FutureImperfect by Stefan Petrucha

wasn’t in his body anymore. After knocking over two mugs of pens, scratching a BMW, and ripping his jacket, he saw himself tumble forward from the bench. Just another accident.
    But there was nothing he could do about it.
    The funny little fear grew. He felt himself pushed forward, as if he were being yanked up the highest hill on a roller coaster. For a moment, Tippicks paused on vertigo’s brink, then plunged. Or rather, the world plunged around him, melting into a swirl of hypersaturated colors. Everything—Harry Keller, the plant, the walls, the interns, the tables, the great steel net above them—spread out into elongated trails.
    In a flash, Emeril Tippicks stood atop those trails, watching impossible one-eyed beasts root about the land, while flat mandala patterns flitted about, weightless in a rainbow-colored sky. The world he knew had vanished, and with it the ancient doubts that had pressed upon his mind.
    Whatever else he was, Jeffrey Tippicks was not just insane.
    A solid tone filled his ears. Was it Keller’s voice, still droning on, tethering him here? He turned about, trying to find the source, finally locating it on a small hill formed by thick trails that were intertwined like a giant’s folded fingers. There was something in the air above them, a brightness, a light.
    Was it Keller? Was he entering this A-Time, too, despite the drugs? No. Whatever it was, it glowed brighter and brighter, heating his skin in a comfortable, familiar way.
    He took a few hesitant steps across the strange ground, trying to get closer, to see the light more clearly. And when he did, he gasped and said, “Dad?”

8.
    â€œHelp!” Harry cried. “I think he’s having a heart attack!”
    Like a sack of wet leaves, Tippicks’s body tumbled forward. He looked like he was going to hit his head on the floor, hard. Unable to move his arms, Harry stuck his legs out to catch him. Tippicks’s forehead hit Harry’s shin and his chest slumped, his full weight falling on Harry’s wobbly calves.
    â€œHelp!”
    Harry knew what had happened. Tippicks had gone timeless alone. He prayed the guidance counselor would be all right. He had to be.
    The two interns, cell phones in hand, raced toward them. They lifted Tippicks from Harry’s legs and settled him on his back on the ground. He looked dead, but Harry realized this might be his one chance to escape. Even if Mr. Tippicks believed him, he’d never be able to get Harry out of Windfree so he could save Siara. The best the teacher could probably manage was to get himself fired.
    As the interns bent over Tippicks’s prone form, Harry bolted for the door. There were confused shouts behind him. Jesus and his friend didn’t know who to deal with first, Tippicks or Harry. While they mulled it over, Harry put as much distance between himself and them as he could.
    The drugs knocked him for a loop, but he was moving pretty fast for a guy in a straitjacket. Since his encounter with the Fool, nothing seemed to change his mental state much. He even had a brief A-Time flash of Jesus being fired for losing Harry twice. As it turned out, he soon got a better job at an alternative bookstore. After all, you can’t keep Jesus down.
    As he hit the door, Harry twisted sideways, praying they hadn’t locked it. It opened, spilling him into the hall. He ran down the corridor, making turns as if he knew where he was going, a left, two rights, and into a stairwell. It was as if there was a voice in his head, whispering, No, this way, not that way! Good! Faster! You’re almost there!
    And there was. It was like the voice of the Quirk-shard, only louder, and decidedly more helpful. Was it the Fool? Harry hadn’t told Tippicks about the Fool, because he figured the whole giant-clown thing was just too weird. Whatever it was, it took him to the base of the stairs and through an emergency door, all without anyone spotting