“I’m perfectly healthy.” She took a shuddery breath. “Tell me. How is Sundance doing?”

Sundance? What the heck was going on?

“How is Sundance, Evie?” She said it firmly, and I knew to change the topic, so I told her that Sundance was as loyal as ever, and I pet his head. “Also. Kara Lighthouse is going to have triplets. They’ll be early but they’ll be fine. Don’t tell anyone. She doesn’t even know.”

She smiled. “That is the kind of premonition you need to have.”

Later, though, walking to my blue carriage house through a column of foxgloves and delphinium, I wondered about that conversation. It upset her. It worried her. It made her go pale. But why?

Sundance put a ball in my hand, which was my cue to throw it. Butch and Cassidy ran after it, too.

Sometimes I wish I were a dog.

* * *

The red car was coming straight at me.

The sunlight behind it momentarily blinded me. It was a tight road, one lane, mountain to my right, the cliff to my left. I hit the brakes. The other driver was looking away; she didn’t see me at first.

I pulled my truck as far to the right as I could go, but it was too late. The other driver’s car fishtailed as she hit the brakes, but it still barreled toward me.

The impact was fast and hard, my air bag exploded, my body jerked back. The metal crunched, the windshield split and shattered, and smoke spilled from the engine. The premonition had changed again, fluid, versatile, confusing.

At the end, as usual, things were fuzzy.

One of us died. I don’t know if it was me or the other driver but I could see death . . . although death seemed to shift in and out.

It was terrifying.

And there was something else. Something about the other driver. I could not figure it out. I had never been able to figure it out. I shut my eyes and went through every inch of the premonition. What was the mystery here? What was I not getting?

I didn’t want to die. But I’m sure she didn’t, either.

I could only see my hands on the steering wheel. They were shadowed here and there, and it was only quick flashes, but my hands looked like my hands about now. Not older, no more age spots, no more wrinkles or lines.

Would the event in this premonition happen soon?

And if it did, what could I do to save myself . . . and save her?

* * *

Jules sent us, by e-mail, three different invitations for her wedding. “Which one do you like most?” she asked my mother and aunts and me.