Brenda could only wobble her head disgustingly when the girl closed her eyes, whispered “2007!” and vanished with a bamf.

Well, there’s still Wal-Mart. Her oldest might be stuck in the roof, but by God she could still go shopping.

It was serious shopping, too. She had a huge pile in the push-buggy she rolled to the cashier, where she had a problem.

“What on God’s green earth?” she said, rummaging through the duffle bag. Her waxy hands passed through the cash as if it were an illusion.

“There’s something wrong with my money,” she said to the terrifically-handsome cashier, and looked at him again: he wasn’t wearing a Wal-Mart uniform.

There was an awkward pause, then he abruptly jumped up on the counter, producing a bulbous chrome gun covered with fins and antennae.

“Right, bird,” he said, “if you’d please, hand over that Temporal Metainducer. My mates in the Kithlonian Federation weren’t supposed to lose it, and I need to get it back to them yesterday. Actually, make that last year.”