Permutation - 1. Chapter 1

I hadn’t intended to catch her eye. In fact, I’d spent years carefully avoiding exactly that. She was as beautiful as I remembered—maybe even more so—but memories of her from past timelines have faded over the last eight years. Her smile was unguarded, a brightness untouched by the darkness that once haunted her. She stood on the opposite side of the street, her hair lifting lightly in the wind. For a split second, as she turned to look at me, I almost forgot the reason for our separation. I wanted to run to her, to greet the person who had once meant everything to me.

But the look in her eyes stopped me. There was curiosity, yes, but no recognition. Not a flicker of the shared history I knew couldn’t exist in this timeline. This Kayleigh Miller didn’t know me, and I didn’t know her—not really. The memory of the girl I had loved across multiple lifetimes was lost forever, sacrificed in the choices I made to protect us. If I’d learned anything from those experiences, it was that memories from other timelines were best left alone. So, after our brief stare, I kept walking.

I don’t regret not being with Kayleigh anymore—not truly. I’ve built a life that, even in my most desperate rewrites, I wouldn’t have imagined. It’s a life with meaning, stability, and without the tragedy that once seemed inevitable. This life may lack the intimacy I once craved, but the peace I’ve found is worth that price. My psychiatry practice is growing, and my work with lost memories and neurodivergence gives me a real purpose. My father, Jason Treborn, has been released under my care—a far better fate than life as an institutionalized patient. He and I may never live normal lives, but we can control our abilities and repress the flashbacks with certain psychedelic medications. My mother is alive and happy, and she lives close enough that I can visit whenever I want. My friendship with Lenny Kagen has endured, even if it’s been redefined across multiple versions of reality.

In this timeline, Lenny is more grounded and confident, with a passion for fantasy worlds and a thrill for throwing dice rather than wrestling with memories. Our weekly D&D nights anchor us both. Without the Miller siblings in our lives, we grew up together, weathering our struggles—my mental blackouts and his bullying for being overweight. Things improved over time. Neither of us found much romantic attention until college, where Lenny met his future wife. Despite his hectic life as a Wall Street financial analyst, he’s still the same lovable kid from down the street.

As for me, I dated in college, but there was no real attraction. I even struggled to feel arousal, which led to embarrassing rumors. Frustrated, I bought some Viagra and made an amateur video to disprove those assumptions. I knew I wasn’t interested in men, but it took me years to understand that my lack of sexual attraction was rooted in my past trauma. I likely fall somewhere on the asexual spectrum—a realization that was clouded by the childhood abuse Kayleigh and I suffered. Subconsciously, I had acted out the abuse with other women, trying to reclaim a control I’d never had. Living in New York these last few years, I’ve found a community of asexual people who, like me, are often miscategorized based on their relationships. Friendships and D&D sessions with Lenny are the extent of my connections. Romantic relationships never held the same allure.

After our encounter, I looked Kayleigh up, just to be sure she was doing well. She’s a lawyer now, fitting for her fierce sense of justice. Her brother Tommy, though, became a pastor for a major Evangelical Christian organization known for its controversial views. Based on what I’ve read, I’d rather avoid meeting him again. But fate—or the universe’s twisted sense of humor—had other plans.

Today was supposed to be simple: a mental health forum at NYU, a chance to connect with colleagues. I’d run out of my psychedelic medication but thought it wouldn’t matter since no one there would trigger a flashback. Yet, as I signed in, I saw Tommy Miller’s name on the attendee list. Just the sight of it sent a shiver through me, stirring up memories my mind had long scattered. Then, like a ghost from the past, I heard his voice across the foyer. He was speaking to a small crowd, advocating aversion therapy as a solution for various mental health issues. Using a mix of pseudoscience and religious dogma, he argued with a confidence that somehow captivated his audience.

The scene was so surreal I almost laughed. Here was Tommy Miller, the bully and thug I’d known in countless timelines, now a pastor promoting “treatments” as if he were a licensed doctor. He condemned natural behaviors—from left-handedness to sexual orientation—as things to be corrected through fear and conditioning.

I couldn’t stay silent. I had faced far more terrifying versions of Tommy than he could ever imagine. In those moments, he’d sometimes managed to frighten me. Today, in the safety of daylight and a crowded room, his words disturbed me more than any fist he’d thrown.

“Aversion therapy? That’s what you’re advocating?” I cut in.

He turned, momentarily surprised, but quickly composed himself as he noticed my name tag. “Dr. Evan Treborn,” he said, nodding. “Yes, we’re here to address behaviors society can’t condone. It’s about guiding people toward a normal, healthy life.”

"Normal? Do you even understand the harm this so-called ‘therapy’ does?” I shot back. “This is psychological torture, Pastor Miller. You’re conditioning people to hate themselves for who they are. If anyone should understand the damage that hate and fear can inflict on a person’s development, it’s you.”

I’d forgotten that this version of Tommy Miller wouldn’t know his father, George Miller, had once abused him in an attempt to curb his aggression because, in this timeline, that hadn’t happened. Yet the image of Tommy from my timeline was painfully clear in my mind. That version of him had lashed out at the world due to the very kind of treatment he was now endorsing. He, of all people, should know better.

He smirked as if I’d proven his point. “I’m not here to spread hate, Dr. Treborn. I’m here to promote a moral standard. Some behaviors simply aren’t right, and as a mental health professional, you should understand the importance of boundaries.”

His response was almost too predictable, too rehearsed. It was hard to see Tommy’s old aggression behind the pastor’s collar, but I recognized the same stubborn cruelty I’d encountered in every iteration of him.

As he turned to refill his water, I noticed something odd—a slight limp in his step. A limp he hadn’t had in other versions.

“Tommy,” I called out, and he paused, his face tightening at my interruption. “How’d you hurt your leg?”

He froze, a shadow crossing his features. “Well, Dr. Treborn, I didn’t realize you’d added orthopedics to your list of specialties. It happened a long time ago,” he replied, his voice clipped. “At a neighborhood barbecue when I was six. Someone made my sister cry, so I tried to confront them. But before I reached them, I stumbled into a grill full of hot charcoal. Some pieces landed on my legs, burning into the muscle.”

My stomach turned at the mention of that day—the barbecue. In every timeline I could remember that moment was where things had started going wrong for Kayleigh. It was the moment I had first tried to protect her by staying away. My mere presence as her friend back then had set events in motion that could have ended tragically for us all.

A familiar throbbing began at the base of my skull, and my vision blurred as time seemed to warp around me. I tried to steady myself, to breathe through it, but it was already too late. I was slipping, tumbling backward through time, hurtling toward that barbecue.

The world snapped back in a flood of color and sound, suddenly louder, sharper, and so much larger. I blinked hard, disoriented, struggling to understand. I was seven years old again. The barbecue, the laughter of children, the distant chatter of adults—everything was perfectly familiar and yet horrifying. Standing in the body of my younger self, I felt the weight of everything I’d built in my life slipping away.

Then I saw her: Kayleigh, quietly crying beside her mother, her small shoulders trembling under a sadness far too heavy for a child. My heart clenched. This was the original axis of her pain, the moment that would ripple through her life in waves of suffering. For the thousandth time, I felt the same surge of helplessness, the urge to reach out, to change something.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw movement—Tommy Miller, six years old, watching me with a fierce intensity I knew too well. That look, so fierce and unyielding even at his young age, was all too familiar. In so many other lives, that same anger had led to so much harm—to Lenny, to me, even to Kayleigh. In his mind, I wasn’t just a neighborhood kid; I was the one who’d made his sister cry. He wasn’t thinking—he was acting, pure instinct and aggression.

Before I could even react, Tommy charged at me, his small body brimming with anger. My eyes flicked to the barbecue grill, wobbling on its rickety tripod, the coals burning hot and bright. In that instant, I saw his path—the inevitable disaster if he kept going, unaware of the danger.

Knowing the consequences, I couldn’t be sure if he’d only hurt his leg this time or suffer worse. Despite everything, despite the harm he’d done to me and others across lifetimes, including his advocacy for aversion therapy in the timeline I’d just left, I couldn’t let him be hurt because of me.

I threw myself forward, closing the distance between us. Tommy collided with the grill, knocking it off balance. He tripped, falling into it just as expected, but I was already there. I yanked him back, pulling him to safety as flames flared from the dry grass nearby. The heat seared my face, and adults shouted as they rushed with water to douse the fire. Tommy clung to me, his small body trembling, eyes wide with terror. He was a child, scared and vulnerable, a world away from the cruel figure I remembered.

“Tommy!” came a booming voice. George Miller, his father, stormed over, his face twisted with anger. “You’re more trouble than you’re worth, you little brat. What the hell were you thinking, starting a fire?” His hand hovered ominously close; his anger as indiscriminate as it was harsh.

My mother’s voice interrupted, calm yet tinged with surprise, halting George Miller as he prepared to strike his son. “Evan, you saved another boy. You…”

She had seen everything—how I’d lunged to pull Tommy from danger, wrapping my arms around him protectively. I looked up and caught her eye, noticing something rare in her expression across all the timelines I could remember: pride. It felt strange, disorienting. In so many versions of my life, she’d witnessed me do unthinkable things, seen me transform into someone even I couldn’t always understand. Here, in this timeline, she’d seen me in a different light—almost as if I were a hero. I had never considered myself a hero, though I had privately sacrificed for others before.

George Miller’s voice snapped me back to the present. “Let’s get out of here, you little brat!”

He reached for Tommy roughly, his grip hard and unforgiving, but Tommy shrank back against me, his small hand clutching my shirt tightly. In a barely audible whisper, he murmured, “Can you keep holding me? Don’t let go, okay?”

For a moment, I didn’t know how to respond. The boy clinging to me wasn’t a monster. He was just a scared little kid, desperate for comfort. And in that fleeting second, I realized something profound: I had the chance to protect his innocence, to break his cycle before it ever began.

But before I could say anything or shield him from his father’s anger, the world around me began to blur. My head felt like it was splitting open, a searing pain tearing through my thoughts as my perspective twisted and warped. The familiar vertigo of a time jump swept over me, pulling me away from that moment, away from Tommy’s quiet plea.

Just like that, six-year-old Tommy Miller vanished, carried away by the relentless flow of time.