Unborn Tomorrow — Story, Setting & Ideas

Diction and the Hardboiled Vernacular

Reynolds' word choice leans heavily on the hardboiled detective tradition, with clipped sentences and colloquialisms that establish a cynical, world-weary tone. Simon's internal monologue uses phrases like 'a double dip of ice cream in my stomach' to convey dread, and his speech is peppered with understatement: 'I feel awful,' 'Money,' and 'Now it comes.' Betty's dialogue is equally sharp—'I'm not selfish,' she says when asked how much money she wants, and she dismisses time travel with a logical paradox. The author avoids technical jargon, instead letting the characters' vernacular sell the story's plausibility. Even the client, Mr. Oyster, speaks in a fussy, formal register that contrasts with Simon's laconic replies, heightening the comedy of the situation.

Voice and Character Dynamics

The voices of Simon and Betty are distinct and consistent. Simon is morose and evasive, often responding with single words or non sequiturs, while Betty is pragmatic and quick-witted, bouncing up 'with Olympic agility' to answer the door. Their banter reveals a comfortable, if strained, working relationship. When Simon claims Providence will provide, Betty dryly notes it would be nice if Providence 'turned up a missing jewel deal.' This dynamic is crucial because it establishes a baseline of normalcy against which the time travel anomaly is measured. The reader trusts Betty's perspective as the grounded one, making Simon's later disorientation more effective. Reynolds uses their exchanges to advance the plot without exposition dumps, letting character voice carry the mystery.

Structural Disorientation and Temporal Clues

The story's structure mirrors Simon's confusion. The narrative jumps from the office scene to Simon's recollection of a trip to Munich, then back to the office where Mr. Oyster is still present, creating a temporal loop. Reynolds embeds clues in the details: Simon's mussed clothes, the calendar sheet torn off 'not half an hour ago,' and Betty's insistence that he left only ten minutes earlier. The author does not explain the paradox outright; instead, he lets Simon's fragmented memory and the conflicting timelines speak for themselves. The phrase 'I'd lost track of the time' is literal, and the reader must piece together that Simon experienced days while only minutes passed in the office. This structural choice forces the audience to engage actively with the puzzle.

Recurring Motifs: Hangovers, Money, and Disorientation

Three motifs recur throughout the excerpts: hangovers, money, and disorientation. Simon's hangover is mentioned repeatedly—he 'groaned, fumbled in a drawer for the aspirin bottle,' and later 'winced at the pathetic remains of the thousand' dollars. Money is a constant concern: Betty wants her week's wages, Mr. Oyster pays fifty dollars for a story, and Simon spent a thousand-dollar advance with nothing to show for it. Disorientation is physical and temporal: Simon's mind is 'spinning like a whirling dervish in a revolving door,' and he cannot reconcile the calendar with his memory. These motifs ground the speculative element in tangible, everyday frustrations, making the time travel feel less like a marvel and more like an inconvenience—a clever inversion of typical time-travel wonder.

Reynolds' story rewards attention to small details: the pince-nez glasses, the aspirin bottle, the torn calendar sheet. The narrative withholds a full explanation, leaving the reader to infer the mechanics of Simon's time-lost days. This editorial note suggests reading with an eye for the gaps—what Simon does not say, what Betty does not know, and how the author uses the detective genre's conventions to frame a puzzle that is as much about perception as it is about time.

There’s something tender about a detective who wakes up missing a week, especially when the mystery is his own timeline. It reminded me of the quiet unease in The Man the Martians Made — Story, Setting & Ideas, where identity itself feels borrowed. Both leave a lingering ache, like a familiar room rearranged while you slept.