"You've got spam," he muttered under his breath. And one of the messages in his mailbox was spam. He deleted it without a qualm. The other one, though, was from his younger self @earthlink.net.

Heart pounding, he opened the e-mail.

What kind of stupid joke is this? his younger self wrote.

Whatever it is, it's not funny.

Justin sighed. He supposed he shouldn't have expected himself-at-twenty-one to be convinced right away. This business was hard to believe, even for him. But he had more shots in his gun than one. No joke, he wrote back. Who else but you would know you lost your first baby tooth in a pear at school when you were in the first grade? Who would know your dad fed you Rollos when he took you to work with him that day you were eight or nine?

Who would know you spent most of the time while you were losing your cherry staring at the mole on the side of Lindsey Fletcher's neck?

Me, that's who: you at 40. He typed his name and sent the message.

His stomach growled, but he didn't go off and make supper. He sat by the computer, waiting. His younger self would still be online. He'd have to answer… wouldn't he? Justin hadn't figured out what he'd do if himself-at-twenty-one wanted nothing to do with him. The prospect had never crossed his mind.

Maybe it should have.

"Don't be stupid, kid," he said softly.

"Don't complicate things for me. Don't complicate things for yourself, either."

He sat. He waited. He worried. After what seemed forever, but was less than ten minutes, the AOL program announced, "You've got mail!"

He read it. I don't watch X-Files much, his younger self wrote, but maybe I ought to. How could you know all that about me? I never told anybody about Lindsey Fletcher's neck.

So far as Justin could recall, he hadn't told anyone about her neck by 2018, either. That didn't mean he'd forgotten. He wouldn't forget till they shoveled dirt over him.