“Sometimes I like to travel back in time.”

I stopped typing and looked down at the seven-year-old sitting next to me. She was flipping through a pad of paper looking for a page that had not been scribbled on already.

“What are you talking about?”

She shrugged, and repeated, “I like to travel back in time, sometimes,” without looking up.

“Huh…” I said and waited a few seconds before continuing. “So, what do you do when you go back in time?”

She answered without thinking about it, “I do the same things I did when I was there the first time.”

I nodded thoughtfully, “I guess that makes sense.”

“Yeah,” she said. “Also, I sometimes run into myself while I’m there and I pull myself aside for a second and tell myself about everything that is going to happen in the future, so I won’t be worried about it.”

“That’s pretty cool, I guess,” I said, trying to wrap my head around the temporal paradoxes.

The girl flipped another page on her notebook and smiled. She had found what she was looking for. She began eagerly sketching something onto the blank sheet of paper. I tilted my head and watched over her shoulder. It was something like a house, or maybe a spaceship. Or maybe it was the first blueprint of a time machine.