The time machine, which was a 1970’s converted van, took us back a few minutes. We parked it on the other side of my wife’s father’s borrowed 1999 Oldsmobile Cutlass and walked through the park to the entrance.
After a brief discussion of logistics, it was agreed that Corrine and Coltrane would wait down the drive behind a tree and I’d stand next to the park’s entrance with the gun and the temporal stasis device. When the car came past, I’d shot it’s tires or engine or otherwise try to get it on a different course.
I could see the top of the bleachers through the trees from my vantage point next to the sign. Across the street was a field and a farmhouse. I remembered that I’d selected this venue due to its relative seclusion. Hopefully when I fired the gun, a) I wouldn’t miss and b) if I did miss, I didn’t hit anything living. I tempered my normal reluctance for breaking the law, such as firing a gun in city limits, by the fact that there were definitely extenuating circumstances.
I waited. And waited. And just as I was about to question Coltrane about his timing, the red muscle car appeared at the curve in the bend – well beyond our positions – and rushed off toward 1999 Corrine and Henry who was getting the blanket out of the trunk at this point.
“What the hell?” I said and then flinched at the loud crunch of car hitting car.
“Did you see that?” Corrine said, waving her arms. “It just appeared. How do we stop it if it just appears?”
“Someone has another goddamned time machine,” Coltrane added, and stomped off to the van.

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