There are stacks of photos and other pieces of paper in the box, but I set it aside, needing a minute.

I sigh and pet Maureen.

This house could literally not be more perfect for me if I had designed it myself. It could not be more representative of me if I lived here. It has far more of my taste and belongings than Grayson’s house does; when I moved in with him, I brought very little, never wanting to seem like a bother and knowing he had everything we would need. I had also chaotically thrown out most of my own possessions anyway for emotional or unemotional reasons and then often regretted it, as with the boots. According to everyone in LA, this is because I’m such a Cancer. Apparently my moon is Sagittarius so that’s why I dump everything, but I care later because my sun … rises … I don’t know. I’ve never understood it.

I take a deep breath and center myself around one truth. I am in my own body. Even if it’s different than last I saw it, it’s still me.

I am me. I can see, breathe, touch, hear, and—God knows after that amazing beer and meal—I can taste.

Deep breath in, deep breath out.

I have always loved movies. And reading. I love stories. And I’ve rolled my eyes at the main character of every magical movie I’ve seen and book I’ve read when they buy into the fantasy world a little too quickly or when they aren’t getting it fast enough.

Like, hello, Bill Murray, it’s the same day again, catch on, duh.

Or, on the contrary: Wow, Owen Wilson, you sure bought into the whole traveling back to the twenties every night thing pretty fast.

But I don’t know, man. I am seriously starting to think that’s happening to me somehow, and I don’t have any clue what to think or do. Or say. Or—anything. It’s hard to react at all because it’s confusing. On one hand it feels obvious: Something crazy has happened. But on the other hand: I know crazy stuff doesn’t happen. And whether I believe it or not, this isn’t a simple trip to Ireland anymore.

I experiment with the evidential truth. I am not Lana Lord. Not an actress on a show. I am myself, but kind of the old me. I … live in Avalon? Or at the very least, this house is filled with my things. Also, I appear to have a past that I don’t remember living, like meeting Maureen when she was a puppy. I appear to be friends with Kiera. I appear to have some sort of past or friendship or, I don’t know, rivalry, with Cillian.

That cracked phone is mine. And if that’s my phone, then there are answers in there.