The Hypothesis

The diner has seen better days. Built in the late 70s, it hasn’t quite found its way out of the constant state of disrepair the original owner left it in. But, even with the chipping paint, the booths that aren’t exactly the most comfortable, squeaking stools, and a kitchen in dire need of an upgrade, it still manages to be a favorite haunt for many of the locals.

Jacob Gray is one of them. He frequents the diner on a regular basis, sometimes three or four times a week. This is his fifth visit since last Monday, almost a week ago. He’s a fan of the BLT, the scrambled eggs and French toast, and the double cheeseburger, fries, with a chocolate shake.

Today, he’s had all three meals in the same booth. The one in the far corner, with his back turned to the other patrons inside. Not that there are many, and those inside who know Jacob know better than to interrupt him.

The only ones who dare do that are the waitresses, swinging by from time to time to check on him, refill his water and soda, and sometimes bring him more food.

Because the locals know Jacob, like the diner, has seen better days.

“More water, Jake?”

He looks up from the small black notebook resting on the table in front of him. He puts on a smile, but it’s weak, and he gives the waitress, a middle-aged woman named Samatha, a quick nod. She refills the plastic glass, makes a mental note of the half-empty plate of French fries, and then walks off to do her other duties.

Left alone, Jacob puts his fingerless gloved hands on the notebook. Slowly, slowly. Reverent, even. He’s afraid that if he touches it too often, or opens the cover, or flips through the pages that what lies within might disappear forever. Disintegrate right before his very eyes and that would be the end of it.

His last hope, gone.

Moving like an archaeologist uncovering the greatest find of their life, Jacob slowly pulls the front cover away. The first page moves with it, revealing a manilla envelope inside. There’s a date on the front, written in black Sharpie: **03/01/2051** and that’s it. The date is too far away to matter, Jacob is sure of it.

What matters is what’s on the inside of the envelope. Individual bills, ranging from fives to hundreds. He’d counted it more than five times now, and each time led to the same result: $20,000. More money in one spot than Jacob had seen in his life. Maybe even more than he’d ever had.

He thinks about moving his fingers through the money, doing the mental gymnastics that he wasn’t all that great with to count it all again. What if the amount changed and there was only $10,000? Would that really matter to someone like Jacob, who, in his desperation, would do just about anything for just enough money to get another plate of French fries from the nice waitress named Samantha?

He closes the envelope, looks at the date again, and then shuts the small black notebook. He leans back against the booth and takes in a deep breath. Holds it. Then finally lets it out.

The weight of the world has been firmly set upon Jacob’s shoulders for quite some time. Something he’s been unable to shake off for as long as he can remember. It followed him as a child, where his abusive father killed his mother and sent him to live with his brother. Jacob’s uncle was a drunk, and violent in his own right. Eventually, he found his way into the military, where, after seven years in the United States Marine Corps, he’d been medically discharged and sent on his way. With just a few thousand dollars to his name, Jacob made his way back to his hometown in Arizona, where he now spends his time sleeping on the streets, getting cleaned up when he can, and sitting in this booth waiting for the day everything finally comes to an end.

At least, that’s what he used to do. Today is different. Today, Jacob has the money he needs to start new. To find what’s next.

To push the weight off his shoulders and move on.

Something moves next to him. He thinks it’s Samantha again and he’s about to wave her away, but then the person sits down in the booth in front of him. It’s a man, about 10 years younger than him, but with familiar blue eyes. His brown hair is buzzed on the sides, with the longer strands on the top pushed to the side. He gives Jacob a smile and then his eyes immediately move to the small black notebook on the table.

“You a writer?” The man says, looking back at Jacob. “You look like you might be a writer.”

Everything about the stranger feels familiar. His face. The eyes. His voice. Even his eyebrows. Jacob feels something pulling at the back of his head, trying to thrum one of the strands of his memory so he can recall where he’s seen this man before.

But nothing surfaces, leaving Jacob to wonder who, exactly, this guy thinks he is.

“Go away,” Jacob says. His hands cover the small black notebook, pulling it closer to his body. Protecting it.

“Definitely a writer with the way you covet that thing,” the man says, gesturing towards the notebook. “Looks like a mighty fine tool, though. Good construction. Looks like it could stand the test of time, you know?”

Jacob looks at him, his head tilting slightly to the side. What is it, exactly, that has him so on edge? There’s no way the man can know what’s in the book, and while he’s known people to do crazy things over little things, he can’t possibly want to fight him over the notebook, right?

The muscles in Jacob’s arms and legs tense up anyway, ready for whatever might happen next.

The man reaches one of his hands out. His hand is clean and, when Jacob puts his own into it, incredibly soft. He’s not worked a hard day in his life, Jacob knows. But his grip is firm and the shake is quick, before both men’s hands return to their previous stations.

The stranger smiles. “So, a couple of options for you.”

Jacob makes a face. So this is a would-be robbery. He does want the book. Which means Jacob has to be ready for a fight, something he hasn’t done since his stint in the military. But he knows the mechanics will come back to him, and he’ll die for this small black notebook if he has to.

“The first’s the easiest. Always is, right?” The stranger chuckles softly. “You can have a conversation with me, and hear about how that book is going to ruin your life. Or, you can get up right now, walk out that door, and live your life like you never met me.”

Jacob’s eyes narrow.

“Ah, you’re right. We actually haven’t met yet, have we? My name is Jonathan. Jonathan Gray.”

Jacob starts to stand, but he’s forced to stop when Samantha idles up next to the table. She asks the stranger —Jonathan— what he wants, and he orders a plate of fries for himself and Jacob, and then a water and soda as well. Samantha gives him a smile and walks off.

“Sit down,” the stranger says. “Because really there’s only one option, right? You need to listen to me. It isn’t just your life that hangs in the balance.”

Jacob, still hovering just over the booth and ready to shimmy out, finally settles back down. He clenches the little black notebook harder. But, he waits. Listens.

“Jonathan was your father’s name, correct? That’s what got you all jumpy there for a second. And Gray, obviously, is your family name. I’m curious. Do I look familiar to you?”

Jacob nods slowly.

“Excellent. It’s an odd feeling, isn’t it? Can’t quite place who I am, and yet you know that you know who I am. Wild.”

“So who the hell are you?” Jacob’s voice is rough. Much rougher than it used to be. Years of using it only to scream and holler, and then to eventually almost stop using it at all will do that.

“I told you. Jonathan Gray. And, for now, that will have to do. But, I promise you, Jacob, you need to hear what I have to say.”

Samantha returns with the food and drinks. She puts down two sides of Ranch dressing, telling Jonathan that Jacob likes the combination so she thought he might want to try it, too. Jonathan thanks her, takes a pull from the glass of water while she walks away, and finally looks back at Jacob.

“I’m from the future.”

Jacob is happy he wasn’t taking a drink because if he had, he would’ve spat it all out on Jonathan’s face.

“So you’re insane.”

“Not even a little bit, Jacob. Quite the opposite, actually. And you need my help.”

“You said the notebook’s gonna ruin my life. What does that mean?”

“The money in there,” Jonathan says, his voice getting lower to avoid any eavesdroppers, “is not for you. It is not yours to take or to use. But, if you do take that money, and you do use it, you will get yourself some new clothes, a new place to live, food, and, not too long after, a stable job.”

“Sounds like hell. Let me get right on to destroying it, then.”

“The notebook and the money will bring you these things. But it won’t last. Soon after you find a woman to marry and you have a child, she will leave you because of your drinking. She’ll take your son. And, eventually, you’ll be back here, with nothing, back in this booth. Until one night you kill yourself there, sitting in that spot. A bullet to the head.”

Jacob stares at the man in front of him. The one with the familiar lips and eyes and eyebrows and voice. The base of his neck tingles. The same feeling he had the moments before an IED went off near his convoy’s position, which led to his discharge from the military.

“I need this money,” Jacob says.

“I know you do. And unfortunately, I cannot tell you what will happen if you take that notebook, burn it with the money inside, and go on your way. I *can* tell you that in less than 10 years you’ll die in this booth if you do take it, though.”

Jacob looks at the notebook, then at the man in front of him. Jacob can’t find any semblance of deceit. The man looks just as truthful as he does familiar.

“I don’t want to die,” Jacob says. It’s a statement he’s only said once before, but, like on the side of that lonely desert street, it rejuvenates him. Gives him a new sense of life. A sense of *more*.

Jacob slides the notebook across the table, stands up, then walks out of the diner.

Jonathan watches him go. He smiles as he takes the notebook, opens it, grabs the manila envelope and pockets it. He pulls out a second black notebook, this one frayed at the edges, the papers bent and torn, and opens it to a specific page near the back.

At the top, it reads: ***Psychology of Our Lineage, due March 01, 2051.***

Jonathan writes.

*Given the choice between wealth, life, and death, my father chose life. My hypothesis is proved true: humans want to live.*

He closes the book and returns it to his pocket. Before he leaves the diner, Jonathan sets the other black notebook down near the edge of the table, along with the $20,000.

A tip for Samantha.