"Tracy." I told her seriously. "You and I are gonna have to sit down and have a talk together."

"What?!" She said, amazed.

"Later." I told her. Then I asked. "What's the date today?"

"Huh?"

"The date?" I repeated. "You know? Month, day… " I paused. "Year?"

She gaped at me, not answering.

"I'm serious Trace." I told her. "I'll explain later. What's the date?"

"February 18." She said finally. "Wednesday."

I licked my lips for a moment. "And the year?"

"What do you… "

"Just tell me the damn year Tracy!" I commanded, making her jump.

"1982." She said finally. "Why the hell would you ask that?"

I did some quick mental addition. I was born February 10, 1967. That made me fifteen years old, but with the wisdom (such as it was) of a thirty-two year old that had already lived through the future. Tracy was indeed seventeen. She would graduate in June of 1983 and be killed later that night. That gave me a year and a half to save her life. I vowed that, if nothing else changed, I would change that. I would shoot the drunken college student dead before I allowed him to drive my sister around.

"Never mind." I told her. "I'll probably explain it to you later. It's good to see you Tracy. I love you."

"Get the fuck out of here you fuckin' pervert!" She screamed.

"And you love me too." I commented as I exited her room and headed for the shower.

By the time my shower was complete my mind had accepted the facts of the matter. I was fifteen again, it was 1982, and I had the next seventeen years to do over again. What should I do? What would I change? How many past mistakes could I rectify? Could I tell anyone? Would they believe me? And what about Becky? My future daughter preyed on my mind. Was it already too late to have her? I certainly couldn't go through another two years of marriage with that bitch that was her mother again. Could I?