There’s no corresponding zap of pain. Compared to my earlier torture, this request is downright courteous. I’m not prepared to accept whatever this is as my new reality. I sure don’t like being told what to do by a voice in my head. But I comply, more out of curiosity than any desire to obey.

“Okay,” I say from the doorway. “I’m here, but I have questions. Lots of them. And if you think I’m just going to—”

BOOM!

The entire pile of kitchenware crashes to the floor. Pots, pans, cutting boards, knives. Plates, dishes, cutlery, and a wineglass filled with a deep-red merlot from Dad’s dinner last night. It hits the floor at just the right angle and shatters, spraying drops of wine all over the kitchen.

The epicenter of the crash is exactly where I was standing.

I stare at the blue linoleum squares in front of the sink. My heart gallops, and the rain of wine all over the counter, stove, and cabinets echoes in my mind like the ringing of bullets. I sag against the doorframe, sliding down until my butt hits the floor, half on the shaggy carpet, half on the cold tile.

The Voice… She just saved me. From being drenched with wine, if not cut by the shards of glass. How did she…? The words refuse to form. Instead, images flash through my mind, like a movie sequence on fast-forward.

Drops of wine fly through the air, splattering my skin. Up and down my bare arms, my cheeks, my forehead. My white tank top. Splashing against the fabric, staining it in a random starburst pattern, right next to Lin-Manuel Miranda’s autograph. The liquid flows down my body, drip-drip-dripping like the steady trickle of a faucet.

Me, gaping at my tank top. The surprise gets stuck in my throat at first, but then it shakes free in a shriek so loud that Archie vaults up the stairs, taking them two at a time.

Archie’s disgust when he realizes I’m crying over spilled wine. The hurried swipes of my finger on my phone screen as I try to figure out how to neutralize the red liquid. For an hour, I dab at the stain. Sprinkle it with salt. Add boiling water. And then I run an entire load of laundry, just to save the shirt. But it’s no use.

My favorite tank top, made special by the black Sharpie scrawl of my idol, ruined. Forever.

The events fly through my head like a reel of memories. Just as vivid as if they actually happened. But they’re not memories. They can’t be.

I stare at the white fabric of my shirt, unmarred by a single stain. And I’m jolted by clarity so deep that it must be true.

This is what my future would’ve looked like if I hadn’t moved.