Your Life Is in My Hands by Anne Wilkins

“I need more time,” he says.

I hand him my palm, and his needle takes from my lifeline. My skin shrivelling as he fills a vial with my life.

“This time it’ll work.”

He puts my life in his machine and goes back to the past. All he needs to do is stop our six-year-old son’s death. Stop the drunk driver. Stop the—

He’s back.

“Almost,” he sighs. “One more try.”

I hand him my palm again, my life. And he takes while my hair withers to grey.

Then he’s gone again.

Minutes pass.

The front door opens.

“Mama?”