The clock strikes 11 in a horrendous, soul-shattering toll. I swing open the hinged glass door, spriniting into Taco Bell. Dull eyes above a pimply face meet my gaze. A slow, insipid smile curves a set of dry, chapped lips. The Taco clerk (or whatever the hell they call ’em) says, “I’m sorry sir, our breakfast hours are over; you’re going to have to—” With an inarticulate scream, I open my eReader to Echo. Magic flash. Suddenly, before our very eyes, the minute hand on the wall clock goes exactly one tick backwards. I smile in triumph while clerk-guy breathes in furious, hushed gasps. I say, “Advantage mine, dickhead.” I order my beautiful AM crunch wrap and lose myself in cheesy-eggy-hashbrowny bliss.