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Geoffrey hasn’t slept more than an hour in months. His beard is ragged; his scrubs are stained. He sits in the control room like a laboratory animal, eyes fixed, waiting for the screen to refresh.

“How often do you have to click the button?” asks the polar bear, who might be imaginary.

“Every twenty-four hours,” says Geoffrey. “Sometimes less, if he gets behind on posting them.”

“But what would happen if you stopped? Are there really consequences?”

“Yes,” Geoffrey whispers. “The world will end.”

Then there’s a whole season of time travel stuff where they’re not even on the island.