Future Bob

Chapter Three

Bobby ran until his legs gave out. Not metaphorically—literally. His lungs felt like they were on fire. His throat was sore from swallowing cold air. As he slowed down behind a dumpster near the old train station, his hoodie was saturated with sweat and his heart was straining to escape his chest.

He collapsed behind the rusted metal, leaning against the brick wall. The image was still charred into his mind: the man standing at the bus stop, completely still. Neatly polished shoes. Tactical coat. Eyes sharp and cold as ice.

And then… that step forward. Just one. That was all Bobby had needed.

That, and the message from the shattered phone replaying in his skull like a warning bell:

"A tall black man with a bald head, and a brown stylish mustache is coming after you. Please, avoid him at all costs"

It didn’t feel real. None of it. The man’s presence had frozen time, like Bobby had stumbled into the middle of a movie scene—only this one was directed by panic and lit with dread. Was it a coincidence? A prank? His thoughts hunt themselves in a continuous circle, but the fear gripping him tightly felt too real.

He remained hidden for ten whole minutes, eyes moving rapidly, body squeezed into the shadows. But no one followed. No footsteps. No heavy breathing. No sound but the wind.

He came to realize how much he was shaking at that moment.

---

When he stumbled home, it was dark. The streetlights fluttered overhead as if been uncertain on whether to stay on. Bobby stuck to the fences and trees, avoiding open yards. Every porch light felt like a spotlight. Every parked car was a potential ambush. But he saw no sign of the man. However, he refused to go through the front door. He navigated his way around the side, entered the basement window, and walked quietly through the laundry room, pretending to be a spy in his own house.

His parents were home. He could hear the familiar sound of TV from the living room. His mother was most likely occupied with her phone, scrolling with one hand and microwaving dinner with the other. His dad would grunt hello, maybe ask about school—then go back to doing absolutely nothing. None of that mattered.

Bobby made it to his room, closed the door, and finally allowed himself to breathe. Despite being in his sanctuary, which was comprised of glowing monitors and posters depicting warped timelines, he didn't feel safe. Not anymore. Things was now different.

The cracked phone sat on his desk, dead and silent. A corpse of a warning. Without it, he had no way to reach Future Bob again. And if that man was still out there—and he almost certainly was—Bobby was flying blind.

---

He didn’t sleep. He didn’t eat. He just sat in his chair, bouncing one knee while refreshing the same old signal logs on his computer. But they told him nothing. No new anomalies. No pings. No data echoes. Just digital silence.

After midnight, he carefully opened his notebook and turned to a new page. He wrote in capital letters with a shaky hand:

I NEED A NEW PHONE.

Below that:

REPLACE LOST NODE. MUST RESTORE TEMPORAL COMM LINK.

Even the thought of it made his stomach twist in dissatisfaction. He had money—but it wasn’t for phones. It was for the science fair. For his project. He’d been saving for months: a custom-built EM sensor array, with triple-axis coils and a DIY signal isolator. It was going to win. It had to.

Winning meant respect. Recognition. Maybe even a scholarship. It meant finally being seen as more than just the quiet, overweight kid with conspiracy theories and no social life. His project wasn’t just science—it was his shot at escape. But a trophy wouldn't matter if he couldn’t survive the week.

Every moment he closed his eyes, the image of the man appeared again—his movement was like a machine—a human terminator. Bobby still didn’t know how he escaped. Just that he did. For now.

He gazed at the envelope that is filled with bills, tucked behind his bookshelf. Then he gazed at the dead phone.

The choice made itself.

---

The next morning—which was Saturday—he barely said a word to his parents. He skipped breakfast. Left early. Cut through backyards to avoid the usual bullies in his neighborhood.

At 9:13 AM, he sat inside a portable tech repair store on Alfred Avenue, flanked by flashing LED lights, dusty shelves, and high-priced accessories in faded plastic packaging.

The smell of burned plastic and solder was present in the place. The fan in the corner rattled every time it turned, causing a strange noise.

The man who worked at the counter was in his early twenties, wearing a hoodie that was too big and watching a movie on a cracked tablet with the volume turned down. He barely looked up when Bobby walked in.

“Cheap,” Bobby said flatly. “I just need something that texts. And charges.”

The guy scratched his head, barely pausing his show. “No data? No games?”

“Nope. Just text and charge.”

The guy didn’t ask questions. He swiftly reached under the counter and sifted through a bin that contained phones that had been scratched and patched, as well as chargers that were not compatible. After some time had elapsed, he took out a black phone that appeared to have seen better days. The corners were scuffed. The phone was obviously an older model but still had a headphone jack.

Bobby pulled the crumpled bills from his hoodie pocket—leftover savings from a science fair project he never finished and handed him sixty bucks. The guy dropped the phone into a ziplock bag with a generic charger and slid it across the counter.

No warranty. No receipt. No customer service smile.

Bobby grabbed the bag without a word, turned without hesitation, and left the store.

---

When he got home, he closed the door, sat up on his bed, and held the new device in both hands, as if it was made of fragile glass and heavy secrets.

He turned it on. It took a minute to boot up, screen flickering slightly like it wasn’t sure if it was ready to live again.

> Welcome

Setup in progress...

His palms were sweating. He connected it to Wi-Fi. Skipped the cloud login. No contacts. No social media. Nothing but a fresh start.

The phone felt cold, too clean, like a blank notebook waiting for something to ruin it.

Bobby observed the glowing home screen. He had a long wait, but nothing happened. Just the sound of electronics humming and creaking floorboards can be heard while someone moves around downstairs.

He tapped through a few settings. Checked the battery. Adjusted the brightness. Tried to distract himself. But really, he was waiting—he just didn’t know for what.

Then—

BUZZ.

The phone jumped in his hand. The vibration sharp, sudden.

One new message. No contact name. No number. No timestamp. Just a single text bubble glowing on the screen:

“Took you long enough. We don’t have much time. – B”