To my surprise, Daphne breaks out in a gale of deep, satisfied laughter. “That is an awesome observation, and I am so mad that a sixteen-year-old kid thought of it and I didn’t. Fair warning, mister: I’m stealing all of that for my next independent essay.”

She spends the rest of the short drive trying to make me laugh, and I do my best to oblige—but in the back of my mind, I’m thinking about the real reason I asked. What if I’m not who I think I am?

I always figured that if reincarnation were real, it would be the kind of thing you needed a spiritual adviser to confirm for you. But the weird dreams and lost time, the “changes in my body,” and the unnerving conviction that I was that person tied to a post and set on fire? My preferred way to account for it all is the possibility that these are memories of past lives I’ve led, inexplicably waking up inside me, jarred loose by the Nexus or something.

Because the only alternative I can think of is one I don’t even want to acknowledge. If I’m not remembering past lives, or manifesting the supernatural skills of a chosen vampire killer … then something far more serious is happening to me.

Something I don’t recognize or understand is invading my consciousness.

Daphne stops outside of Ximena’s house, but before I get out, she makes me look her in the eye. “Hey, listen. I’m sorry I didn’t have the answers you were hoping for about the reincarnation business, but I’m glad you asked. You can talk to me about anything, anytime, Auggie. I know what it’s like to have stuff going on that you’re not ready to share with your parents, and if you’re ever depressed, or overwhelmed, or … whatever, I’m just a phone call away.” She grins, wiggling her eyebrows. “And lucky for you, I’m a genius about life.”

“Oh yeah?” I fold my arms. “So impress me. What’s some stuff I should know?”

“First: You will definitely need some flip-flops you can wear in the shower when you go away to college, because people are gross.” She grimaces. “And second? Your mom’s rag doll is haunted as fuck. I swear that thing tried to steal my soul when I touched it.”

“At least you don’t have to live with it!” I shudder involuntarily, thinking about the expressionless, floppy-necked poppet. “One time I asked my grandma what it was called, and she looked at me all serious, and went, ‘She doesn’t like it when people say her name out loud.’”