The Shoreland was a massive hotel built during the Jazz Age on the South Side, and a testament to the style of the time. With cavernous spaces lined with peeling art deco plaster-work and massive chandeliers missing several bulbs, it was also a monument to a dead era. It had been purchased by the University of Chicago to be used as a dorm space, but on December 31st, 1999 its two story ballroom was the site of hundreds of college students thrashing through a haze of strobe lights, confetti, and beer-fueled energy.

  This was The Belle Curves’ largest gig to date, and practically every student who was invited and still on campus congregated here. A lot showed up regardless. We were winding down our punk rock version of Prince’s iconic 1999 and I was grinding my strings through the extended groove after the final chorus, which wound down the song. It was timed perfectly, as the projected clock on the wall read 11:59.

  “Hey Chicago,” screamed Nance into her microphone. “Are you ready for the end of the world!?”

  The crowd roared in response. “Five!”

  “Four!”

  Deb and I played out the final countdown on our drums and guitar respectively, the amps blaring at the audience and our notes lighting the fuse.

  The room chanted, “Three! Two! ONE!”

  The building shook as everyone collectively exploded in a burst of glitter and flashing lights, not to mention the cry of my guitar. As the crowd embraced and screamed, Deb, Nance, and I nodded at each other, and went right into a rock version of Auld Lang Syne. The first chorus kept with the traditional rhythm, before we kicked it up a notch and went full metal. The crowd was on fire as I relentlessly hit the guitar solo, sweat pouring down my face. The song may have lasted just a few minutes, but once I hit the final chord I was burning up as well. I could scarcely hear the audience cheer as the three of us soaked in the acclaim and took our bows.

  Without missing a step, Reggie booted up his DJ equipment from behind the band, going right into another song that the crowd started jumping to. Nance and I stepped back on the stage, unstrapping our guitars as the adrenaline pumped through us. We hugged each other, drenched but feeling the moment.

  “Reggie,” I shouted through the din, “I’m leaving my coat back here. Don’t leave Shoreland until I say so!” Reggie nodded, one hand on his headphones and the other giving me a thumbs up.

  “Oh my god,” shouted Nance, “is Maya actually sticking around tonight? She’s not turning into a pumpkin at midnight?”

  “It must be a brand new year!” teased Deb.

  I glanced at the crowd behind us, spotting a specific face smiling at me within it.

  “It’s a brand new world, ladies!”

  I set down my Fender behind our low rise stage, and my heart was still pumping as I stepped down towards Sean, who was grinning from next to a pillar of peeling plaster. He took a swig from the red solo cup in his right hand, handing a cup in his left hand to me. Thirsty, I tossed it back in several gulps.

  “Friggin’ awesome set, Maya!” Sean shouted over the blast of the crowd.

  I finished my beer, and tossing the cup aside I grabbed Sean’s shirt and pulled him to me. I kissed him hard. It wasn’t the first time we kissed, but it was definitely fueled by the rush of the music. My fingertips weren’t the only things that were burning as we wrapped our arms around each other and devoured each others' mouths.

  I pulled away from his lips long enough to whisper into his ear. “You live upstairs, right?”

  Sean kissed my neck. “Mm-hm.”

  “Take me to your room. Now.”

  Hours later, we were both a sweaty, naked mess as we laid in his bed. It was as if a bomb went off in his dorm, with our clothes thrown everywhere and three condom wrappers with their contents knotted in his trash can. I had a hard time remembering just how many of them men went through in one session, but that must have been above average. Sean was on his back, out like a light as I curled next to him under his arm.

  It was nothing like it had been with Jake. He had been soft and tentative when we made love in the summer, but Sean was…aggressive. Passionate. Present. And it was thrilling. I gave up all control, just losing myself underneath him as he ravaged me. Somehow I was able to meet him thrust for thrust, and I was in disbelief that he passed out before me. Despite feeling sated and satisfied, as nice as it was feeling his body next to mine I began to consider how long I needed to lay here before I could get moving. His room reeked and it wasn’t because of sex.

  I quietly stood up, trying not to disturb him as he snored, and tiptoed through the darkness trying to find my clothes. I hadn’t worn a bra, so I threw on my black t-shirt first as I scrounged the floor for my leather pants and my panties. I eventually found them, hanging from a lamp in the corner, and once I slid into them, I stepped into my shoes and stepped into the light of the hallway without waking him. After a quick stop to the bathroom, I took the decrepit elevator back down to the near-empty ballroom where Reggie was still patiently waiting for me, napping against the equipment cases. I nudged him awake, grabbing my purse and coat as I gave him permission to pack up and take off.

  On the ride home I sat, half in a daze, in the back seat feeling more relaxed than I had in months.

  A new world, indeed, I thought to myself.

  ***

  The Chicago winter hit the campus hard by mid-January, but you wouldn’t know it by the feverish pitch of the Economics class in the Social Sciences building. It had just been announced that AOL would be merging with Time Warner for a stunning amount, making it the largest merger in American history up to that point. The other dozen or so students in the discussion circle were more insufferable than they usually were.

  “It validates the whole sector,” one of the juniors argued. “An internet service provider just bought a legacy media conglomerate! It proves that content is secondary to distribution. The year 2000 is the year the old economy dies!”

  All of the guys in the room nodded in unison. The professor leaned back in his chair. “It certainly suggests a shift in dynamics. The market values digital engagement over physical assets. Any thoughts?”

  It seemed as if the entire class turned towards me at once. Once again, I was the naysayer and the prophet of doom. The little girl who simply couldn’t grasp what was happening in finance. Sean was the only student in the room who didn’t have a mocking smirk on his face.

  “It proves the opposite,” I asserted to muted groans. “AOL is leveraging their overvalued stock as currency to buy hard assets, and they have to do it before the ride stops. They know their stock price is inflated. They want to trade magic numbers for actual magazines and studios while they can. It won’t last.”

  After a pregnant pause, the junior was the first to scoff. “Maya, the NASDAQ is up forty percent in six months. Everyone is making bank!”

  I rolled my eyes. “I give AOL far less than that before it’s all gone.”

  When class let out, I stowed my books into my bag, stepping into the hallway. Sean fell into step beside me. He looked as handsome as I remembered from New Year’s, and even more confident.

  “Always the pessimist, eh, Peterson?”

  I frowned. “They’re delusional. AOL is nothing compared to Time Warner, and they think they can afford to buy them? It’s ridiculous.”

  “Maybe,” Sean grinned, “or maybe you need to blow off some steam. Why don’t I take you to dinner this Friday?”

  “I can’t,” I said. “I have plans on Friday.”

  “Okay. How about Saturday?”

  Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.

  “Sean,” I said, keeping my voice gentle but firm. “I’m not looking to date anyone right now. I’m not interested in being someone’s girlfriend or meeting the parents. Dinner implies an expectation, and I’ve got too much going on for a relationship.”

  I watched as he processed it, and saw the mental re-calibration in his eyes. “Message received. No dinner. No expectations.”

  He probably thought I was playing hard to get, and I let him think that. I made it to the big wooden door that led to the street, and Sean quickly held it open for me, the blast of freezing air hitting both of us instantly. I stepped outside and paused, looking at him over my shoulder.

  I lowered my voice so only he could hear. “I’ll probably be done around ten on Friday. Leave your door unlocked?”

  Sean’s jaw dropped slightly, then snapped shut with a grin. “Yeah. Yeah, I can do that.”

  Winter was relentless for the next month or so, and with the deep freeze outside all I could do was sit at my window overlooking the lake and watch CNBC on a loop. The NASDAQ was steady and climbing, adding a hundred points a week. Thorne was contacting me daily; the final batch of domain names had sold weeks ago, and I was sitting on a mountain of cash. I still had my various positions such as Amazon and Apple, along with the utilities I had been accumulating since September. Thorne practically begged me to deploy at least some of my cash as the NASDAQ went vertical, but though I was firm our conversations never ended amicably.

  When the pressure became too much, I simply hooked up with Sean. Sometimes it was after an afternoon of studying in the library, sometimes it was late at night after laying in bed staring at the ceiling. He was always waiting, keeping his room available whenever I asked. For a few hours in the tangled warmth of his sheets, I wasn’t worrying about reports or numbers, I was just a body that melted to my knees at his touch. He was incredible in bed; attentive and enthusiastic, and a tumble in the dark was just the release I needed.

  However, I never stayed for long. He would curl up, pressing himself against the whole of my back, but inevitably he would fall asleep. I would dress in the dark while he snoozed, finding my sweaters and skirts tossed in random places in his dorm, before paging my driver and walking back out into the cold. That was our rhythm for weeks, and it was never discussed, not even when we lay in bed together.

  By the end of February, the tension was unsustainable. NASDAQ continued upwards unabated, and privately I began to doubt myself. I couldn’t remember the exact details of Matthew’s timeline, and had carelessly recorded only March 2000 - beginning of the burst in the Butterfly Manifesto. I began wondering if too much had changed in this timeline; that perhaps my supernatural precognition was no longer reliable. Thorne all but demanded that I meet with him at Northern Trust at the end of the month.

  “We are missing the greatest wealth creation event in history, Ms. Peterson,” he implored when I sat in his office. “One of our biggest accounts is sitting in money markets while the index is up fifteen percent this quarter alone.”

  “This is what I promised when I decided to bank with Northern Trust. Discipline.”

  “This isn’t discipline, Ms. Peterson; this is negligence. Look at these figures, he stammered as he pushed several charts across the desk, all pointing straight up. “We have to deploy.”

  I paged through the charts in my hand. My stomach turned, and my doubts flared up once again. Was the dot com burst this vertical in Matthew’s timeline? What if the index reaches six thousand in this timeline? Seven? This would leave millions on the table. I took a breath, forcing me to refocus. It was math, nothing more.

  “You are right, Mr. Thorne,” I said quietly. “We need to make a move.”

  Thorne exhaled, his shoulders dropping in relief. He wiped his forehead, pulling out a pen from his jacket pocket. “Finally. Now, I have a basket of high-growth ETFs I’d like you to look at. Qualcomm, Cisco, we could –”

  “No,” I cut him off. “That’s not the move.”

  Thorne froze, his pen hovering over his notepad. “Excuse me?”

  “Sell,” I said. “Sell what I have in Apple. Amazon. Liquidate the entire tech stock portfolio. On Monday I want to be completely out by the closing bell.”

  His hand started shaking. “Maya – Ms. Peterson, you’re exiting the strongest sector in history. Apple is trading at an all-time high, and you want to sell?”

  “And once we’re liquid,” I continued, steeling my voice once again, “I want you to take ten million from the cash pile.”

  His frowned. “More utilities?”

  “No. I want Put options on the NASDAQ 100. Strike price at 4,000. April expiration.”

  The pen clattered on his mahogany table. His eyes were filled with horror. “You want to short the market?” he croaked. “With ten million dollars. Maya, this is financial suicide! If this rally continues through March–and I promise you it will–that money is gone! Zero!”

  “I am aware.”

  Thorne stood and threw up his hands. “Then you are aware that you are betting against the American economy! Against the future! As a fiduciary, I have to protect you from reckless speculation. I cannot in good conscience let you do this.”

  I wrung my hands and stayed seated. “As a fiduciary, you execute the client’s instructions.” My voice was ice. “I am not asking permission, Mr. Thorne. I am giving you an order. Sell the tech. Buy the puts. As soon as the markets open on Monday.”

  He stared at me, his fists resting on his desk. “Fine,” he said, his voice dripping with resignation. “I will place the trade, but I am noting my strenuous objection on file.”

  “Understood,” I replied, picking up my bag. Thorne led me to the door, robotically yet cordial. It wasn’t until the elevator doors shut did I realize I had been holding my breath.

  The first week of March was excruciating. My tech positions were lapped up almost immediately that Monday, and yet another pile of cash was added to my pile. I cursed myself for not remembering the dates of the burst from Matthew’s timeline, and I realized immediately that I had pulled the trigger early for my Put options. By the 9th, the financial world was celebrating as NASDAQ broke 5,000 for the first time in history. My classmates began joking about dropping out of school to become day-traders.

  As for myself, my ten million dollar bet was worth at best four. Six million vaporized in a little over a week. Thorne continued to call me daily, but he wasn’t angry; it was pity.

  “Ms. Peterson, The index is at 5,038. There is still time; we can salvage the remaining capital by closing the position now. Please.”

  I would simply stare out at the gray clouds unmoving over Lake Michigan. “Hold,” was all I would say.

  I used Sean more frequently that March. I didn’t call ahead, I would simply show up at his dorm at midnight, wired and tense. I was almost desperate in bed, thrusting back against him and gripping the sheets until my knuckles turned white. I would stare blankly at the wall while he hammered the panic out of me. For a few blissful moments the counters in my head silenced in an explosion of friction.

  There was a night near the end of March where Sean ran a hand down my back as I dressed in the dark.

  “You’ve been so intense lately, Peterson,” he murmured. “Is everything okay?”

  “Just midterms,” I lied, pulling my sweater over my naked chest. “Go back to sleep.”

  One day in March, the market wobbled. There was a silent confusion that ceased the euphoria for a day. Then, in early April, the famous Microsoft antitrust ruling came down, just as it had in Matthew’s timeline. The flawless veneer of the tech sector cracked, with the selling starting slow and quickly increasing. Even my classmates wore nervous grins as they downplayed the severity of the ruling.

  On a Friday in April, it finally happened.

  It was gray and rainy in Chicago, and I quietly finished my coffee and toast in my breakfast nook. I watched the futures market on my kitchen TV, and the moment they opened they were blood red. It wasn’t long before the market opened, and straight selling began. By ten o’clock stocks had dropped nearly ten percent, triggering margin calls from brokerage firms. Anyone holding a loan to purchase stocks were required to deposit cash immediately, with their brokers selling their positions at any price to cover the loan.

  I decided to stay home that day, and watched the infamous Black Friday in real time. The automatic margin calls caused even further margin calls, and by two o’clock NASDAQ was down over 200 points. Everything was crashing: Cisco, Intel, and even Pets.com, the eventual cautionary tale of the dot-com bubble. By the time the close occurred at three o’clock, NASDAQ had crashed over 350 points; over twenty-five percent of its value in less than a week.

  I was still in my pajamas and bathrobe when I got the call. “Hello, Mr. Thorne.”

  On his end, the background noise was chaos. I could hear shouting traders, phones ringing, and the sound of panic. Thorne was eerily quiet.

  “It’s been a nightmare, Ms. Peterson,” he trembled, “The tech sector is in freefall. We have clients facing margin calls on their homes, institutional funds are liquidating everything we have just to raise cash.”

  “What about our position?”

  I heard the rustling of paper. “Utilities are up twelve percent. Bonds are stable.” There was a distinct pause. “The Put options…are through the roof.”

  “The number?”

  There was another pause. “The options block is valued at sixty-two million dollars,” he whispered. “We will have made more money today than the bank’s entire trading desk.”

  I closed my eyes. The knot in my chest, agonizing since February, finally loosened. I had been right. The Butterfly Manifesto was still valid, at least for now.

  “Ms. Peterson, are you there?”

  “I’m here, Mr. Thorne.”

  “Do we buy the dip?” he asked, as if asking for permission. “Do we follow their lead?”

  I watched as the rain continued to hit the window. No doubt the financial sector was reeling, as tech bros across the country were cancelling their weekend benders, if not losing the shirt off their backs and their Porsches. Today was a horrific day, but this collapse wasn’t going to end for them any time soon. And I was the only one who knew for certainty.

  “No,” I said coldly. “This isn’t a dip, Mr. Thorne. It’s the end. Let it burn.”