For my birthday last year, she set up a meticulous scavenger hunt, using clues from my most beloved books—including Orman—that eventually led me to my favorite restaurant. When I opened the door, the Williamses were sitting at our usual table, Jenna’s delighted grin sparkling in the light of the birthday candles on my bakery-bought cake. Her dad joked that if I had taken any longer to follow the clues, my cake would have been more wax than sugar.

“What did you wish for?” Jenna asked, later that night. We sat on the barstools in her kitchen, eating forkfuls of leftover buttercream cake while sharing a glass of milk.

“I can’t tell you,” I said. “It won’t come true.”

“Aren’t we a little old for that?”

I shook my head as I downed the last of the milk.

“So tell me what you didn’t wish for.” She smiled.

I set the glass down. It clinked lightly against the marble countertop. “I didn’t wish to never spend a birthday without you. That’s for sure.”

“Double negative.” Jenna laughed, but I could tell she was pleased. “Amelia, you’re going to have to be better at grammar if—”

“I’m going to be a professor,” I finished. “I know.”

I stared off into the distance over Jenna’s shoulder, trying to look pensive and serious.

“What are you thinking about?” she asked.

“Oh, nothing.” I sighed deeply. “Just … you know … Do you think it’s too late to take back my birthday wish? Maybe I could trade you for someone less exasperating.”

The memory makes me feel hollow, like my edges are blurred and I might not be entirely real anymore. So I try to flip through and read my favorite parts in this impossible 101st copy of one hundred, but my eyes refuse to string together meanings from the words. I turn to the internet, scrolling through forums and articles but never finding evidence of an extra printed copy. Is this edition even legit?

It doesn’t matter that I can’t read it. I just need to find out why this edition exists and how Jenna sent it to me from a store in Michigan that has no record of either of us. And why.

chapter five

When Mark texts to let me know he’s outside, he punctuates it with a smiling emoji. I think about that stupid yellow happy face as I wrap the 101st copy in a clean hand towel I pulled from the dryer and carefully place it into the book tote I use as a purse.

A happy face. Even with the Orman book tucked against my side, whispering promises of mystery and distraction, I can’t imagine using an emoji. There’s not a face that can capture the expression of My best friend is gone.