A World Without You by Beth Revis

and make a list:
    What I’ve Done Already:
    â€¢ Tried to go into the past where Sofía is. Can’t get there. Utterly blocked. Powers don’t work.
    â€¢ Tried to go to a few minutes before I sent Sofía to the past to stop myself. Didn’t work. Timestream blocks me from my own timeline.
    â€¢ Tried to go into the past and warn Sofía not to go with me to the 1600s. Can’t get there.
    Underneath the pitiful list, I add in big, bold, underlined letters: INTENT MATTERS .
    Now let’s try something completely different:
    Attempt 1: Go back to my own past and leave myself clues to not get Sofía stuck in the first place.
    I pick another weekend when I wasn’t at Berkshire, so I can be sure not to meet my past self. But rather than go see Sofía, I stay in my room. I keep my mind as clear as possible, grab a piece of paper from my desk, and write a huge warning note to myself. I expect time to snap me back to the present, but it doesn’t. I write the note, leave it on my bed, and return.
    But it obviously doesn’t work, because Sofía’s still gone and the past hasn’t changed.
    I don’t remember getting any notes in the past either, so what happened?
    I carefully make a mark in my calendar, noting which day I traveled to. When I turn around, my eyes fall on my bed. When I was younger, I used to hide things from my nosy little sister between the box spring and mattress of my bed. I check, and sure enough, my note is there, but I don’t know why or how.
    I want to go back, I want to try again, but each weekend I travel back to creates a little divot in the timestream. The more I go back in failed attempts to leave notes, the more I run the risk of creating tangles and knots in the strings of time. If I don’t play my cards right, I’ll ruin my chances.
    The universe doesn’t want me to save Sofía.
Attempt 2: Brute force.
    Sofía’s vivid red string is easy to spot amid the myriad of grays and taupes and sage greens and pale blues of the other strings that represent the Berk at various different times. Alump rises in my throat as I look closely at the weave, at the way Sofía’s string knots up with mine, just before it shoots off into the black hole of 1692.
    The red string whirls into darkness. Trying to grab it just as it disappears into the void is crazy, like trying to grab a live electrical wire thrashing on the ground.
    I do it anyway.
    The string cuts into my skin—it feels like I’m trying to climb a mountain with a thread instead of a rope. The swirling vortex at the point in time and place where Sofía is threatens to throw me aside, but I don’t let go. I can feel time around me, building like pressure from all sides, wanting to expel me. I strain against the forces of time trying to keep me out. Strings start to unravel, and they whip against my hand, lashing my skin.
    I grit my teeth and pull harder. The string feels like barbed wire crackling with electricity.
No
, I think to myself, just that word, just
no
.
    But I have to give up anyway. I can’t hold on. The strings of time slip through my fingers, swirling back around the vortex where Sofía is trapped.
    I go for a walk. I pace the grounds of Berkshire, from the brick steps to the sick kids’ camp to the green gate blocking the boardwalk and back again. I stand in front of the burned-out brick chimney, the only link between where I am now and where Sofía is in the past. I stare at it. I argue with the blackened bricks. I argue with time. I argue with myself.
    There has to be a way.
    I wish I understood more about my powers. I wish I could say, “I want to be at this place, in this time,” and go right back to that specific moment. Instead, I’m always sort of guessing,and everything is a little random, a little uncontrollable. It’s like swimming in the ocean. You can point to a spot out in the distance where the waves