When he pulls the phone away, I grab his arm to keep it in my sight. “It’s the seventh.” It’s really the seventh. “Oh my gosh I had the worst dream last night.” I release him to press a hand to my head.

I can’t process this.

“Oh crap, I’m late. Again!” I spin around and slam the door behind me.

Dizzy with adrenaline and nerves and confusion, I get dressed and grab my makeup bag. Déjà vu rushes through me. This is so bizarre. The outfit I laid out is there, on the chair in my bedroom. There’s no tear in the side of my blouse, no gold safety pin from Alex. I smooth it out, staring hard at the side that was ripped. Yesterday. Or so I thought. Was it really a dream? I’ve never had such a vivid dream. Or nightmare, more like. But it didn’t really happen. It couldn’t have.

Relief blows through me like a spring breeze. I won’t get fired. Things will be back to normal. I’ll do fine on my pitch. I won’t get fired. It will be great.

But the fuzzy, warm feelings are short-lived.

On the train, it’s just like my dream. Redhead with bright clothes. Business dude flailing his hands and talking.

The train lurches and I reach for the pole again.

I lift my hand into my field of vision. Again with the brown questionable substance.

I stare at it, my mind going a mile a minute, my heart picking up in time with my racing thoughts. What if I’m psychic now? Is this what it’s like for psychic people? One day you know everything that’s going to happen?

I should be rushing to work, but the sense of discombobulation won’t leave and it makes me feel like I’m walking through water.

“Hannah, can you—?” The words stall out in my mouth.

Her nose twitches like she’s smelling something rank. Exactly like in my dream.

“Hey, Jane.” Presley appears behind her, a brow puckered. “You look like you need a sec. I’ll tell the team you’re here and will be with them in a minute.”

I can’t even say thanks this time. I nod and turn in the direction of the bathrooms.

But not before I catch Mark’s sly wink, making me flinch.

I approach the hallway to the bathroom like a heroine in a horror flick approaching the basement with a broken light.

I want to wash my dirty hand more than I want to breathe, but . . . if Alex . . .

“Hey, Jane.” He emerges from the hallway leading to the restrooms and stops in front of me.

I exhale a relieved breath. And then I stare. He’s wearing the same shirt. The Led Zeppelin tee I got dirty yesterday.