A feeling of déjà vu washes over me, one that has nothing to do with the fact that we apparently have the same memories. Lived the same life. I push the feeling aside. “How am I supposed to trust you?” I ask. “You just ordered me to hurt my best friend.”

“I know.” Her voice drags with regret. “But I also knew you would refuse. I knew you would demand answers I can’t give. That’s why I’m offering you an alternative.”

The senior exits the hallway, and I’m alone again. Or at least as alone as I can be with a voice in my head. I stop walking and lean my forehead against a locker, hoping the surface will cool my skin. But the metal is hot and sweaty, increasing rather than decreasing my agitation.

“I’ve run a marathon in your shoes, but you’ve never taken a step in mine,” she continues. “I told you that a decimating virus will wipe out the world, but you need to see for yourself. Only then will we stop having this separation of minds.”

I go perfectly still. It doesn’t matter if this locker door might’ve been forged in hell. She can’t possibly mean…

“Are you taking me to the future?”

“Exactly. And don’t worry. I’ll get you back in time to put that baggie in Lalana’s locker.”

Adrenaline spurts through my veins. Flaming monkeys, she is! The future. Time travel. A chance to glimpse across a ten-year window.

“How do I get there?” I ask, my heart quivery.

“We have to latch our consciousnesses together,” the Voice says. “You need to reach up, link your mind with mine. Once we’re connected, I’ll be able to bring you forward. Got it?”

I swallow hard. “Maybe?”

“Try.” The word is wrapped around a smile. “Reach for me. I’m waiting.”

Okay. Here goes nothing. Closing my eyes, I stretch up, up, up, as far as my mind will allow, looking for the older Alice’s consciousness.

Nothing. All I can see is the darkness of my own eyelids. Pinpricks of light that my imagination probably willed into existence.

“Stop using your vision,” the Voice commands. “Don’t look for me the way you search for the perfect angle of a photograph. Instead, feel me.”

“How?” I run my tongue over the bumpy ridges of my teeth. “Do I touch you? Taste you?”

“Sense me, with your mind. Feel the contours that are nearly identical to but not quite yours. Find the indentations into which you can fit yourself.”

She’s speaking gibberish. The more I attempt to understand her words, the less sense she makes. I want to pull out my hair, particularly frizzy today because of the humidity. But she gave me one instruction that was moderately clear. I cling to that. Don’t look for me.