The radio crackles in the background as Maria sets a plate of rice with vegetables in front of me. The smell makes my stomach growl embarrassingly loud.
"...and authorities remain concerned about the increasing flow of narcotics through South Florida," the radio announcer says in that serious newscaster voice. "Police estimate approximately twelve kilograms of cocaine are moving through Miami weekly, with no signs of slowing down."
In a few years, twelve kilos will be what a single dealer forgets in the trunk of his mom's car. I can't help but laugh, drawing curious looks from both siblings.
"Something funny about drug trafficking?" Miguel asks, eyebrow raised.
"Twelve kilos a week?" I shake my head. "That's nothing. It's only beginning."
Miguel's expression darkens. "For everyone's sake, I hope you're wrong."
If he only knew. By the mid-80s, Miami will be drowning in cocaine, hundreds of kilos daily, not weekly. The violence will transform this city into a drug war capital. But I can't explain how I know this without sounding insane.
"Eat," Maria urges, pushing the plate closer. "You need strength."
I don't need to be told twice. The rice is simple but perfectly cooked, with peppers and onions mixed in. I shovel it into my mouth, realizing I haven't eaten in over 24 hours.
"Slow down," Maria says, but there's amusement in her voice. "There's more if you want it."
Miguel watches me eat, his gaze calculating. "So what happened this morning? Before you rescued Maria?"
I pause mid-bite, considering how much to share. "Got picked up for day labor. Thought it was landscaping work, but the guy drove us to some abandoned lot. Felt wrong, so I ran."
Miguel nods knowingly. "Demolition job, most likely. They pick up desperate guys, pay almost nothing to tear down buildings without proper permits or tech. No safety equipment, no insurance. People get hurt all the time."
I take another bite of rice, feeling embarrassed about my paranoia now. "So I wasn't about to get robbed or murdered? Just exploited for cheap labor?"
"Probably," Miguel shrugs. "Though exploitation comes in many forms."
I can't help but laugh at myself. Time travel has me jumping at shadows. In 2025, I'd dodged ICE agents. Here I am running from a landscaping job like it's a cartel hit.
"What's funny now?" Maria asks.
"Nothing. Just thinking how I bolted out of that truck like my ass was on fire." I shake my head. "Sprinted three blocks before I even looked back. Guys probably laughed their asses off."
"Your instincts were good," Miguel says seriously. "The interpretation failed."
Maria refills my coffee without asking, the gesture automatic. I notice how protectively she moves around Miguel.
"What about you?" Miguel asks, leaning back in his chair. "Where are you from? How'd you end up fighting Colombians in an alley with nothing but a stick?"
The moment of truth. I need a cover story that explains my situation without revealing the impossible truth. I take a deep breath and tap my fingers against the table, one-two-three-four.
"I'm Cuban. Born there, but lived most of my life in America." This much is true, though not in the way they'd understand. "Had to leave my last place in a hurry. Family trouble."
"What kind of trouble?" Maria asks.
I look down at my plate. "My parents made some bad choices. I'd rather not get into details." I pause, letting the implication hang. "Let's just say it wasn't safe to stay."
Miguel studies me, looking for lies. "And Miami?"
"Seemed like a good place to disappear. Lots of Cubans, you know? But my first day here, I got robbed. Everything lost, money, documents, all of it."
"You didn't report it?" Maria asks.
I shake my head. "Can't. They'd run a background check. Ask too many questions about who I am, where I came from. Might connect me to my parents' situation." I spread my hands. "Might attract unnecessary attention."
"That's why you were looking for day labor," Miguel concludes.
"Yeah. Need cash fast."
The siblings exchange a look I can't quite interpret. Miguel seems to be weighing options, while Maria gives a slight nod.
"Your situation is difficult," Miguel finally says. "But maybe not impossible."
"I'll figure something out," I reply, trying to sound more confident than I feel. "Always do."
"Perhaps." Miguel stands up, checking his watch. "I need to walk Maria to school for her second period. She can't miss any more classes today."
Maria looks like she wants to protest but holds her tongue.
"You should rest," Miguel continues. "That arm needs time to heal. I have an idea that might help your situation, but I need to make some calls first."
"What kind of idea?" I ask, suspicious by nature.
"The kind that gets you papers and work." He grabs a light jacket from a hook by the door. "Not everything is strictly by the book in Miami, but that doesn't mean it can't be mutually beneficial."
Maria collects her schoolbag, a worn canvas thing with patches sewn over the holes. She touches my shoulder lightly as she passes. "Thank you again. For what you did."
"Anyone would have," I lie. Even I wouldn't be so brave without time rewinding bullshit. Truth is, most people would've kept walking, looked the other way, or called the cops after it was too late. But when you can rewind time, you start taking chances normal people wouldn't dream of. You jump in, knowing if things go sideways, you can just burn some cash and try again. It's not bravery when you've got a safety net, it's just playing with loaded dice.
"No," she says with surprising firmness. "They wouldn't."
Miguel hands her a lunch bag. "We'll be back in about an hour. Make yourself at home, but don't answer the door or phone."
After they leave, I sit in the quiet apartment, finishing my coffee. The radio continues its drone about crime statistics and weather forecasts. My arm throbs beneath the bandages.
The food settles in my stomach, warm and grounding. I feel the fog lifting, the pulse in my stitched arm a little less sharp. Maybe I hadn't lost as much blood as I thought. Perhaps it was just the hunger messing with my head. Whatever it was, for now I'm fed, patched up, and under a real roof.
I have $60 in future currency, a revolver tucked in my waistband. And somehow, Miguel thinks he can help me.
The question is: what will he want in return?