Incinerator? Over my dead, diaper-rash-free body. Ms. Grimshaw’s knuckles tightened around the yellow casing of the Walkman. The cheap black headphones dangled by their crinkled cord. She took one step back toward her fortress of an oak desk, fully prepared to feed a temporal artifact into the boiler chute. Corporate negotiation had zero currency here. That left only one toddler weapon: mutually assured sonic destruction. Moxie dropped flat onto her stomach, drew nap-room dust into her miniature lungs, and let loose a shriek so sharp that the fluorescent tubes overhead began to buzz. "*WAAAAAAAAAAAH! SHE TOOK MY HEART MONITOR! MY DOCTOR GAVE ME THAT GADGET FOR MY SICK LIVER!*" It wasn't a standard cry. Moxie whipped her head against the linoleum, flopping like a freshly caught mackerel, thrashing all four limbs in asynchronous fury. She brought up real tears through sheer vascular pressure, turning her chubby cheeks the color of ripe plums. Across the room, twenty sleeping four-year-olds jerked awake in unison. Two of them instantly wet their mats. A chorus of sympathetic, terror-stricken howling erupted from the corner cubbies. "Stop that!" Ms. Grimshaw barked, her hairspray helmet cracking under sudden stress. "Moxie Vargo, cease this theatrics!" "*THE POLICE!*" Moxie bellowed, clawing at her own throat while kicking a metal cot so hard the frame clanged like a church bell. "*CALL 911! THE OLD LADY STOLE MY OXYGEN TAPE! I AM DYING! LOOK AT MY FACE! I AM TURNING PERIWINKLE!*" She held her breath. Her lips went dusky blue. Her pupils rolled straight up into her skull until only the red-veined whites showed. Julian Morata poked his head out from under a fleece blanket, horrified admiration plastered across his snot-streaked face. "Teacher! She’s possessed by the pog devil! Give it back before her head spins around!" "Quiet, Julian!" Ms. Grimshaw shrilled. But sweat was already beading beneath her foundation powder. A child dying on kindergarten grounds did terrible things to a pension plan. "Take it! Just—take the wretched thing and lie down!" She tossed the cassette player onto Moxie’s cot like it had burst into flames. Moxie snapped out of the trance instantly, snatched the Walkman, shoved it deep into the waistband of her OshKosh overalls, and wiped her nose on her sleeve. "Thank you, Ms. Grimshaw. Have a blessed afternoon." She rolled over, pulled her thumb into her mouth for camouflage, and waited for the three o'clock bell. *** The afternoon bell brought zero relief. By four-fifteen, Moxie was skidding her neon-pink tricycle onto the cracked sidewalk in front of *Vargo Wash & Spin*. Her stubby legs pumped the pedals until her knees burned, but she was already too late. A mustard-yellow Buick Riviera sat idling across two parking spots, belching greasy black exhaust over the curb. Inside the laundromat, Uncle Hector stood flanked by two hulking brutes in matching faux-leather jackets. Hector was sporting a magenta silk shirt unbuttoned to mid-sternum, flashing a fake gold medallion against a rug of sweaty chest hair. He held a clipboard high in the air, jabbing a manicured finger into Diego Vargo’s meek, trembling chest. "Look at the rust on Unit Six, Diego! Look at it!" Hector brayed, his voice cutting over the chug of twenty spin cycles. "City Code 409-B! Excessive corrosion posing imminent public hazard!" Diego clutched a stack of folded pastel towels against his aproned stomach. "Hector, please, it's just mineral buildup from the tap water. Clara scrubbed it with vinegar this morning—" "I don't make the laws, little brother!" Hector sneered, flashing a clipboard bearing a photocopy of an official city seal that looked suspiciously like it had been pasted together with a glue stick. "My boys from Municipal Sanitation are authorizing an immediate shutdown pending a two-grand remediation fee. Cash. Right now. Or the doors get chained shut until the municipal board meets in August." "Two grand?" Clara Vargo’s voice cracked from behind the register. She was clutching a bottle of bleach so hard the jug groaned. "Hector, we don't have two hundred! The rent is due on Monday! You know we just paid the pump repairman!" "Then you're out of business, Clara-bell," Hector purred, stepping forward to tap a brass padlock against the steel doorframe. *Clink. Clink.* "Unless... you want to sign that lease-transfer waiver we talked about this morning. I take over the debt, take the headache off your hands, and you two can go manage a nice, quiet fruit stand in the valley." Diego looked like a kicked golden retriever. His shoulders sagged. His hand reached into his back pocket, instinctively searching for a pen. "Maybe... maybe Hector is right, Clara. If the city says we’re unsafe..." *He's folding. The idiot is folding like cheap origami.* Moxie dumped her tricycle against the curb and charged through the glass double doors. Two thousand dollars. Her brain flipped through the decoded diary entries she'd skimmed under the cot. *October 14, 1992. The corner bodega. The Neon Fortune scratchers. Roll #4418.* She couldn't explain the time loop. She couldn't explain compound interest to parents who still thought Hector was merely 'misguided.' So she went nuclear. Moxie threw herself onto the gray linoleum, right between Hector’s pointed snakeskin boots, and kicked the side of an empty laundry cart with deafening violence. "*WANT CANDY!*" she screamed, thrashing like a live wire dropped in a puddle. "*WANT LUCKY LOTTO AT THE BODEGA! NOW! NOW! NOW!*" "Moxie, sweetie, not now!" Clara cried, rushing out from behind the register to gather her daughter. "Uncle Hector is talking to Daddy about serious adult things!" "*NO ADULT THINGS!*" Moxie roared, biting her own forearm just enough to leave red marks and flailing wildly toward the street. "*CORNER STORE! VIOLET NEON CARD! IF I DON'T GET THE FOIL CARD MY TUMMY WILL EXPLODE WITH WORMS!*" She locked eyes with Clara, letting genuine desperation bleed through the fake tantrum. She grabbed Clara’s collar with both sticky hands, tugging with all fifty pounds of her body weight toward the exit. "Clara, control your brat," Hector scoffed, checking his gold-plated watch. "You've got five minutes before my boys drop the heavy chains. Find two grand or pack your detergent." "Diego, hold them off," Clara whispered, completely overwhelmed, her instincts completely hijacked by her screaming child. "I’ll get her out of here—she’s hysterical—" Clara hoisted Moxie onto her hip and practically sprinted the half-block to the corner shop, the sign buzzing overhead in the dim twilight. Inside, the smell of stale tobacco and boiled hot dogs hung thick. Behind the plexiglass ledge sat the clerk—a greasy man with toothpicks tucked behind both ears and soy stains on his undershirt. "A violet one," Clara gasped, dumping a handful of loose quarters and crumpled dollar bills onto the scuffed shelf. "One of the Neon Fortune games. Please. Just give her whatever makes her quiet!" Moxie pointed her stubby index finger at the fourth row, card number 087. "That one! The one touching the green tape!" The clerk grunted, ripped the card from the perforated roll, and slid it under the acrylic divider. Clara dug a 1982 copper penny out of her pocket, her fingers unsteady, and dragged the edge across the silver latex film. Moxie held her breath. The tape from her future self had specified the exact serial block. Three neon cherries meant ten grand. Enough to buy out Hector’s fake inspection, pay the lease through next spring, and purchase three used arcade cabinets. The silver shavings curled away under Clara’s thumb. Box one: A neon cherry. Box two: A neon cherry. Clara let out a tiny, choked sound. "Diego... oh, Lord..." She scraped the third box. A black horseshoe. The clerk leaned forward, squinted through his smudged bifocals at the revealed symbols, and let out a wheezing chuckle. He dragged the card across the shelf and tossed it into the wastebasket beside his stool. "Tough break, lady," the clerk muttered, cracking open a can of RC Cola. "Zero payout. Just a dud." Clara froze. The color drained from her cheeks until she looked entirely hollowed out. She stared down at her silver-dusted thumb, utterly crushed. Outside, the heavy, iron rattle of padlocks clattered against the front doors of the laundromat. Hector’s booming laughter echoed down the sidewalk, sharp and final as a guillotine.

The Glass-Shattering Solution