Time Agency by Aaron Frale Page B

I ran through all the exit possibilities in my head. I considered swiping the ID card from the employee. Instead, I decided to slip away while he was figuring it all out. The well-dressed man’s face appeared on the screen. He was wanted on suspicion of murder. I turned back to the clerk.
    “217,” the employee said, snapping me from my shock. I blinked a couple of times.
    “217,” he said again and handed me my ID, a little irritated. I took the card back from him and turned to leave. A thought crossed my mind, and I turned back to face him. He looked at me and said, “You know that guy?”
    “Who?” I said, slightly confused.
    “The killer.” He pointed to the security alert.
    “Oh...no,” I lied. “Sorry to bother you, but I had a hell of a week. This probably seems like a strange question, but when did I check out the locker?”
    “Don't you have the contract?” he said, irritated.
    “I lost it.”
    He grumbled and began typing again. He pulled out a device and looked at me expectantly. “Do you have a tablet or a phone?”
    “No.”
    I really upset him. He put the device back down and went back to his workstation. “I'll print it out again, but you signed a contract. It clearly outlines the terms. That's three days overage. You are paying for all of today even if you are not using it.”
    “I was supposed to come three days ago…” I asked. Three days was the extent of my memory and visit here.
    The employee rolled his eyes and shoved a pile of papers at me. “Yes, your card will be charged for three days of overage. You better clear out your crap today, or it will be four days.”
    “Thanks,” I said. The employee's voice trailed off as he berated me. I looked through the pile of papers he handed me. The papers were mostly legal garbage and disclaimers. The part about the late fee was highlighted. I had rented the locker ten days ago. There was a copy of my ID card with the papers, and the person who rented out the lockers certainly looked like me. I looked at the name on the card, John Johnson. Either my parents cursed me with the most generic name on the planet, or I had more proof that I wasn’t a secret agent. I cursed my pre-memory wipe self.
    I walked towards the lockers and found the rows in the teens. Locker 217 was far enough back that the only people who could observe me opening it would have to make an effort. Whatever was in it, I didn't want anyone to see me open it. The key fit perfectly. I twisted it, and the locker popped open. There was another briefcase inside.
    “Fuck me,” I yelled. A woman a few lockers down stared at me. I gave her a look, and she turned back to her business. The last thing I needed was some bullshit quantum lock and more questions than answers. I probably was an asshole and was just fucking with myself.
    Click.
    I opened the unlocked case. It opened just fine. Inside, there was a mint. I took the mint out and slipped it into the memory mint device. I checked for any onlookers. No one was looking. The woman had moved on, and the occasional person walking by probably wouldn’t notice much with a glance.
    After securing the mint in my pocket, I felt around the briefcase for anything else. It was empty. I shut the locker and turned into a security guard. The police had probably viewed the security footage, and now my face was on all the monitors.
    He smiled and said, “Not that I was snooping, but you can file a claim with the office if you think the contents of your briefcase was stolen.”
    “Oh no, I always keep an empty briefcase when I travel. It’s so I can fill it with gifts for my family,” I lied. Even though my nerves were attempting to climb out of my gut, I was able to push them to the recess of my mind and feign normalcy. The nuances of social interaction were always my strong point. I am probably this way because I used to talk my way out of fights from the schoolyard bullies.
    Another memory bubbled to the service. I remembered being in