No. 611

Lynn Lightman was either alive or dead. Kurt Lightman had no way to know.

He had been milliseconds too late activating the device. The bullet had frozen in time, halfway through his sister’s chest.

Everything else was frozen as well, but so long as Kurt wore the pack and kept the batteries charged, he was isolated in the exact instant he’d pressed the button.

By his own calculations, Kurt had been active for six years while the rest of the world hadn’t even had a chance to blink.

Kurt had already used his Moment, as he had come to think of it, to exact revenge on the man who’d pulled the trigger, although the home invader would never be alive long enough to experience the pain that Kurt had inflicted on the immobilized body.

He had also taught himself medicine, trying desperately to save her. He presumed that the surgery had ended positively. The bullet, still hypothetically kinetically-charged, was locked away where it would expend itself against a steel wall if Kurt re-started time.

Lynn lay on the cot in his laboratory, but Kurt could not check her heartbeat or brain activity without unlocking the Moment. If he pressed the button again, and she didn’t wake up, there would be nothing more that he could do.

So he waited.

And waited.