Objectively, I know that’s not true. I still worry about it, though.

Right now, I’m worried that he knows I’m not telling him about my time-travel plan. He keeps looking at me like he capital-K Knows. I shift in my seat and stare at the diffuser. I also wonder if Dr. Randall ever gets sick of the smell of eucalyptus.

He arches his graying eyebrows. “Does my observation make you uncomfortable?”

I squeeze my hands together again. “Not particularly.”

He makes his signature “mmm” sound. “You’re more reluctant to talk than usual, but you also seem more, dare I say, sure-footed.”

“Sure-footed?”

He turns to the clock. “Our time is almost up, and you haven’t cried once today.”

“Is that bad? Do you take that as a personal failing?”

He leans back in his big plushy chair and laughs a little. “No. I actually am choosing to take it as a point of pride. That you’re getting better adjusted, finding your feet. Hence, sure-footed.”

Dr. Randall talks to me in a sophisticated way. It’s like he knows I can handle all the fancy loops of his speech patterns. Which I can. Definitely.

“You told me before there’s nothing wrong with crying.”

“There is nothing wrong with crying. But, to me, the fact that you aren’t crying is also a good sign. Two things can be true, you know.”

I look around his office. There’s a large abacus in the middle of the floor with multicolored beads. I know his younger patients play with toys while they talk to him. When we first met, he asked if I’d like to squeeze a ball or push the beads on the abacus. I declined. I’m not five years old, after all—but now the abacus looks pretty appealing. It would at least be something for my hands to do.

“Cora, I hope you know that you can ask me anything,” he says.

“How do you know I want to ask you something?”

Another “mmm.” A patient smile. “Just a hunch.”

“You said two things can be true. But do you think impossible things can be true?” The question spills out of my mouth.

Dr. Randall doesn’t seem flustered by it, though. “Well, the word impossible suggests something that is untrue. But I want you to clarify what you mean by ‘impossible.’”

“Impossible,” I repeat.

“Impossible,” he confirms. He eyes me, waiting. Dr. Randall is very good at waiting.

“Like time travel?”

“Time travel.” He says those two words like they are the most neutral things in the whole world. “You’ve been thinking a lot about time travel?”

I squirm. I don’t make eye contact with him. I find it very difficult to lie to Dr. Randall. “Not a lot.”

“What appeals to you about time travel?”

I look up. “Isn’t it obvious?”

“You want to change what happened to your sister?” He tips forward in his chair.

I nod and fold my arms. “Obviously.”

“What would you change?”

“I wouldn’t want her to—”

Dr. Randall raises his hand. “Obviously.” He uses my word gently. “I’m asking, is there something particular you would change?”