I do what I always do and lead with, “Everything’s fine.” And then I have no idea what to say. I can’t tell her what’s happening—or what I think is happening, especially since I don’t really know what I think is happening—or she’ll flip out. I need to get information, that’s all. I can’t scare her. “It’s fine. I’m sorry to wake you up. I can explain later, but can you tell me where”—I hesitate—“where … I live? I know it sounds— Can you tell me?”

“What are you talking about? Where are you, what’s going on? Meg, are you hurt?”

“No! Not at all, I’ll explain later. Can you please just tell me?”

She hesitates. “This is very weird, Meg. What are you—”

I hear my dad’s voice grumble in the background.

“What’s wrong, is it Meggie?”

“I’m fine, I really am. When I explain, it’ll be fine, and it’ll make sense, trust me,” I lie. “It’s a stupid … scavenger hunt thing at … brunch.”

I come up with the fake story out of thin air, knowing that it’ll incense her to have been awoken for a drinking game, but that as long as she knows I’m safe, she’ll give me the answer.

My eyes go back to the photo of Aimee.

“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” she says, moving the phone microphone away from her mouth and telling my dad, “She’s fine, she’s brunch-drunk.” She returns to the phone to say, “This is very uncool, Meg.”

“I know. I’ll apologize later.”

“You live at 432 Effie Lane in Avalon. I cannot believe you called me with this at the crack of dawn, it’s incredibly inconsiderate.”

“I’m sorry,” I say. “Go back to—”

“Also, I’m finally on season ten of Vanderpump Rules, and we have got to talk about the whole Tom Sandoval thing.”

My eyebrows shoot up in surprise. I’ve been telling my mom to watch that show for years.

“Oh my—”

“But not right now. I’m going back to bed.”

She hangs up.

Well, that settles it. This isn’t a prank. My mom thinks I live here. In Avalon. In Ireland.

I look at the picture again.

The other two girls and I are set against a backdrop of candles and wine bottles and other things I can’t quite make out on wooden shelves. It looks like a shop.

My hair in two longish braids, I’m leaning over a table, laughing, my hands keeping three empty wineglasses steady as Kiera, who is beside me, pours champagne into one of them.

On my other side is Aimee. Grown-up Aimee.