A Collision In Time

No matter how hard the past is, you can always begin again.

– Buddha

September 10, 2027, Boston, USA

Cara Zitkala-Sa gazed out the window that overlooked Thacher Street in Boston’s North End. Fog made the streetlight outside no more than an orange glow that illuminated her face in the window. She smiled and her blurry reflection smiled back.

She turned and eyed the table. “One more piece,” she said, reaching for another slice. Around her, Regina’s Pizzeria hummed with energy and the din from dozens of discussions, laughter, and the clink of cutlery against plates. The noise made it difficult to focus on the voice of her companion. Or was it the topic he had chosen to discuss, yet again? She took another bite of pizza and directed her attention back to him.

“Did you hear a word of what I said?” James asked.

“Yeah, of course.”

“What did I say, then?”

“It was about your work.”

“What about it?”

Cara played the odds. “The thing your boss wanted.”

“Good guess, anyway…” His voice faded. “I feel like we’re just pretending here, Cara. I mean, I hate to raise this again, but you aren’t interested in what I do. All we talk about is your work, not mine.”

“My work? You never discuss that with me.”

“It’s different. When you talk about what you do, you may as well speak Russian. At least my work is comprehensible.”

“It’s math, James, not Russian.”

“You only call me James when you’re angry.” He sounded defensive.

“Well, perhaps I am.”

They ate in silence for a few minutes. Cara noticed a family staring at them. She looked away, embarrassed, and again focused on Thacher Street.

James broke the increasing tension. “Maybe we are really done this time.”

What shall we do about James? she silently asked her reflection.

For months James ended heated discussions like this with a challenge, and for months Cara backed down with an apology. There were a lot of reasons she enjoyed her boyfriend and felt reluctant to give those up: the companionship, the intimacy, evenings watching movies together, and usually Regina’s pizza night. But there was one important aspect she yearned for, more than ever.

She turned her head and caught his eyes. “Maybe I want you to understand and speak Russian.”

James furrowed his brow, puzzled. “What? You always said that’s what you like about me. I’m not another physicist and I can relate to you on a human basis.”

“I know, but lately my work is becoming increasingly important to me. I think I’m on to something unique and groundbreaking. And you never want to discuss it.”

“It’s not that I don’t want to; I can’t. When you say quantum, or entropy, or spin, or talk about time and waves, I have no idea what you mean. I live in the real world.”

“This is the real world. It defines and shapes the real world. No pun intended, but physics makes the real world spin.”

“Not for me. This is my real world.”

Cara gave up. “Maybe we are done, James.” She’d hoped James would have interrupted that statement.

James reacted with surprise, then hesitated. “Maybe we are, Cara. Sorry.”

Once more they ate in silence. James hurried through his pizza then stood, carefully and stoically, as though he expected Cara to stop him. “At least let me pay the bill.” He kissed her on the cheek. “I will drop by in a few days with your stuff, and collect mine. I do wish you luck, Cara.”

He left the table to settle the account. Cara held her breath until he exited the restaurant.

She did not expect that to happen so suddenly. Despite the shock, relief flowed through her body. She turned again toward the window. The fog had dissipated. She smiled at her reflection, and thankfully, it again smiled back.

She left the restaurant and elected to walk back to her apartment on Marlborough Street rather than rideshare. She headed onto Beacon Street across from the Boston Common Garden and enjoyed the peace of the late evening and the calming rhythm of the walk.

A notification on her wristwatch disrupted the calm—an incoming email from her postdoctoral advisor. She pulled out her phone and tapped to read it.

From: Nick Joah

Sent: September 10, 2027, 10:03 p.m.

Subject: time-gravity paper

Hey Cara, my apologies for the late reply. You stretched my brain and it took me some time to digest your proposal. I reviewed the equations, but those on page six that define the chaotic uniformity of space-time and added probability dimensions were tough for me to follow. I am also worried about your arguments concerning entropy and am not sure you can discount that with “clever” math.

On the other hand, I couldn’t find flaws in your math. There are much smarter people than me out there, like you, and I want another pair of eyes to review your work before submission for publication. I hope that’s okay, and sorry again for the delay.

Nick Joah, Ph.D.

Cara reread the email, then called him.

Nick picked up immediately. “Hey, Cara.”

“Hey, Nick. I obviously read your email.”

“And?”

“Well, I don’t want to sound callous, but if you can’t see any flaws then why don’t you send it off for peer review and begin the process? I did my homework. That’s why you don’t see any flaws.”

“Yeah, I’ll be honest, I do follow your equations, but the implications on the laws of physics are phenomenal. Relative entropy and your probability dimensions? I’m not sure how to proceed. The concepts are over my head. The implications with the fundamentals of space-time are…are…”

Cara rolled her eyes. “I know, are crazy. Listen, can I go over it with you right now? I want to get this finished.”

“I have an idea, Cara. Can you give me until tomorrow at lunch and then let’s chat?”

Cara lost the energy to challenge him. “Fine. And in the meantime, I’m going to put some serious thought into how to better communicate those implications.”

“Thanks, Cara. Sorry to be a pain in the ass. I’ll chat with you tomorrow.” He hung up.

She placed her phone on Do Not Disturb and continued walking home, though she didn’t enjoy it as much as she would have normally. She pondered the fact that Nick was the second man today who had criticized her communication abilities.

Stepping in to her home brought a welcome change of mood. She loved her modest second-floor brownstone apartment with its high ceilings, exposed brick, built-in bookcases, and a handsome decorative fireplace. She refused to take it for granted, especially given her modest beginnings. Growing up as a member of the Ihanktonwan Nation in Wagner, South Dakota, she was enormously proud of her heritage. So much so that as a teenager, she changed her last name to Zitkala-Sa, after a famous mid-nineteenth century Sioux First Nation writer and musician from the same community as Cara. An ode to her culture.

Growing up on a reservation, she never imagined she would be living across the river from one of the most prestigious universities in the world. Her apartment reminded her of her accomplishment, which in turn reminded her of her ancestry and her name. Her past and present were well-integrated and in harmony.

At this time of the evening, Cara typically withdrew to enjoy a glass of red wine and her music. She considered texting James. Frankly, she was a little surprised that he had not by now. She ignored the temptation a reunion with James might offer and instead opted for her evening routine.

She directed her phone, “Play music. ChillWave playlist.” Then she entered the kitchen and poured a generous glass of Malbec from the box. The music began in the background. She relaxed on the leather sofa and checked her phone. No new texts. She gradually relaxed, and sleep followed.

She awoke to a cloudless, sunny morning, perfect for a walk across the Charles River to her office. The day offered promise, and as with so many complex problems, the sleep had settled her and offered obvious solutions. It was clear she and James were finished. When she considered the basic question about how much fulfilment he offered to her, the response was, not much. They enjoyed the same taste in pizza and politics, but he always seemed awkward, like a fumbling child.

Her other morning realization was that she had been too blunt with Dr. Nick Joah. Managing relationships, navigating tenured professors’ egos, and “small p” politics were as important to learn in the academic world as were the actual subject and problems under investigation. Dr. Joah delicately reminded her of that. She would offer a humble apology this morning and buy him a coffee if he didn’t have one already.

Later that morning, as she exited the Harvard Bridge, rather than head to Café Spice as she usually did, Cara turned right and headed toward the Department of Physics and the office of Dr. Nick Joah. The door was closed when she arrived, but she knocked.

“Hey, Nick, care for a coffee?” she called through the door. “Café Spice okay?”

“Cara?” Nick opened the door. “Sure, yeah, I could use one.”

They strolled side by side, not discussing the awkward phone call of last night.

“Did you meet those people looking for you?” Nick asked as they exited the physics building. “There were three people, one young woman and two guys. The girl looked like she could have been your sister.”

“No, I just got here, and I don’t have a sister. What were they asking?”

“More than asking. They were surprisingly informed about your work. The girl was almost desperate to meet you. It’s a bit strange, if you ask me, but I told them you would be at your office…” he checked the time “…right about now.”

“They know about my work?” Cara asked.

“They knew more than I did,” Nick replied with shared concern.

“That’s odd. Now I’m curious. I’ll head to my office after the coffee. Hopefully they’re still around.”

They strolled in a comfortable silence for a few more moments. “Nick, I have to apologize for my tone last night. I realize I am proposing something very radical that could change a lot of our assumptions about the arrow of time and entropy, let alone the fabric of space-time. Of course you have to do your due diligence as my supervisor. I understand that.”

“Apology accepted, Cara, but you must continue to defend and push your ideas. Self-promotion in a university is a balancing act. You are a great physicist and I wish I had half your talent and intelligence.”

Cara smiled. “Thank you, Nick. That means a lot.”

“You are most welcome, Professor Zitkala-Sa.”

They approached Café Spice and Cara slowed the pace. She turned to face Nick. “Last night you said you had an idea, something you would work on?”

“You have a good memory. Yes, but I didn’t mean to raise your hopes. An investor approached me yesterday. He seemed very eager, though also a little odd. He asked about your work and whether he could assist. I sent him some standard questions to gauge how serious he was. I am waiting for a reply but it might take a day or two.”

“Okay, fine, I’ll wait.” Cara pretended to be impatient, knowing Nick would see through it. “I will remind you next week.”

Cara opened the door, then followed Nick into the café. “Now, the usual, a pumpkin spiced latte?”

Nick snorted. “A regular medium black coffee,” he said to the barista as they walked up to the front counter. “I like my coffee like I like my life, no drama.”

* * *

As Cara walked the long, narrow corridor to her small office on the first floor of the physics building, she noticed the three people who matched Nick’s description. They stood outside her office, studying her as she approached them.

The woman was dressed in a neutral outfit, no different than any of the thousands of graduate students at MIT. She probably had done her shopping at the co-op clothing stores, with a branded steel gray and cardinal red hoodie, along with loose-fitting but still feminine blue jeans. Cara now understood Nick’s “sister” reference. They appeared about the same age, shared a similar body size and type, and had identical hairstyles, skin, and eye color.

The two men could well be brothers. They shared the same stature, were plain in appearance, and both wore comfortable-looking dark slacks and light-colored polo shirts. Their outfits looked like they had been purchased only hours previously at the same store.

The woman beamed as Cara waved at them. “Are you waiting for me?”

“Cara,” she said. It was not a question.

“Yes? Do we know each other?”

“I’d like to talk about time-waves. Have you a few minutes?”

Cara froze, unsure what to say.

“I’m sorry,” the woman said. “I didn’t mean to shock you. Can we talk? Please? Ariel, Uriel, if you don’t mind, I think I’ll meet with Cara alone. Can we meet back at the Westin at, say, four?”

“Sure,” said one of them. “Cara, a pleasure to meet you.”

The woman turned back to Cara. “My name is Dov.” She extended her hand. “So nice to meet you in person. Can we go for a walk?”

Cara joined Dov, not feeling like she had much choice in the matter.