Elias took the box. It felt warm, vibrating slightly against his palms. He didn't open it until he was back in the safety of his sedan. Inside was an old-fashioned camcorder, the kind his father used to film birthdays in the nineties. But when Elias flipped open the side screen, it didn't show the steering wheel or the dashboard.

"Can I help you find something?" she asked, her voice lacking the usual retail script. She looked at him with an intensity that suggested she knew exactly why he was there.

Elias slid the receipt across the counter. "I'm looking for order number 8-8-1-2. It says it’s ready for pickup."

The neon sign of the Best Buy on West Road didn’t just flicker; it hummed with a low-frequency buzz that felt like a migraine in waiting. Elias stood in the parking lot, his breath hitching in the frigid October air. He wasn't there for a new laptop or a pair of noise-canceling headphones. He was there because of a receipt he’d found in his late father’s desk—a receipt dated three days into the future.