She motions for me to take a seat, so I sit, the cool stone leeching through my pants and chilling my thighs and butt.

She sits next to me. A little too close. I scoot as far over as I can without falling off the edge.

“Is there anything specific you are seeking guidance on? Any questions you want to ask of the universe?”

“Wait. Are you the psychic?”

Another lengthy silence. If her eyes weren’t open, I might think she was sleeping. “I’m more of a spiritual advisor.”

She’s a teenager. What is she going to advise me on? TikTok and the rise and fall of Justin Bieber? This may have been the worst decision I’ve made on this day so far, and that’s really saying something. But I doubt I’ll get a refund. And I have no one else to talk to.

I think about how to phrase my question for a few seconds, to tell her the truth without coming off as completely unhinged, and finally settle on, “Every day is the same, over and over. And I have no control over anything. Do you know what I mean?”

She nods slowly, not meeting my eyes, instead looking out at the garden. I follow her gaze over the greenery to a statue of an angel perched on a concrete bust next to the pond.

She inhales and exhales a couple of times.

“Every day is the same,” she repeats slowly. “Yes. It seems you have an issue with time.”

My attention snaps to her, watching her profile. My breath catches in my chest. “Yes.”

Her lips thin. Her head tilts. Then she shakes her head. “No. Time isn’t your real issue. You just think it is.”

“What do you mean? Time is the issue. It’s exactly my issue.”

She turns and meets my gaze head-on, unblinking. Then she grins. “Time doesn’t exist.”

“Oh,” I laugh. “I beg to differ.”

She shakes her head. “Time is not linear. It’s more of a circle. But even that is too simplistic.” She thinks for a minute and then snaps her fingers. “Time is like a taco.”

“A taco?”

“You have something against tacos?”

“No. I love tacos. Especially the little street ones with the double tortillas, but how is time like a taco?”

“The tortilla is malleable. And you can fold it up to where one piece barely touches the other end. Creating a kind of loop.” She watches me, eyes narrowing.

My heart stutters. I didn’t tell her I was stuck in a loop. How does she know? Or does she? Is this one of those phishing attempts where they are like, “You had an uncle with brown hair” or “You knew someone who died with a J name—John? Joe? Jerry?” and the dummy gasps and shouts “Javier!” and believes they’re legit?