“Pay attention,” she continues. “We don’t have much time. I got access to the school’s facility records, and they’re upgrading to a new security system. From precisely 7:54 to 8:05, the cameras will be off-line. That’s two minutes from now. The second that clock hits 7:54, I want you to go to locker number 247. Use the combination 32-9-28 to open the lock and remove the Ziploc baggie from underneath the gym bag.”

I glare at the large red numbers blinking at me from the end of the corridor. “What? Why? You tell me I’m supposed to stop some future mass murderer from our school and now you want me to steal someone’s lunch? What’s wrong with your priorities?”

“Would it help if I said please?” she asks. “Or reminded you that lives are at stake?”

“Would it help if I reminded you that you haven’t told me anything useful about my mission? I suspect everyone right now. Paranoia isn’t a good look.”

“So stubborn,” she murmurs. “I remember that well.”

“Do you really?” I look into the eyes reflected by the rectangular strip of my locker mirror. “Or are you just pretending so that I’ll believe you’re me?”

“I am you! That’s what you don’t seem to get. Any trouble you’re giving me now is trouble you’re causing yourself later on. Do us both a favor and stop arguing, okay?”

She’s agitated, but so am I. My pulse is racing; my breath is short. I don’t know how she’s feeling in the future, but I imagine it’s pretty much the same. Ten years can’t have changed our visceral reactions that much.

“Listen,” she says gently. “I know you’ve put off certain decisions to the future, such as dating. You believe an older Alice would make better choices. Well, here I am. This is exactly what you’ve always wanted. An older and wiser you, telling you the right decision. You don’t have to worry about following your gut. I am your gut, with the extra security of knowing how things turn out.”

I exhale slowly. She’s right. She’s the guidance I’ve been seeking ever since Mom left. All I have to do is accept her advice.

“7:54,” she says. “Move. Please.”

“Fine.” Shutting my locker door, I walk to the end of the row—and freeze when I realize whose locker is number 247.

Lee Jenkins, the jerk who was messing with my brother. He cuts class more often than he attends, and I often glimpse him in the woods behind school, a halo of smoke around his head.

I’m supposed to retrieve a plastic baggie from the bottom of his locker? Three guesses what the baggie contains.

I go to work on the lock, my heart galloping, my mind sprinting. Oh, please. Let the contents be weed.