“Hello?” I call out, straining my ears for a response but afraid I’ll get one. I’m suddenly self-conscious that I haven’t been alone this whole time, or that I’m in the wrong house altogether. Like the owner of the dog might be around here somewhere. But then I recognize the dog. It’s the same one from the phone background.

Bring back my bloody dog, will you?

At this point, I have to accept that something is definitely going on.

What if the person who owns this place looks like me or something? A doppelgänger? And that’s why Cillian—no, but that doesn’t make any sense, he called me Meg. So did Kiera. Meggie even. And before I can go down the road of thinking that maybe my long-lost twin lives in this house and she’s named Meg, that credit card he handed me had my full name on it. And my signature. Maybe her name is also Meg Anabelle Bryan?

But then Cillian knew me well enough to know about Aimee.

I go over to the dog and its tail starts thumping harder, rhythmically and comfortably against the upholstery. There’s a pink collar tucked beneath the fur, and this makes me assume, possibly regressively, that it’s a girl.

“Hi,” I say. “Are you the dog who likes to wear sunglasses?”

For some reason, her presence makes this all feel a little easier to digest. Some people would arrive to their Airbnb, see a pet, and be outraged that someone left it behind. Not me. And honestly, even if I’m losing my mind, at least there’s a dog here.

I sit beside her, and she squints sleepily at me, her wavy-haired ears submissively back and flat against her head, making her look a bit like a dolphin. Her wet nose sniffs at me.

“Hi, puppy,” I say. “You are…” I look on the collar and see the tag. “Maur—Maureen?”

She responds right away, perking her ears up now into pert triangles, so it clearly is her name. Who names a dog Maureen? I know there was that whole fad a million years ago where everyone thought it was high comedy to name their dachshund something human like George or their Weimaraner Bob, but … Maureen?

I scratch behind her ears and she gives me a lick on the cheek, wagging her tail happily.

All right, as long as the dog doesn’t start talking, I think I can manage to stay calm.

I stand up, urgently deciding that the first thing I need to do is make sure I’m still me.

I see a door to what looks like the bathroom, so I go in, briefly admiring how pretty the wallpaper is—blue with red poppies.

Then I see my reflection.

Whoa.