for picking good people.”

Jason had a waitstaff fetish, I think. But I swallow that down along with my confession that lately, there’s not a morning I wake up and don’t deeply regret accepting that five-hundred-dollar tip from her son.

We watch as the genius in question gets out of the pool and tries to put on a flip flop and his sunglasses at the same time. He ends up tipping over and landing back in the water with an un-Olympian splash. Anita nearly doubles over laughing.

“He was always such a tenderhearted kid,” Mrs. Lim says.

But did he ever learn from his mistakes? I want to ask. I don’t.

When the loop is over and we all find ourselves on the other side of the Door on June 7th, 2030; all I want to do is drag my tired carcass back home. Maybe outside, in the real world, there’ll be a break in the heat tonight or a deal will have been reached and the city’s trash collectors can finally end their three-week strike. I’m not holding my breath though. I just hope the power is on so I can microwave some ramen. I can hear my mom yelling at me for my awful dietary choices lately as I head towards the locker room and suddenly, I miss her so much taking a breath feels like dead lifting.

But then Mattis catches me by the shoulders. Like Dominic did, but also not like Dominic at all.

“Come with us tonight,” he says. “I’ve found the perfect spot.” Behind him, Mrs. Lim disappears through the exit doors at the end of the hall. Tears are clinging to her cheeks.

“I don’t have it in me,” I say.

“I know,” he replies, honestly. Because the Doorkeepers know my whole story, ending and all. “That’s why you should do it anyway. Also, it’s my birthday. Please.”

I realize I’ve got it all wrong—it’s not Dominic’s charm that I should be envious of, it’s quiet Mattis’s.

So I follow him and the other Doorkeepers through Door 2031, where we find ourselves in front of the hotel entrance, in a thick haze, and the smell of wood smoke is so strong that it burns our throats. There’s a forest fire raging somewhere up north and we’re all choking on the ash of inaction.

It’s June 8th, 2031, in this time loop and it’s Sunday night around eight p.m. and we are the only ones outside. Mattis calls the number of a local taxi company, requests a driver who happens to be right around the corner. (“Wow, what amazing luck,” he says, giving us a wink.)

We pile in, take a ride, and then file out in front of a karaoke bar.

“Oh no,” Dominic says, backing up. “I don’t sing.”

“Sure,” say the Doorkeepers, pushing him forward. Like he has much of a choice.

Inside, the space is set up for a party. A sparkly banner proclaiming “Queens for Refugees” hangs across the stage. It was supposed to be a big fundraising event. But Mattis explained in the cab that because of the weather, we will be the only ones here tonight and the organizers are more than happy to play for a private party. And it’s true, the drag queens decked out in towering hair and heels shriek when they see us and pull us in. Within minutes, they are handing us the mic, and bringing us drinks, and egging us on. Within the hour we are belting out songs with rawness and joy and shake our little asses like instructed. Even Dominic.

And there in that empty karaoke bar it feels like the first deep breath any of us has taken in a while. Like we all can let go. Quiet Mattis most of all. “IT’S MY BIRTHDAY AND I’M SPENDING IT IN THE FUTURE!” he yells.

“HAPPY BIRTHDAY,” we yell back and I can almost forget that for Mattis this stagnant future is his Eden—a place where he doesn’t have to worry about his green card status or whether his credit card payments will go through. Here he is waited upon and never the waiter and that is its own sort of glory.

Mattis is right. It’s nice to forget about the pain and the coming disasters and the loss and the endless, unescapable cycles of destructiveness we can’t stop.

So, we dance and yell ourselves hoarse saying things we can’t hear anyway and laugh manically, music in our ears, glitter in our hair, on our faces, on our hands. And it’s so easy to forget about the future, right here, right now, with Mattis and the others next to me. Even if it’s just for a little while.

It’s Saturday morning, but I imagine we all wake up convinced it’s Monday, because we went hard last night, like we were outrunning the future or the past or something. Which, I guess, in some ways all the Doorkeepers are.

But at least the others can keep themselves together. I pick my head up from the pillow and find tears on my face that I don’t remember crying.

We all show up to work looking a little less than strictly professional—rumpled shirts and hair, badly applied makeup, electrolyte packets in our pockets—things that would have gotten us fired at some of our previous positions. Or at least a stern talking to.

But Infinite Possibilities, Inc has bigger problems this morning.

Our shift begins innocuously enough. I’m assigned to Door 2029 and there’s even two ticket payers who want to visit the past today. They look normal, wearing jeans and a wistful expression that’s maybe a little sad too. I don’t ask. I don’t care. Instead, when I step into that lush and empty hotel lobby, I order the half-priced blistered Brussels sprouts at the restaurant and leave Macy a generous tip just to see her light up. It’s a temporary high, but it’s all we got.

Anita and Jason are at the table in the corner, and I’m close enough to listen to the growing heat of their conversation, which I know by heart.

“Jason, why do you look so guilty right now?” says Anita, putting down her glass of white wine. “What the hell aren’t you telling me?”

“Hey listen,” he says, in a tone aiming to be somewhere between confident and conciliatory, but failing at both. “I told my mom about our work. She’s interested in investing.”

Anita is silent for a long moment. “We agreed,” she replied, slowly through a tightening jaw. “To keep this a secret.”

“Yeah, but babe, we need the cash to build bigger prototypes,” he lies. He’s already built the bigger prototypes, of course. We are in them.

“It’s dangerous, Jason. And don’t call me babe.”

“And we’re supposed to, what? Punt around with our sad twenty-minute beta loops for the rest of our lives?” Jason snaps back, voice growing louder.

“We aren’t going to ask your mom for a loan until we are absolutely sure we’re not doing irreparable damage. Even if it takes years.”

“Sorry to burst your idealist bubble, Anita,” he says, fists clenched. “But we’re already living in shit times.” Then more quietly. “And it’s not like she’ll miss the money.”

“Jason,” Anita says slowly and with dangerous calmness. “Please tell me you didn’t ask.”

Jason says nothing, but his furious expression is now scrambled with a large dollop of guilt.

“YOU ASSHOLE!” she shouts.

Anita’s standing now and I sigh, lean back. This fight is about to get ugly. She plants her hands on the table, about to deliver a stunning, but humiliating takedown of her maybe boyfriend.

But then she freezes, mid-motion.

Wait. That’s never happened before.

There is a terrifying pop! like a balloon exploding except you’re in the balloon. Suddenly, I’m back in the gray room with the two ticket payers. What the hell? The loop still had three hours and fifty-three minutes left.

“What the actual hell?” says one of the ticket payers.

“A temporary glitch. It happens sometimes,” I reply, lying boldly and badly. “We’ll be back in loop in a second.”

We do not go back to 2029. Neither does the Door open. Instead the minutes crawl by as we wait, for something, anything, to change.

Eventually, there’s a cringe-inducing scraping as the Door is slowly forced open. Pip’s head emerges from behind the Door. “You guys should have enough room to get out now,” she says.

She’s right, though it’s tight. The ticket payers are grumbling, but I’m barely aware of the soothing customer-pleasing noises that leave my mouth.

“What happened?” I ask Pip.

“Brownout, you know how it is,” she says quickly. And that’s when I notice that Door 2029 (my assignment) and Door 2030 (her assignment) are no longer illuminated. But Door 2031 through 2033 are still lit up, full of power. Also, the warehouse lights are still on.

“Um,” I say. But Pip gives me a look and I shut up.

Pip ushers my ticket payers out, promising them all sorts of things including a year membership to Infinite Possibilities, Inc, which definitely does not exist. When they are gone, she says: “We’ll wait here for the rest of our shift and get people out if the other Doors shut down too.” She settles into one of the enormous armchairs in the hall between the Doors. I join her, thoroughly confused. And a bit worried, though I can’t quite find the words to explain why.

“Sales is going to be pissed at you,” I say, finally.

“Sales has bigger problems,” Pip says, rubbing her face.

“Pip,” I say. “What the hell is going on?”

She gives me a look that I’m not sure what to do with. It’s worrying and pitying and almost relieved? “I don’t know,” she replies. “But I have some theories.” She hesitates, then scrunches her nose. “Fuck it.”

She gets up and heads away from the exit, towards a storage closet at the opposite end of the hall, pulling out a handful of keys as she walks. For the first time in weeks, I’m curious, so I follow.

The storage closet isn’t really a closet unless you can call the remaining empty space in the warehouse a closet. But it’s where Infinite Possibilities, Inc keeps all the equipment Jason used to make these Doors. There isn’t as much in here as you’d think. It’s mostly odd parts and weird, hacked-up instruments that smell of dust and freezone.

I only come back here when I really have to—to get cleaning supplies or to chuck something in the Lost and Found, where one of us had struck the words “and Found” from the sign and added the word “Forever” instead. Which tracks. There’s something both haunted and lifeless about this space. Full of rotten mojo, my mom would say.

But I think it’s because of the empty promises and smashed dreams that live here now.

When Jason first built the Doors, they were not the grand, imposing things we have now. Actually, the Doorways were basic frames made out of PVC pipe from the hardware store. A simple physical separation of “now” and “then” was all he needed. Instead of the gray room that we find ourselves in at the end of the loop, Jason outlined a square on the floor in duct tape.

It was Mrs. Lim who made the Doors larger than life to justify the cost of the power draw, which according to Pip, is more than Thornsville uses on the hottest day of the year.

“This way,” Pip says, heading further into this closet. In the far back corner, there are towers of boxes. “Here,” she says, opening one. “Look at this.”

“What is this?” I ask.

“All the stuff from Jason apartment,” she replies and hands me a binder. “But these are hard copies of his designs for the Doors.”

Holy shit. “These aren’t supposed to exist. They told us that over and over.” (And over and over.)

“It might shock you,” Pip says as she nearly disappears into another box. “That our employer might not always be truthful.”

“All this to win an argument with Anita,” I say, flipping through the pages. The physics and concepts are beyond me even with the helpful summaries at the beginning of each section. For whatever mess Jason was in other parts of his life, he was great at documentation.

“All time travel is a personal journey, no matter how much time travelers insist it’s not,” Pip replies. “Ah! Found it!” She pulls a binder from the box and begins to read.

“You can’t actually follow this, can you? I ask, incredulous. Immediately, I want to take the words back. Oh my god, when did I become such an asshole to my friends?

“Yeah, I was a math major once upon a time,” she says frowning, even though she also straightens with pride.

“I thought you were a biological anthropology major.”

“I was that too,” she says, her frown deepening at the text on the page. “And a bartender to cover rent and student loans.”

“Naturally,” I say. Then we are quiet again while she keeps reading and I keep flipping.

“That’s what I told Jason I was going to do with his crazy big tip, you know,” Pip says.

“What?”

“Enroll in Anita’s course on temporal theory.”

“Better than my answer,” I say. I told him I was going to use my tip to take a business management class. Figure out how to turn my inspiration board into a proper photography career.

See how well that turned out.

“So did you?” I ask.

“Did I what?” Pip asks, turning a page.

“Take the class.”

Pip shook her head. “That was around the time my mom got sick. Needed the money for other things.”

I don’t say anything to that. Pip and I are the only two Doorkeepers in the Dead Mom Cancer Club. So I get it.

“She’s still alive in the time loops,” Pip says, her voice breaking slightly. “Every day, it takes everything I got not to call her when I’m behind the Door.”

“It’s probably for the best you don’t,” I say. “Trust me.”

“Yeah.”

We don’t say anything for a while after that because what the hell do you say? But I see Pip blink back tears and I wonder if she’s remembering those last, awful days in hospice where her mom was just a ragged, gasping shell and all she could do was hold her hand and wait.

Because I am.

The binder I’m holding shakes as I dutifully look at things I don’t understand.

Eventually Pip closes her binder. And there’s a finality to it.

“So,” I ask. “What’s your big theory?”

“Well, I think the temptation to reach out to my mom is not going to be a problem for too much longer.” She turns to look at me and there are tears in her eyes. “The time loops are collapsing.”

Well, fuck. Admittedly, the Doors are terrible, but what about the Doorkeepers?

We sit with that information in our armchairs out in the hallway as we wait for the others to finish their shift. Doors 2032 and 2033 run as normal. But Door 2031 stops four minutes early, and we have to pry Ting and a pile of ticket payers out of that tiny room. No one is a satisfied customer.

As we grab our stuff from the locker room, Pip catches the other Doorkeepers up on her theory. There is a quiet solemnity to the news.

“Well, nothing lasts forever,” Dominic says, with a shrug and a smile. But for once, the usual lightness in his voice doesn’t float.

Mrs. Lim is waiting for us in the entranceway of the warehouse. Like Jason, her poker face isn’t nearly as good as ours.

“You knew,” I say. “Yesterday at the pool. You knew.”

“I’m sorry, I thought we had a few more years before I had to say goodbye,” she says. Her expression crumbles and she turns away.

I want to shake her; I want to hug her. We always think we’ll have more time with the people we love. We never learn.

“This is your last day of employment,” says Mrs. Lim when she composes herself. “Infinite Possibilities is closing its Doors.”

It’s Sunday and for the first time in a long, long time I don’t have to go to work. We Doorkeepers went out last night. At first, the owners of Dogma’s Bar laughed, convinced we mixed up the days of the week again. (Hazards of our dying profession.) But then there were pitchers of beer and neon pink mixed drinks in spades.

Our outing was a lackluster and sorry affair. I left before I became a sloppy mess.

So, as I lay there in bed on Sunday morning, I wonder what to do. Should I try to restart my photography business again? I should probably call the doctor and move that appointment up now that my health insurance is disappearing with my job. I mean, early detection is key, right?

And then I remember that no matter what I do, in four years, I will most likely be dead.

Fuck it. I want to know why.

I show up at Infinite Possibilities prepared to pick the locks or hoist myself through the window like Batman or something but turns out IT didn’t restrict our access yet. All I have to do is put my hand in the reader by the front door and let myself in.

Door 2034 (Powerball 17) is not well visited. It’s in a different hall entirely from other Doors. We were all told during our orientation never, ever, ever to go in unless Mrs. Lim requests it.

Of course we all did.

It was behind Door 2034 that I made the mistake of looking at my social media profile on the hotel computer. Prognosis doesn’t look good, friends.

It occurs to me as I step through this forbidden Door once again, that if the loop collapses, no one knows I’m in here. Not a good idea, Wenda, I can hear my mom tell me. She’s right as usual. But just as I turn to leave, the Door snaps shut behind me with its characteristic drama. And bam! I’m back in the hotel, stuck with my questionable decisions.

Too late, again, Wenda. But that’s my voice, this time, not hers.

In 2034, the hotel has been wrecked by water damage from a storm and the lobby is fuller than I’ve ever seen it. Everyone looks a little rough around the edges, all trying to escape the heat. Or maybe the massive riots that are happening a few miles away. Either way, Jason and Anita are the only ones who look put together for their yearly meeting. Anita more so, Jason is gray, tired, and frayed.

“I’m not saying it’s inevitable and pointless, Jason,” Anita is saying as I approach their table. “I’m saying that allowing people to see their results without living through their actions is going to cause so much chaos. Just look at what Juan and Leigh did in the beta loops.”

“They were interns,” replied Jason. “We didn’t prepare them well enough.”

“You’re not listening,” Anita says. “You never listen.”

“Can we have another round, please?” Jason asks, spotting me standing there. “Also, random question, if you could get a snapshot of the future, would you?”

I blink. He thinks I’m a waiter, and out of habit, I almost ask them what they are drinking. In fairness, I’m dressed for the part in the standard Doorkeeper uniform. White shirt and black slacks.

“I think it’s a dumb idea,” I say. Maybe a little too harshly, from the raised eyebrows both of them give me.

“Yeah, you and her,” he says with a scowl and turns away.

New plan. I walk to the bar and order myself a gin and tonic. Why yes, I am stooping for some liquid courage but more importantly, I’m giving myself a few moments to get my shit together.

When I approach again, drink in hand, Anita is saying: “If you build a full-scale model, Jason, I will never talk to you again.” Except she doesn’t know that he already has. Six of them, six years ago. Guilt flashes across Jason’s expression, before it turns to rage.

“So what? You’re just giving up on our work? On us?” he replies, clenching his fists. They don’t even notice I’m there.

“Jason, there is no us. I think we have been avoiding this for years,” she says, not quite meeting his eyes. “This should probably be the last time we meet.”

Jason sits there shocked for a long moment. Then gets up quickly. “It will be a good thing, Anita,” he says. “I’ll prove it to you.”

And just like that, he leaves. No goodbyes or attempts to reconcile. They don’t know it’ll be the last time they’ll see each other.

But I do and I feel sick.

“You’re a terrible waiter,” Anita says. I realize she’s studying me. Probably has been for a few seconds.

“Only when I’m in a time loop,” I say.

Anita frowns at me for a moment before realization blooms on her face: “Oh my god,” she says and drains the remainder of her wine. “In that case, I have some questions.”

“Yeah, well, me too,” I say. “And I’m not the one stuck in a loop.”

“But if you don’t answer mine, I won’t be able to think of anything else,” she says leaning back. “So, you’ll be stuck in a loop too.”

Damn, I get why Jason was obsessed with this woman.

I order us another round and sit down and explain how Jason built larger scale prototypes back in the winter of 2027/2028, that looped for five and half hours, so that he could have this conversation and change her mind in the real world. But he didn’t account for the Aquarium Effect.

(“Great name,” Anita mutters, but I can tell she’s disturbed too.)

I tell her how his mom created a small empire with the business and hunted down the waitstaff Jason had a positive effect on. (Apparently, he kept a list of us, which is creepy, but makes more sense now that I’ve seen his painstakingly detailed notes on the Doors.) I pick a few morsel stories about the shitty people I shepherd through these Doors, day in and day out.

“That must mess with your sense of time,” she says.

“A bit,” I reply. I don’t tell her how we Doorkeepers cling to our calendars like unmoored sailors, repeating the day of the week in our heads like a mantra. “It’s a terrible job, but also one of the best most of us have ever had. Your boyfriend has inspired some complicated emotions among us.”

“We’re not dating,” says Anita, firmly. “Seeing someone once a year does not earn that title.” But she doesn’t meet my eyes and I raise an eyebrow. “It’s complicated,” she concedes. “Well, how is he? Did this make his family even richer?”

There’s probably a subtle, tactful, and gentle way to break the news to her, but like hell I know what that is.

“I don’t know,” I lie. But not even my poker face is that good, and she sees it, the answer. For the first time in the history of the time loops, her ironclad poise collapses.

“The bastard,” she whispers. “What the hell happened?”

I hesitate. “When the time loops didn’t give the answers he wanted…When he realized it was making the present worse…I think he tried to fix it, but…The despair got to him, and well…”

“Stop,” says Anita, and there is so much pain and sadness in that word. She closes her eyes. “For such a smart person, he’s shockingly dumb sometimes. He never could remember that probability isn’t certainty.” Then to herself says: “You idiot, I would have come back next year. Like always.”

We sit there for a long time. Eventually, Anita dries her eyes. “You came here to ask me something, so fucking ask.”

“Why don’t things ever get better?” I ask.

She gives me a curious look. “What did you see about your own life?”

“That I’ll die of cancer. The same one that took my mom when she was my age. Despite the fact that I get routinely checked.”

“That’s awful,” she says. Her voice is full of pity.

Oh. My. God. Fuck this lady.

“WHAT’S THE POINT OF LOOKING AT THE FUTURE IF WE CAN ONLY MAKE IT WORSE?” I don’t even realize I’m yelling until I see every person in this beat-up lobby staring at me.

“The future,” says Anita, impossibly reasonably, like she’s had this argument a hundred times before (which she probably has with Jason), “doesn’t care if it gets better or worse, it’s simply the reaction of probability and our decisions.”

“So you’re saying I just make bad decisions?” I say, which I mean, is not inaccurate, but also that’s rich coming from someone who co-created time loops and dated Jason for years.

“No,” she replies. “I’m saying we all make bad decisions when we see something we don’t want to. We distract ourselves or become paralyzed instead of facing it. Including me.” She looks across the lobby, to the last spot she saw Jason. “I suspected that he created other loops. Years ago. But I hoped…” She doesn’t finish the thought.

“Yeah,” I say.

“God, I wish I could remember this conversation. I developed time loops as a learning tool, you know.”

“And did you?” I say. “Learn?” I hear the incredulity in my voice, but this time, I think it’s well deserved.

“So much,” she says and she smiles. And it’s not the answer I’m expecting. But I guess, if I think about it, I have too.

“So what’s the present like?” she asks.

“The present is terrible,” I say. “Worse than this.”

“That can change,” she corrects.

And I’m about to ask how the hell can she be so optimistic, she’s sitting in a ruined hotel surrounded by displaced people. But then I remember what she said about an uncaring future. About facing things full on.

Probability is not certainty. The present is not the future yet.

There are a few things I could still add to my inspiration board, I realize. A few calls I could make that I’ve been dreading.

So, yeah, I guess the other Doorkeepers are right after all.

 

(Editors’ Note: “The Doorkeepers” is read by Matt Peters on the Uncanny Magazine Podcast, Episode 68A.)

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