The Nova's vinyl seat sticks to my skin as I jolt awake. For a moment, I forget where and when I am. Then reality crashes back. Still 1978. Still broke. Still hungry.
My watch reads 5:15 AM. Perfect timing to make it to 8th and Washington by six. I stretch, feeling every muscle protest after a night on this makeshift bed. My stomach growls, reminding me I haven't eaten since yesterday morning.
"Food comes after money," I mutter, running fingers through my hair and checking my reflection in the rearview mirror. I look rough but not homeless, yet. Important distinction when you're trying to get hired.
I slip out of the car, careful to leave it exactly as I found it. The screwdriver goes back in my pocket. Might need it again tonight.
The parking garage is silent except for my footsteps echoing against concrete. Outside, Miami is just waking up. The air feels different than 2025, cleaner somehow, but with undertones of gasoline that future emissions standards eliminated.
I walk briskly, mapping the city in my head. Some landmarks remain familiar across decades, while others haven't been built yet. The morning sky shifts from black to deep blue as I navigate streets that are simultaneously foreign and familiar.
As I approach 8th and Washington, I spot about twenty men already gathered at the corner. Most are Latino, a few Black guys. All wearing clothes better suited for manual labor than mine. They stand in loose groups, some smoking, others drinking coffee from thermoses.
I hang back, watching. These men know the drill. Some carry their own tool: trowels, hammers, work gloves sticking out of back pockets. I have nothing but a screwdriver.
"Nuevo?" A weathered man with a mustache notices me hovering.
I nod. "First time."
He looks me over, assessing. "They pick the strong ones first. Stand where they can see your arms."
I follow his advice, positioning myself where the morning light hits. A minute later, a pickup truck slows at the corner. The men surge forward, but with a practiced restraint, eager but not desperate.
The driver, a sunburned white guy in his forties, points to four men, then me. "You five. Ten dollars for the day."
Ten dollars. In 2025, that wouldn't buy coffee. Here, it's a day's wage. I climb into the truck bed with the others, nodding silent greetings. Nobody talks much. We're all strangers competing for the same scarce resources.
One guy offers me a cigarette. I decline with a shake of my head.
"Primera vez?" he asks quietly.[1]
"Is it obvious?"
He smiles slightly. "Your hands. Too soft."
I look down at my hands. He's right. These aren't the hands of someone who's done landscaping work before. That'll change by sunset.
The truck takes a different route than I'd expected. I realize we're heading south, away from the tourist areas. We turn into a neighborhood I don't recognize. Small houses with chain-link fences, cars on blocks in driveways, laundry hanging on lines.
I tap my fingers against my thigh. One-two-three-four. Something feels off. The other workers seem tense too, exchanging glances.
The truck slows near an abandoned lot where weeds grow through cracked concrete. No landscaping equipment in sight. No wealthy homeowner waiting. Just empty buildings with broken windows watching us like hollow eyes.
My instincts scream danger. In my time, this area became gentrified condos. But in 1978, it's clearly somewhere people avoid.
The truck stops. The driver turns around, smiling now, but it doesn't reach his eyes.
"Everybody out," he says. "Got a special job today."
I scan my surroundings as my pulse quickens. The truck driver's hand moves toward his waistband, that may be a classic move for a concealed weapon. This isn't a landscaping job. It's a setup.
My options flash through my mind: fight five-to-one odds, try reasoning, or run. The choice is obvious.
I bolt.
My feet pound pavement as I sprint away from the truck. I dart between two buildings, expecting shouts or footsteps behind me. Nothing comes. I risk a glance back, no pursuit. The other workers must've scattered too, everyone recognizing the danger at once, or maybe it was just a big misunderstanding and I am stupid. Anyway, returning is not an option.
I slow to a jog, then a walk, catching my breath. The neighborhood is unfamiliar, run-down houses with bars on windows. My stomach twists with hunger, reminding me I'm no closer to food or money than when I woke up.
"Still alive though," I mutter, checking my watch. 6:43 AM.
A high-pitched scream cuts through the morning air. Female, young, terrified. It comes from an alley about half a block ahead.
I should keep walking. Not my problem. I need food, money, stability, not more trouble.
The scream comes again, desperate.
"Mierda," I curse, already moving toward the sound.
I peer around the corner into the alley. Three men surround a girl, maybe sixteen or seventeen. They're trying to force her into a black Cadillac with tinted windows. One man has his hand over her mouth while she kicks and struggles.
The men are Colombian, I can tell from their accents as they bark at each other. They're dressed like they want everyone to know they have money: colorful shirts, bell-bottoms jeans, gold chains around their necks, lots of gold rings. Miami in '78 is crawling with drug cowboys, and these guys fit the profile perfectly.
The girl manages to bite one man's hand. He curses, slapping her across the face.
"Shut up, puta! Want to stay alive, yes? Then get in the car!"
I should walk away. This isn't my fight. These guys are connected, dangerous. I have no weapon except a screwdriver, not much money for my rewind ability, and nothing to gain.
But something about the girl's eyes, wide with terror but still defiant, caused a sense of the wrongness of the situation. I remember that regret for inaction is usually much stronger.
Before I can change my mind, I'm already entering the alley.
"Hey!" I shout. "Let her go!"
Three heads whip toward me. The girl's expressive eyes lock with mine, a flash of desperate hope crossing her face.
"Mind your business, pendejo," the tallest one says, hand moving toward his jacket. "Walk away now."
The second man keeps his grip on the girl while the third opens the car door wider.
I take another step forward, adrenaline drowning out the voice of reason in my head. My hands are empty, raised slightly to show I'm not armed. My mind races through scenarios, calculating angles, distances, timing.
"I said let her go." My voice sounds calmer than I feel.
The tall one pulls out a switchblade, the metal catching morning light as it snaps open. "Last chance to walk away, amigo."
The girl's big eyes never leave mine. She's stopped struggling, watching me like I'm her last hope in the world.
I'm no hero. I'm just a hungry guy who needs breakfast money. But I can't walk away from this.
I take another step forward, mentally counting the cash in my pocket. 107 future bucks. Enough to rewind maybe a few times.
But I don't need money to throw a screwdriver.
[1] "First time?"