 Ma'am, I'm gonna need you to step back. We can't let you through. The building's not secure." Our memories thread through time, like a spider web connecting our present to our past, the scent of lavender in your mom's bathroom. The way the wine glanced off your tongue on that first date, the sound of his laughter. The smallest things can transport you back in time, yet no matter how vivid those memories are, there's no going back. Time's arrow marches on, as they say. As I start the ritual, time is on my mind. I only have a few minutes to get it right. If I waver for even a couple of seconds, the timing will be thrown off, and it will have all been for nothing. Did you know that you can find time? I don't mean in the metaphorical sense, but in a literal one. During a leap year, we get an extra day at the end of the second month. But what you probably don't know is that February 30th also exists. You just have to jump through a series of complex hoops in order to reach it. In a way, it's more like a place than a time. I have to pour the raven's blood in a circle around the bouquet of moth orchids I bought from the forest, near to where my mom used to live. Each orchid is speckled with a dizzying array of these deep violet dots that radiate from the center right to the edge of each petal. They're really quite beautiful. I was surprised by how easy they were to get a hold of. Not like the raven's blood. Had to chase those little bastards down with a net. They're smart creatures, too. I was sorry to kill them. You're probably wondering why anyone wouldn't want to visit February 13th in the first place. It's about the money provided no one else has done the ritual at the same time as you. No one living should be there. So you could say you've got the world to yourself for a whole day. You can break into stores, drag whatever stuff you like back to your house, and you'll find it there the next day. Zero consequences. That's not why I'm going. Right as I'm about to reach the beginning of the circle, I stop pouring and check the clock. It's eleven fifty nine p.m. I have to get this right. I pick the small bronze knife up from the floor. It rasps as the tip catches against the wood. The instructions specified. It had to be bronze. Thank God I was able to find this online, or I would have been screwed. I keep checking the clock, watching the seconds tick down. It's nearly time. I'm not the type of person who believes everything they read. It's just the circumstances that make you desperate. More receptive to that sort of thing, you know. There's a good reason why so many vulnerable people fall prey to spiritualists and snake oil salesmen. I found the website about six months ago. In that haze of grief, I was looking for anything that might numb the pain. I must have browsed through hundreds of websites, but this one stuck out. The entire page was pitch black with white typeface. First, there was an explanation for why people had been drawn to February 30th throughout history. It was kind of funny how grandiose it was. Read like a fairy tale. Then there were some first hand accounts from people who had been there and come back. At the very bottom was the list of instructions. There were fewer than you might expect. The list was split into two parts, the ritual itself and the rules. I'm getting ahead of myself. I push the blade into the palm of my hand. The edge is blunter than a normal knife, so I have to use a lot of pressure before I break the skin. Spots of blood seep out on either side of the blade. I clench my fist and hold it over the unfinished circle, closing it with my blood. I check the clock again. One night, I timed it just right. On February 30th, you can meet the souls of the dead. The world will be empty of all living people, but you should be able to find anyone you ever knew in life who'd passed away. That's why I've slaved for months trapping ravens, browsing countless shops, watching the clock with bloodshot eyes, all for this moment. I tap a button on my phone and the screen flashes. I lean over to check the date. My face silhouetted by that blue light. February 30th, 2002, I've done it. I'm mounting the curb, people screaming in the distance. I'm running towards the crowd, my breathing. I can't stop. They're coming out of the building. I shake my head. It's not time for me to be thinking about that. I have to start looking. There were no instructions on the website for how you might find someone on February 30th. Alongside the steps for the ritual, there was just one rule. Don't eat or drink anything on February 30th. The rule came with no explanation behind it. I don't plan on stopping to eat anyway. Too much to do, not enough time. I've created a list of places I knew were important to him. I'm going to work through them one by one. I grab my handbag, take out my car keys, and make my way out of the house. Without the glow of the street lamps, the sidewalk is black as pitch, so I run my hand along the fence to study myself. As I'm driving down the road, the headlights glint off of darkened windows and empty cars. I'd prayed for a quiet life, but the silence now is suffocating. After about 15 minutes, I drive past the florist. It was my mom's favorite haunt. My brother and I used to joke about how she'd bought the new house with dad simply because it was within walking distance of the place. A few blocks down, I pull up to the curb and get out of the car. I breathe in deep, and a wash of fragrances cascade over me. The gardens, front and back, are still blanketed in flowers, something I was thankful the new owners chose to maintain. The fur green gate creaks as I push it open and walk up the path to the front door. I knock three times and wait. I don't know what I'm expecting to happen, but within a couple of minutes, I hear the click of the latch and the door starts to open. Mom? I say, my eyes welling up. Hello, sweetheart. She says, leaning against the door frame with a smile. What are you doing out so late? Is something the matter? I grasp both her shoulders and pull her into my arms. She hesitates at first, but then wraps her arms around me. Hot tears sting my cheeks and drip onto her wool cardigan, forming dark spots against the cream background. After a few moments, she steps away and ushers me into the house. Come inside, she says, I'll make you a hot chocolate. With her hand on my back, she leads me into the kitchen, and I take a seat at the counter, pots and pans clatter as she rummages around in the cupboards before popping her head up. Is Logan okay? She says, has something happened to him? The question takes me off guard. Our eyes lock as I rack my brain for an answer. Should I tell her the truth? Does she even know what she's? They're coming out of the building and I'm checking faces, face after face after face. None of them are him. Each face, my heart racing, I can't do this. He's fine. I say, wrapping my fingers against the countertop. To be honest, I came to check if he was here. We had an argument and he stormed out, but I don't think he's gone far. That boy, my mom says, clicking her teeth. Always wandering off. He's been like that ever since he could walk. Did I ever tell you about the time we were at the park down by your Aunt May's house? I can't remember the name of it. Anyway, I had my back turned for a minute, just a minute, and he goes and follows a bunch of geese. I say, my smile broadening. Yeah, yeah, you've told me. The police found him sitting in a goose nest. She says, just sitting in that nest, smiling up at me. Thank God he didn't crush any of their eggs or there would have been hell to pay. She places a pot on the stove and pours in some milk. With a click, the blue flame flickers to life. You really don't need to make me hot chocolate, mom. I say, waving my hand. I should probably get going soon. Nonsense. You love my hot chocolate. She says, and if you don't have it, I'll drink it. I sit back and soak in those familiar sensations. The scrape of the whisk on the bottle of the pan, the scent of cocoa, cinnamon, coating my nostrils, the plop of the marshmallows as they drop in one by one. As she pushes the mug across the countertop, it takes all of the self control I can muster not to wrap my hands around it and press the warm brim to my lips. She places her elbows on the counter and rest her hands on either side of her own mug. The one with the painting of a stag poised in the center of a forest. I'd always love that mug. We chat about Logan, about the past, about those rose-tinted days when we'd wander on forest walks together, when we had all the time in the world. The hot chocolates cool between us. We are interrupted only by creaking on the staircase. My dad ambles into the kitchen, wrapped in a beige cable knit sweater my mom made for him years ago. It's frayed at the wrist and peppered by small holes. Oh, hey there, Scout. He says, patting me on the shoulder. Or sure here early, you want some breakfast? I could rustle up some eggs. Early, I say, and it's only then that I catch sight of the rays of sunlight pouring through the kitchen window. What time is it? In a frenzy of movement, I leap from my stool, pat my jean pockets, and pull out my phone. 6.32 am. I'm sorry. I have to go. I say, grabbing my bag from the countertop and rummaging inside for my keys. Want me to make an egg sandwich for the road? My dad says, his mustache bristling as he smiles. No time, but thanks. I say, rushing towards the door. As I reach for the doorknob, I stop in my tracks and turn around. I sprint back into the room, wrap my arms around my dad and mom in turn, holding them both close for a brief few moments before shooting out of the house towards my car. If I'd stayed for a moment longer, I knew I wouldn't leave. I wipe the tears from my eyes, turn the ignition, and look at that house for the last time. They're both in the window, waving me off as I leave. As I'm driving away, I check my list of locations on the passenger seat next to me. Over the next few hours, I work my way through them one by one, starting off with the houses of his close friends. All of them are empty. Their inhabitants firmly situated in the land of the living. Each one is like a museum. The walls and floors blanketed in dusty artifacts that offer short snippets into the lives of the occupants. Next, I try some of his favorite places. The cinema, the shopping mall, the bowling alley. Without the crowds, these places have a hollowed-out feel that puts me on edge. He's nowhere to be found. I keep ticking off location after location until I come to the bottom of the list. The piece of paper shakes in my hand and crumbles under the weight of my grip. I grab the nearest cop, and I'm shouting in his face, Where is he? You have to let me inside. He tells me it's not safe. My heart hurts. Why does it hurt? I'm driving out of town. My eyes drifting from one object to the next to keep my mind occupied. Anything to distract me from thoughts of that place. It's mid-afternoon now, and the sunlight is blinding. I mount the curb and take a breath. I can't bring myself to look at that monolith of a building one more time. I swore I'd never come back here. Is my boy in there? I can't stop shaking. Is my boy still in there? I step out of the car and onto the pavement, lifting a hand. I shield my eyes from the light and read the lettering emblazoned across the main door. Please, no. I whisper, Not here. Please, let it not be here. It had been months since I last parked on this road, since I last stepped onto this worn pavement, since I last laid eyes on that sign. Mary Wood High School. He would have graduated this year. I push open those heavy doors and make my way down the hall until I pass by a classroom and something catches my eye. As I double back and peer through the glass, I see him. There he is. Right at his desk. I walk inside and he looks up at me, Mom. He says, Where am I? Why am I here? I stare at him. I can't stop staring at him. My mouth opens, but no sound comes out. Just a series of stuttering noises, a staccato of indecision and shock. He stands up and walks towards me, Logan. I say, running the back of my fingers across his skin. Is it really you? You're acting weird. He says, pulling back and laughing. You okay? I am now, I say, nodding and laughing along with him. His gaze sweeps across the room before resting on me again. Can we go home? He says, Of course, I reply. We walk back to the car together. With each step, I check behind to make sure he's still following me. On the drive back, we sit in silence with him watching the world pass by from his window and me stealing glances at him. As we drive past the local supermarket, a light bulb flashes in my head. I pull into the parking lot, turn to him and pluck up the courage to speak. What would you like for dinner? I say, it's the only thing I can think to ask. You can have anything you like. Anything? Anything, I say with a firm nod. I know it sounds weird. He says his teeth bright in the dwindling light as he smiles at me. But I got this craving for blueberry pancakes. You mean my famous blueberry pancakes? Yeah, he says with a short laugh. Those those empty aisles are a lot less eerie with him around. At first, we're conservative, picking up only the ingredients we need. With a playful smile, he rushes off further into the store and returns with armfuls of snacks. In time, we're loading our shopping cart with candy bars, bags of chips and bottles of soda, bright colors pop and plastic crinkles under the wade. How come you weren't at grandpa and Grammy's house? I say as he tosses stone more packets of food into the cart. He pauses for a moment and hangs his head. I guess I didn't want them to know. He says about what happened to me. My hands start to shake. The blueberries I'm holding rattle against the plastic container. So you know, I say, placing a hand on his shoulder. But grandpa and grandma, they didn't seem to know that they were. Some of us know and some of us don't. He says, I think it depends on how you went. At that last part, I went. My poor, beautiful boy. They said you were protecting the younger students. I'm hungry. He says flashing that smile once again. Let's get out of here and get some pancakes. I nod and he helps me wheel our cart of swag out of the store. In the end, we only managed to fit about half of it into the car. Within a few minutes, we're back at the house. We drag bag after bag in with us, each one full to bursting. While he's unloading the rest of the food, I lay out the ingredients on the countertop and start mixing the batter. By the time he's brought the last bags inside, the pancakes are ready. I pile them high on his plate. The stack nearly collapses as I place them down on the table. There you go. I say, rustling his hair. These look amazing. Thanks. He replies, taking his knife and fork up in his hands before hesitating and looking back up at me. Aren't you going to have any? I really shouldn't, I say. He tucks in with that type of animal hunger that all teenagers seem to have. I want to enjoy the moment, but my curiosity gets the better of me. What happens, I say, a tremor in my voice. What happens if I eat here? Well, the food here is for people like me, if you get what I mean. He says, pausing for a moment with the edge of a pancake still hanging precariously from his fork. So, if you eat it, I guess you'd become like me, I'm not sure though. He shrugs and stuffs another fork full of pancakes into his open mouth. You mean, I'd get to stay here with you? I say, I glance at the clock on the wall, it's 746pm, less than 5 hours until midnight. I guess so. He says, not stopping to look up from his plate this time. It's been nearly wiped clean, only a few scraps remain. Without a second thought, I get up, walk into the kitchen, pull open the drawer, and grab a fork. I march back into the room and stab into the remnants of a pancake. I hold it up to my face and examine it. Are you sure? He says, I sit back down and place my free hand on top of his. Of course I am, I say, my eyes stinging as I speak. You have no idea the lengths I've gone to just be with you again, I'm not leaving you. I ram the food into my mouth and chew with such fervor that my jaw hurts by the time I've swallowed. A smile breaks across his face, far broader than any I'd seen that day. I squeeze his hand and we share what's left of the pancakes together. Something scratches at the back of my brain and soon my curiosity overtakes me again. Can I ask you something? I say, what happened that day? The police didn't tell me all that much about how it happened. He takes in a sharp breath before speaking. Well, the guy was going from classroom to classroom. We could all hear the shots and the people screaming. He says his head bowed. We were hiding under our desks when we heard him come in. I stood up and I tried to reason with him and he lifts his hand to his mouth and chokes up. But wait, I don't understand, I say. The police told me that you weren't in your classroom when it happened. They said you must have moved at some point during the incident, but they couldn't piece together your movements. Why were you in the classroom and what did you say to the man? He shakes his head as though in pain. I don't know. He says I was in the classroom and I was standing up and I was brave and I was protecting the other students. His tone is flat and his eyes, emotionless, are fixed on mine. That can't be right. You can't have just forgotten it. I say my fork hanging limp in my hand. You only remember what I remember. That broad smile cuts across his face again. This time I see the malice in it. You're not Logan. I say, eat up. He replies, pushing the plate towards me. Chew and swallow, swallow and chew. I shoot up from my seat and smack the plate away, sending it crashing to the ground. It shatters on the wood flooring below. What is this place? I say, backing away from him. What are you? I'm you. He hisses. I'm the guilt you feel over the death of your baby boy. I am the sadness. I am the longing. I am the desperate realization that you'll never see him again. He's standing now, mirroring my movements as I edge my way around the table. Why are you doing this? I say, choking back tears. Where were you when your little boy needed you? He says, his eyes lighting up as he speaks. He was lying on the floor of that classroom, wondering where his mommy was. And you weren't there. Where were you? Shut up, I say. You were at the spa with Jennifer. He says, pointing his finger at me. The other parents were calling and calling, but you didn't pick up. You were the last one to arrive at the scene. You abandoned your son. Leave me alone, I say, clutching my hands over my ears. Just leave me alone. He's dead. The figure says, I race out of the house, but his screams follow me down the road. They echo in my head. They're inescapable. I don't know where I'm going, but my feet are compelled to run in one direction. I have to keep moving forward. I stop to catch my breath. As I look back, I see him standing in the road behind me, still grinning. I pull my phone from my pocket and check the time. February 30th, 2002. One second past midnight.