"Get up, you idiot, or you'll get pummeled," the red-band woman hissed as I scrambled off the pavement. "Easy for you to say," I snapped, wiping grit from my palms. "You don't have a toddler at home." "Girl," she spat, "stop singing drama. You fell because you were drunk or dreaming. Which one?" "I wasn't dreaming," I said. "I—" "Save it," another vendor cut in, folding his arms. "We seen you pass out before. You show up for sympathy and take a stall's coin." "That's not—" I started, and then a radio behind the noodle cart crackled loud enough to steal the moment. "—this is Harbor City News. It's Tuesday, June fifth, 2001. Mayor Lin will open the new south pier at noon." I froze. The words dropped cold and heavy into my head. The red-band woman leaned forward. "You hearing that, girl? You gone soft. Pull yourself together." "June fifth, 2001," I said. My voice was thin. "Say that again." The vendors laughed like I had told a cheap joke. The radio repeated the date in a businesslike voice, then a jingle for StreamWave's new landline bundles started up. Someone in the crowd tapped a heavy flip phone against a palm, the kind with an extendable antenna. The sound of a kettle whistled from a corner stall. "You're not serious," the vendor said. "You been on sun too long." "I'm serious," I said. I looked down at my hands. They