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I do. He has my number, I gave it to him during that first appointmentā€”it wonā€™t exactly be hard for him to figure out it was me.

Maybe itā€™ll go to voicemail. He told me it almost always goes to voicemail. But even then I still have to tell him something. And not about Flashback Theater in 3D. Or that I ruined my visit with Flora. Or that I might soon be responsible for the destruction of an entire town.

Rescheduling. Iā€™ll tell him I need to push back a week. And then Iā€™ll sound like I donā€™t need to see him the second I get back.

So Iā€™m completely prepared. For everything except the possibility that heā€™ll pick up.

ā€œHello?ā€ he says.

ā€œOh, shit,ā€ I blurt out.

ā€œRose?ā€ he says.

And I immediately hang up.

The phone sits flat in the palm of my hand. Itā€™s silent for a few beats. And then it rings.

I suck in a deep breath through my teeth, and I pick it up.

ā€œHi, Maurice,ā€ I say.

ā€œHello, Rose?ā€ Maurice sounds totally, enviably even. ā€œI think I just missed a call from you?ā€

Oh my God. That was way more generous than I deserved.

ā€œUm. Yes. Sorry,ā€ I say. ā€œI was going to leave a message. I thought you had a separate work phone.ā€

ā€œThatā€™s right,ā€ he says.

ā€œYouā€™re checking your work phone at midnight?ā€ I say.

ā€œIt was next to me.ā€ I can hear the jovial shrug. ā€œI was awake anyway.ā€ Probably at his desk, learning a fourth language. Goddamnit, Maurice.

ā€œYou know,ā€ I say, ā€œthereā€™s this thing called work-life balanceā€”ā€

ā€œAnd Iā€™ll be sure to look into it,ā€ he says. ā€œSomething on your mind?ā€

I straighten. Mild as it sounds, thatā€™s as direct as Iā€™ve ever heard him. I can waste time all I want in our appointments. But if Iā€™m going so far as to call him, heā€™s going to know somethingā€™s up.

I think. Itā€™s not like I know a lot about him personally. His office is in a first-floor apartment, facing the street. He takes clients in French, English, and three dialects of Arabic. When I ask if he had a nice week, he always says that he did, in a way that suggests weā€™re stopping there. He has two framed paintings of cities behind his chair. The first is Paris. When I asked about the second, he told me it was Algiers.

And heā€™s a ridiculously, frustratingly kind person. Kind in a way Iā€™ve never doubted.

So. Whatā€™s on my mind.

I laugh. ā€œCan I have an easier question?ā€

ā€œOkay,ā€ he says. ā€œWhat would help, then?ā€

I start tapping my feet in a rhythm. The beat echoes. ā€œWhat helps other people, when they call you?ā€

ā€œSometimes it helps to just talk,ā€ he says.

ā€œHard pass,ā€ I say, smiling despite myself. ā€œWhat else?ā€

I can hear him mulling it over. ā€œWell . . . Iā€™m not sure how to put this, but oftentimes what people are looking for is a . . . Iā€™m trying to think of a better phrase than reality check.ā€

ā€œReality check is an excellent phrase,ā€ I say. ā€œBut youā€™re probably not talking about the ā€˜blue just isnā€™t your colorā€™ type.ā€

ā€œBlue is everyoneā€™s color,ā€ he says very seriously.

This time, I laugh for real.

ā€œSo you mean, like . . .ā€ I rub my thumb against the inside of my palm. But the cuts Iā€™m thinking about are long gone. ā€œIf someoneā€™s seeing things?ā€

ā€œCould be like that,ā€ he says. If he reads anything into the question, it doesnā€™t show. ā€œOr maybe they see whatā€™s there just fine, but they donā€™t know how to interpret it.ā€

Somehow, sitting on a street I know is hundreds of miles away, watching a night from seven months agoā€”it feels about ten times more surreal now, talking to someone so unrelentingly grounded. But I know what heā€™s saying. Everything Iā€™ve ever asked him, since that first appointment, has been some form of ā€œIs this happening or not?ā€

I swallow, hard. ā€œYou get texts, right?ā€

ā€œI do,ā€ he says.

ā€œSo . . .ā€ I stare into the floodlights of the house across the street until it hurts my eyes. ā€œIf I texted you a picture, right now, could you describe whatā€™s in it without asking any questions?ā€

Thereā€™s a beat of silence. And this is the one thing that annoys me about him. No matter what I say, he never seems that surprised.

ā€œAnd thatā€™d help?ā€ he says.

ā€œYeah. I think it would.ā€ Itā€™s my turn to pause. ā€œIā€™m going to hang up now.ā€

ā€œYou can always call back later if you want to talk.ā€ After some consideration, he adds, ā€œMaybe not later tonight.ā€

ā€œSure, yeah,ā€ I say. ā€œSorry again.ā€

ā€œNot at all. Take care, Rose.ā€

I hang up. And for a second, I consider not taking the picture. But maybe this will help.

I angle my phoneā€™s camera straight down the middle of the street, I take the shot, and I text him the picture. No context.

An ellipsis pops up on his side of the screen. Heā€™s typing.

Cul-de-sac with three trees in the middle, says the text. The same thing I see.

But when I look up again, that cul-de-sac is gone. Iā€™m in the middle of the street, but a street back in the Lethe Ridge housing development. That ever-present stirring over my shoulder feels farther away now, like whoever it was took a big step back. And Marinā€™s neighborhood isnā€™t there.

But if my reality check saw it, too, then there we are.

The phone buzzes again. Maurice sent another text. Why?

I shake my head as I text back. I said no questions. ā˜ŗ

I read his message again. And this time, it lands. Cul-de-sac. There had been a cul-de-sac on the public access channel when I had that little jolt of panic, back at the house. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I saw that and thought of Marinā€™s neighborhood. Itā€™s the kind of logic leap that hypervigilance is so good at. But I didnā€™t consciously connect the dots.

So how did this thingā€”this floodā€”recognize what I didnā€™t?

I close out my messages and go back to my home screen. Itā€™s midnight. If Iā€™m going to trust Cassie, that means that in exactly three days, whatever Iā€™ve brought to this town will be here.

And it suddenly

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