“No,” I whisper, defending myself even though she must know all my excuses. “I didn’t take away his dreams; I only delayed them. The schools will still be there next year. And in the meantime, I get to keep him here. With me. So I can make sure he eats.” The pressure builds behind my eyes. “You should remember this. You know he isn’t ready to be on his own yet. Beyond the basics like food and laundry, he gets lost in his research. If I’m not here to draw him out, who knows how long he would go without talking to anyone?”

“I’m not judging you, Alice.” Her voice softens. “In fact, I’m here to tell you that you don’t need to feel guilty anymore. Turns out, that was the best thing you could’ve done for Archie. The more time he spends with you, the better.”

“Really?” I could weep. My middle-of-the-night prayers answered right here, in this moment. I just never dreamed it would come from my older self. “You’re not saying that to make me feel better?”

“Really,” she says. “Pinkie swear, on the hair of a bear, with a cherry on top.” The rest of the solemn promise I used to make as a little kid.

All of a sudden, I’m aware of the snores coming from the back of the house. My dad, after pulling an all-nighter at the office. Four rooms separate us. Any less, and the indistinct rumbling would sound like a faulty lawn mower.

“Is that Dad?” the Voice asks.

“Yep. Delivered the food. Reminded me about the awards banquet Sunday night. And then stumbled to his room.”

I don’t even blink at the fact that she’s calling him “Dad.” And that’s when it hits me. There’s no longer any doubt in my mind. She’s actually my older self.

“Whose memory was that?” I blurt. “The one where I didn’t move from the center of the crash. The one where drops of wine splattered everything.”

“Mine,” she says. “From my original timeline. But since I’ve shared my consciousness with you, as you take actions that diverge from the original thread, your memories will splinter into two timelines—what just happened in your life and what did happen in mine.”

“But that’s…that’s absurd,” I stammer. “Are you saying I’ll constantly be bombarded with every difference from your life?”

“Of course not. Remember, I’m a lot older than you. I no longer have memories of every moment. You’ll only experience the memory reel from my life during the big events, the ones that made an impression on me.”

That’s a relief. At least my mind will be my own. Mostly.

“One last question,” we both say at the same time.