POV: Time Variance Authority

The World Cup semifinal between Argentina and Croatia got underway soon enough, the late-night match broadcasting across countless screens worldwide. Elias reclined in his living room, half-asleep, while Gavin perched on the edge of the sofa—eyes locked on the TV, face a rapture of hopeful greed.

Out on the field, Argentina shone, their control of the match unmistakable. By the final whistle, 3-0 glowed on the scoreboard. Cheers erupted in the stadium, echoing through the screen. Messi, triumphant, slid on his knees across the turf in celebration.

"YEEESSSS!"

Gavin's roar nearly shook the walls. He leapt off the sofa, rolling on the floor in a manic victory dance, hugging throw pillows and pumping his fists at the ceiling.

"We did it! We're loaded!" he hollered, lunging over to Elias and seizing his hand in a clumsy grip.

"This is all thanks to you, dude! Our bright future is at hand!"

Elias tugged his hand free with a wry smile.

"You were just saying my dream wasn't reliable—wasn't actual future knowledge…"

"Er…" Gavin cleared his throat, glancing at the sizeable mound of betting slips on the coffee table.

"M-maybe I need more data before concluding anything. By the way—tomorrow's other semifinal is France vs. Morocco, right? So… who wins that one?"

Elias recalled the snippet from his dream's soccer book:

"…Argentina defeated France in a penalty shootout to claim the championship…"

"Since France apparently makes it to the final," he reasoned, "that means they beat Morocco tomorrow. Are you thinking about betting again? Maybe you should quit while you're ahead."

But Gavin just grinned, gathering his slips.

"Trust me, I know what I'm doing. I'll come over tomorrow night too, watch the match, and validate your dream again."

***

The next evening, Gavin arrived on schedule with a fresh wad of betting tickets. He flaunted them like prized gems:

"Yesterday's winnings topped ten grand. Now I'm dropping thirty thousand on France! If they win, we're looking at seventy, eighty thousand in profit!"

"And if they lose?" Elias asked with an arched brow.

"Don't jinx me, man!" Gavin hissed.

Once again, at 3 a.m., Elias sat bleary-eyed on the couch. France attacked relentlessly, and by the time the whistle blew, they'd taken it 2-0, securing their spot against Argentina in the final.

"YESSSS!!"

Gavin, who had been kneeling on Elias's hardwood floor, promptly devolved into a wild frenzy, rolling back and forth in sheer glee.

"Dude, we're making a killing! That's more than a year's salary in two matches!"

Elias shook his head, exhaling in mild exasperation.

"We're missing the point. I invited you here to discuss my dream, not just blow money on soccer."

Gavin peeled himself off the floor, pacing the living room with his hands clasped behind his back—an air of mock seriousness.

"Truth be told, I still don't fully buy that your dream can predict the future. It's too bizarre. But if Argentina also wins the final, matching your dream's snippet word for word, then maybe it's time to freak out."

"The gap in strength is obvious," Elias said, stifling a yawn. "It's not exactly a shock that these top teams won."

Gavin shrugged. "Then join me on the bets next time! No sense letting me hog all the windfall. Bet big on Argentina for the final—live the high life with me, man!"

Elias only rolled his eyes. "Thanks, I'll pass. Good luck."

***

Once Gavin bustled off, Elias slept soundly until midday. The next day, being Saturday, he had no work obligations, and he allowed himself a proper rest. Still, an appointment waited on the horizon: visiting Professor West's daughter in the hospital.

A few days prior, Ms. Harrington had asked Elias to bring some gifts and express condolences on behalf of MH Cosmetics. After verifying with an old advisor, Elias learned West spent weekdays locked in his lab, but typically visited his comatose child on weekends. If Elias hoped to meet him, this was the best chance.

By afternoon, Elias stood outside the New York University–affiliated hospital—an immense complex housing top-tier specialists. This was the place where countless stubborn illnesses ended up transferred, a last bastion of medical expertise. If they had concluded West's daughter couldn't wake, it was probably certain.

Elias's heart tightened at the thought: a little girl, lying comatose since age four or five, spending her entire life in dreamless oblivion…

Arms loaded with gift boxes, Elias stepped through the hospital's looming glass doors.

***

The inpatient building soared over twenty floors high. West's daughter stayed in a private room on the seventeenth floor. Following the numbering, Elias soon located "Room 1707", labeled [Sara West] in neat lettering.

The door was ajar. He tapped lightly—creaaak!—and it swung open.

What met his eyes startled him. Expensive floral arrangements, lavish gift baskets, and gleaming packages were stacked almost to the ceiling, all from leading beauty companies worldwide—names Elias recognized as global giants. Many pinned "get well" cards bearing corporate logos. Clearly, West's so-called "failure" had them enthralled: they viewed his accidental compound as a priceless treasure.

At the far end of the room, near a large window, a motorized bed stood. A frail teenage girl lay upon it, impossibly thin limbs like brittle porcelain. An older man—Professor Ethan West—knelt by her side, carefully lifting a withered calf, gently moving it through the motions of physical therapy. Her arm draped over the mattress edge like a lifeless branch, the skin taut over bone.

Elias paused in the doorway, silent. Such a scene cut deeper than words. West finished his routine, carefully rolling his daughter to her side, then turned toward the door:

"You can take those gifts back. There's already too much junk here."

Elias set down the items near the threshold and spoke softly.

"These supplements are for you as well, Professor. Please accept them."

Professor West adjusted his glasses, eyes sweeping over Elias.

"You're from MH, I presume? Like the others?"

Elias cleared his throat. "I'm Elias Crane, used to attend Hudson University. Graduated a while back. Ms. Harrington sent me to check on you and your daughter."

West blinked, studying Elias more closely. "Were you ever an MC for campus events—like orientation or the annual gala?"

Elias offered a half-smile. "Yes, sir. I hosted the freshman welcome show three years straight. That's probably where you remember me from."

To Elias's surprise, West's stern features softened, just a fraction.

"I thought I recognized you at Chase Rivers's banquet the other night. You struck me as…familiar."

Maybe it was a natural reflex of a teacher encountering one of his own—Elias felt a hint of warmth in West's tone. The professor beckoned him closer.

Elias stepped to the bedside, trying not to stare too hard at the girl's sunken cheeks. She seemed so fragile, like she might vanish in a strong breeze.

"Let me guess, Elias," West said quietly, shifting his gaze to the corridor of gifts stacked along the walls. "You want to know why I won't sell that so-called failed compound to you all… correct?"