I fumble my way to the back of the plane, ramming into seats, ping-ponging side to side because my motor functions seem to have lost their ability to human in my current panic.

The restroom door opens in its fold-away fashion and a middle-aged woman sidles out as I arrive. I leap in and slam the door shut. The automatic overhead light goes from neon green to bright yellow as I slide in the lock.

I spin to the mirror and immediately lean forward and slap my reflection with both my hands. There’s a … there’s a waist-length braid. The girl in the mirror has a braid. A fishtail braid. When I look down at myself, there is no braid. But she has a fishtail braid that falls all the way down to her waist! It dances over her right shoulder when I move. I paw at my shoulder-length hair, trying to grab hold of the thing.

There’s nothing here!! And oh my Jesus, my reflection literally isn’t me. It’s Siri?! Siri is staring back at me.

But I just chopped Siri’s hair! I watched it hit the ground. I went through it with the scissors I requested from Terry!

The girl in the mirror is fresh off the plane to Rediscover Yourself Siri.

“WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON?”

I smack the mirror again. Glitter flutters around my hands.

I remove my hands from the glass and bring them toward my face for examination. They’re my hands. My gross nails. But in the mirror … they’re neatly filed. Unpainted. Unblemished.

I smack the mirror again. More glitter flutters around my hand. “What the fuck?” I yell again.

My eyes are bulging so hard, they might just roll right out of my head. There’s a knock at the door.

“Gah!” I fall awkwardly onto the airport toilet.

“Ma’am, are you all right in there?” someone asks.

“Fine!” I blurt. “I’m fine, privacy please!”

I hop off the toilet and smash my face up against the mirror again, fogging up the glass with my frantic breaths. I trace where the scar is on my forehead. I can feel it under my finger, but the pale girl in the mirror’s skin is clear. I touch the spot where mirror me (Siri?) has a beauty mark. I smear it with my index finger. I inspect my finger pad and see the makeup on it, but in the mirror, nothing is smeared. Like I have a legit freaking Siri beauty mark.

I smack the mirror again. Glitter poofs around my hand like dust.

The.

The glitter.

The note.

Terry.

I push open the door to exit the stall.

Have I been magicked? Am I happy haunted?

“Are you done?” There’s someone waiting out here to use the toilet.