I move aside to let her in and take a sip of the chai, which is exactly how I like it, though it’s been years since I’ve had anything but sugarless coffee or some mushroom bullshit that’s supposed to be healthier than coffee.

“Why exactly would I be mad at you?” I ask. “For the chai?”

“Well, I don’t want to give you any ideas if you’re not,” she says, thinking I’m joking. When she sees I’m actually puzzled, she says, “Because of Nial?”

“Nial. Why would I care about Nial?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean … why would I care?”

She squints at me. “Drink your tea. Clearly you need the caffeine.”

In movies, when someone wakes up in a life that isn’t theirs and they have to play catch-up, the other characters are always answering questions with tons of helpful exposition. Like in a Hallmark movie I once watched, where the heroine finds herself in a small town where everyone thinks she’s her identical, long-lost twin. The heroine, with her conservative outfit and perfectly blown-out hair, asked things like, And you are…? and the characters always responded with things like, Darcy, you’re so silly today! I’m your quirky, hopelessly single, nameless best friend who runs the local muffin shop! We’ve been friends since we were sixteen years old? You remember, we get together every morning for coffee and discuss things like how to help the mayor save the local firehouse?

Kiera is not being as helpful. Instead, she’s taken the lid off her drink, promptly spilled some on the table, and has begun dabbing it up with a tea towel.

Maureen has found a stuffed toy and is now milling in circles with it, hoping to be noticed and appreciated.

“Don’t talk to me ’til I’ve had my coffee, am I right?” says Kiera, holding up the towel and then tossing it into a rattan basket with other dishrags. “Anyway, how you getting on?”

Even less helpful.

She sits down on the couch by the fireplace and waits on the update.

“Did you have a fire last night?” she asks, gesturing at the hearth. “Did Cillian come over?”

“No, I was cold,” I say, though a dreamy, romantic image has come to mind of that gorgeous bartender here stoking my fire. Not a euphemism. Although—

“And you didn’t turn on the heater?” she asks, gesturing at a metal object I can now see is very obviously a space heater. “You never use the fireplace.”

I shrug, a gesture that feels wildly blasé for how strange everything is right now. “Thought the fire would be nice.”

She gives me a look of confusion and says, “Who are you and what’ve you done with my best friend?”

Welp, I’m not gonna get an opening better than that.