She looks at me, and I look at her. I don’t believe the words I’m saying. There’s been too much weirdness since I’ve been here. Including the being here thing to begin with. But also the strange bleed-through of memories and feelings that I shouldn’t have access to.

What if her soul knows? What if all our souls know things? What if that’s what instinct is? What if that really is the explanation for gut feelings, intuition, déjà vu, kismet, and everything else? What if it’s our souls, remembering or knowing the truths of all our other lives?

“Bullshit,” she says, looking into my eyes. “You don’t think it’s a dream. Neither do I.”

We’re both silent for a moment.

“Come on,” I say. “Let’s get into costume.”

We’ve been sitting here in our foundation garments—which is really the only word for this particular kind of scaffolding.

She wears an A-line dress with stockings and little kitten heels. I’m in a chic blue jumpsuit with high pumps.

Once dressed, we look in the mirror.

Our reflection sends a chill through me.

I don’t want to say that I’ve gotten used to being around Aimee again. I haven’t stopped being amazed, confused, weirded out. I would say that I’ve adapted, like I have to the rest of this surreality. But this is the first time I’ve seen myself beside her in real life, and something about this is startling.

I don’t know what I expected. That her reflection—or mine—wouldn’t show up? Like a vampire? Or maybe some M. Night Shyamalan twist, where her reflection is some terrifying proof that she really is dead. Or maybe that we’d suddenly be nineteen again?

Instead, it’s us. Thirty-year-old me, thirty-year-old her. Together. Alive.

Our eyes lock on each other’s.

“Let’s go look at the audience,” I say. “Do you think the critic is here yet?”

“I don’t know, I’ve seen Waiting for Guffman one too many times.”

We sneak to the side curtain and look out at the theater.

“Aw, look,” says Aimee, nudging me and then pointing at Cillian in the middle of the front row, talking to Theo, his ankle resting on one of his knees and a beer in his right hand.

The place is packed with warm, delicious energy as noisy men clink their glasses of beer and ladies clutch their shawls close while sipping from small glasses of wine (not being sexist, that just is the situation for the most part). There are some irritable-looking teenagers and hyper kids who undoubtedly won’t stay still for the performance. Including Clare and Ronan, who are in tow with Theo, playing in front of the stage. He’s got a beer too and he tilts his head with interest at something Cillian says.