100 Yellow Doors

july 1st, 1922, 9:34 p.m.

Iman was sitting in a bar. It was a narrow, smoky place, with barely enough space for her to breathe. People clamored about all around her, a crowd of nondescript shadows in front of and beside her. She leaned forward, trying to catch snatches of the conversation, trying to deduce where and when she was, and was stunned when she realized they were not speaking English.

A sudden fear seized her, and only gripped her tighter when a tall, bronze-skinned man took the stage at the front of the bar. He was dressed in a way that Iman could only describe as vintage—black tuxedo with a tailcoat, oxfords, slicked down hair, thin mustache.

He said something in an arrhythmic language entirely foreign to Iman, then motioned a woman up to the stage to replace him. Her hair was bobbed, a few curls plastered upon her forehead, eyes darkly lined and lips painted in a distinct, tiny heart. The woman's glittery gown caught what little was left of the overhead fixtures' failing light; the crowd roared in anticipation, only yielding when the woman cleared her throat, and began to sing.

It was a slow, haunting song, saxophone and bass in the background. It was a song, Iman realized, that sounded less like it should be played on a radio and more like it should be played on a phonograph.

She was far gone, wasn't she?

She pressed further against the back wall, trying to make herself less conspicuous. She hadn't bothered to change out of her wedding dress, after all, since she hadn't been planning to make any surprise trips back in time.

Not that she ever was.

The saxophone swelled over the woman's voice, ringing in Iman's ears. Her heart was thudding in her chest, thundering out its own rhythm: the unforgettable rhythm of fear.

"Just married?"

That voice. She knew that voice.

"Peculiar place to honeymoon, is it not?"

Iman turned her head. He was different, his black hair clipped and middle-parted, but she recognized him nonetheless. "Fritz!" she exclaimed, without thinking about it.

A somewhat unpleasant surprise crossed his face."R-Rosario?"

"What? No," Iman said, her relief overriding her confusion."Fritz. Oh thank God, Fritz. Where am I? Can you tell me where I am?"

The suave expression on Fritz's face vanished. "How do you know—"

Oh. Right. In all her excitement about landing on something, anything, familiar, she had forgotten he would not know who she was. Even knowing the inescapable pitfalls of linear time in interaction with circular time, however, there was still a flash of hurt deep in Iman's chest. "My name is Iman. That'll make sense later. You see, I'm sort of, uh—I'm from the future."

Fritz blinked at her, his face otherwise still. Then, in a wink, he was laughing, mouth wide open and a guffaw echoing from his chest. "I see. You've had a bit too much to drink there, haven't you, girl?" He slid a hand over hers. "Come now, let's take a walk. The city's much prettier when it's a little blurry, anyway."

Iman yanked her hand away. "Fritz, I'm serious. Look, I—I know Julien, okay? Julien Elias Morales Ruiz. I think he's in trouble."

Again, Fritz's expression fell. His voice lowered to the point at which it was nearly a growl. "What the hell do you want with Jules?"

Iman swallowed her discomfort at the ice in Fritz's eyes. For all his talk, she had never seen him so truly angry. "It's not what I want, but what I need," Iman said. "And I need to save him."

Fritz stared at her for a moment, but it was more than just a stare—almost as if he were analyzing her, examining her, weighing all the pros and cons. Finally, he let out a ragged breath. "I'm not entirely sure I believe you, but if it's about Jules—ah, well. Come with me."