Mayor Chen's tour moved at Wednesday speed—somewhere between frantic and resigned. Jack's recorder could barely keep up as they passed through districts that shouldn't work but did, because they had to.
"Residential sector first," Chen announced, gesturing to houses in various stages of existence. "We've learned to build modular. Everything snaps together because no one has time for traditional construction."
A house on the corner was literally assembling itself—pre-programmed robots following instructions left by last Wednesday's residents. The mailbox read "THE JOHNSONS - WEDNESDAYS ONLY - PACKAGES ACCEPTED BUT NOT GUARANTEED."
"How do you get mail?" Jack asked.
"We don't. We get Wednesday's mail." Chen pointed to the post office, where workers sorted through packages dated across an entire week, trying to guess which ones mattered. "Sometimes Thursday's Amazon delivery shows up pre-opened. We try not to think about it too hard."
Jack's shadow kept drifting toward the edges of reality, where Wednesday met the void of missing days. Each time it reached too far, it snapped back like a rubber band. ARIA monitored the phenomenon with interest.
"Temporal boundary's aggressive," she noted. "Your shadow's trying to exist continuosly, but the local timestream won't allow it. Fascinating and slightly nauseating."
They entered the agricultural district, where the impossible became absurd. Greenhouse domes hummed with temporal acceleration fields. Inside, Jack watched a farmer plant tomatoes, adjust some dials, and harvest them fifteen minutes later.
"Kichiro Tanaka," the farmer introduced himself, dirt under his fingernails that somehow looked seven days old. "I grow a week's worth of food in eighteen hours. Leaves six hours for distribution and sleep."
"When do you rest?"
Tanaka laughed. "Rest is Thursday through Tuesday. Whether we want it or not."
His assistant, a young woman with temporal calculation tattoos covering her arms, added, "The real trick is timing. Plant too early, everything rots by evening. Plant too late, people starve until next Wednesday." She showed Jack her tattoos—they weren't decorative but functional, calculating optimal growth windows. "I'm Maria. I remember things."
"What kind of things?" Jack noticed how the other workers gave her space, respect mixed with unease.
"Tuesdays, sometimes. Glimpses of Thursday morning." Maria's eyes had the thousand-yard stare of someone who'd seen between seconds. "Started about ten Wednesdays ago. Just fragments—the taste of Thursday breakfast, the color of Friday's sunrise."
Chen intervened quickly. "Maria's our best temporal agriculturalist. Her... sensitivity helps predict optimal planting windows." The mayor's tone suggested this was the official line, not the whole truth.
They continued through the colony—past the speed-school where children learned compressed lessons ("Today's subject is everything!"), the courthouse running on permanent emergency protocols, the hospital where doctors pre-treated next Wednesday's injuries based on statistical probability.
"We've adapted," Chen said with pride that couldn't quite hide the exhaustion. "Humans always do."
At the entertainment district, Jack found the darkest humor. A theater company performed "The Complete Works of Shakespeare—All Wednesdays." A bar advertised "Happy Hour All Day Because What's Time Anyway?" A casino's sign flashed "Gamble Like There's No Tomorrow—Because There Isn't!"
"That's a bit grim," Jack observed.
"Gallows humor keeps us sane," Chen admitted. "Well, sane-ish."
Jack's shadow suddenly yanked him backward. Where he'd been standing, a colonist materialized mid-stride, completing a walk they'd started last Wednesday. The man looked confused, checked his watch, swore creatively, and ran toward the agricultural district.
"Temporal drift," Chen explained. "Some people's Wednesdays don't quite sync. We've got about a dozen residents operating on Wednesday-plus-five-minutes. Makes meetings hell."
They reached the colony's edge, where reality grew thin. Beyond the temporal boundary, Jack could see suggestions of the missing days—ghost buildings that might exist on Thursday, shadow-roads leading to Friday destinations. His shadow reached toward them longingly.
"This is where it happens," Maria said, appearing beside them with the quiet certainty of someone who knew when they'd be. "Thursday morning, 6:17 AM. That's when we see it."
"See what?" Jack asked.
"The thing that eats days." Maria's temporal tattoos shifted, showing calculations that hurt to follow. "Some of us are starting to sync with it. Remember its feeding pattern." She met Jack's eyes. "It's not random, Ranger. The Chronophage—that's what Dr. Vega calls it—it's selecting which days to eat. Following a pattern."
"What pattern?"
Maria smiled sadly. "The days we're happiest. It's eating our joy, leaving us only Wednesdays." She pulled out a journal, its pages covered in temporal equations and fragments of remembered time. "But some of us are fighting back. Learning to hide memories between seconds. Building a resistance one Wednesday at a time."
Chen's expression suggested this was news to her. "Maria, you never mentioned—"
"Because you forget, Mayor. Every Thursday morning, you forget the plan. But I remember." Maria turned back to Jack. "We need help, Ranger. Not just to solve this—to remember the solution. Because even if you fix this today, come Thursday, we won't know you did."
Jack looked out at the temporal boundary, where his shadow was now taking detailed notes about the edge of existence. Somewhere beyond Wednesday, a creature that fed on time was choosing which days to devour. And a colony of humans was trying to build a life in the spaces between its meals.
"Show me everything," Jack said. "Every note, every half-remembered Thursday, every pattern you've found. We've got—" he checked his chronometer, "—sixteen hours to solve this before I meet you all again for the first time."
Maria's smile was sharp with hope. "Now you're thinking like a Wednesday colonist."