“Look, I can’t say this will work. I have no idea what’s going on. I don’t know if the monologue will be the same. Maybe without me, it’s different.” In fact, it probably will be. The writers change everything based on audience response. “But this is a good place to start. I won’t spoil it for you. I’ll write it down and give it to you and you can open it after you watch the episode.”

“Shouldn’t there be some wizard guiding you through this or something? Or like, Father Christmas?”

“I know, right? That would be nice.”

She considers. “All right, fine. We’ll do the finale thing. But will you do me a favor in the meantime?”

“Anything!”

“Let’s get your head checked. I mean, you seem normal enough. You seem calm, sort of, and you don’t seem like you’ve had a catastrophic cranial injury, but obviously everything you’ve said since I arrived is absolutely mad, so I think it’s best we get you checked out.”

“I really don’t like hospitals.”

“We’ll just go see Jim.”

Jim again.

“Okay,” I say.

“Great, good, grand, okay.” She starts to make moves.

I remember Aimee. Not that I’d forgotten, but the idea is so massive it’s hard to hold it in my mind while I think, speak, or do anything else.

“And … you know Aimee?” I ask.

“Of course I do.”

“Is she … is she here?”

“What, in the room with us?” She makes a face.

I breathe deeply. “No, I mean … I—does she live in Avalon?” I stumble a bit on the word live.

The moment between my question and her response is one of the longest of my life. Is she here? Is Aimee here? Is Aimee somewhere at all?

“Yes…”

Holy shit. Oh my God, oh my God.

“Can we go see Aimee? Now?”

I stand.

My heart skips a few beats as I stare up at the photo of Aimee, Kiera, and me.

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea, Meg. You two haven’t spoken lately.”

“What?” Bile rises in my throat. “Why?”

She stands too. “Meg, this is really worrying. You really don’t remember anything that’s happened?”

I let out a deep sigh. If I were her, I would have already called the men in white coats to take me away.

Part of me wants to tell her why it’s so important and staggering that she’s saying Aimee is here. But I can’t do it.

“I don’t know,” I say, rubbing my eyes in frustration. “Maybe my plane crashed and this is my version of Lost. Maybe we’ll all find out I’m dead in the finale.”

Her eyebrows drop to a heavy line and she lifts her chin at me. “You know damn well I’m only on season three.”