I don’t call out. I don’t say anything. I don’t want to talk to her.

Not yet.

I glance at my watch. It’s just after three. Now I know what time to avoid running into her.

Once she’s disappeared, I head upstairs and eat my tacos, alone in the comfort of my familiar apartment.

Then I resume my endless thinking. And pacing. Thinking and pacing, while writing up a new ad idea for tomorrow. Something with love. If the child psychic says I need to get through this with love, that’s what I’ll focus on. Two lovers estranged, brought back together with the Splice app?

I scribble down notes, mind a whir of activity.

I’m going to fix this day. I’m going to come up with a new pitch and show them I can do it. That I have value. That I can fit. Maybe I’ll even get to keep my job. Maybe I can keep going over and over until I get it right, figure it out. Maybe this is a chance from the universe to get what I want.

Or I’m dead and this is hell.

Or tomorrow, I’ll wake up and it will be Tuesday and I’ll just have ruined my own life by blowing most of my money on fabric, tacos, and teenage psychics.

I put all the fabric I purchased in the closet, along with some written ideas for a new pitch.

Tomorrow, we’ll see what happens.

I lie in bed and try to think more positive thoughts. I can find a way to do something—take action. Like with the magic closet.

The neighbor is crying again. Muffled sobs. The soundtrack of my new life.

I pull a pillow over my head.

I have control of my choices and actions. I can get out through love.

The teenage psychic told me so. Spiritual advisor. Bah!

Except . . . disbelief wars with hope in my brain, a thought I’ve been avoiding all afternoon rising to the surface.

She called me Jane. I’m sure I never told her my name.

Chapter Six

Sprinkle me.

Well. It’s Monday. Again.

And I need to check the closet.

I scramble out of bed.

The fabric is still there. The papers scribbled with new ad possibilities survived too. Everything I put in the closet survived the night. I turn around. Everything I didn’t put in the closet is back where it was on the first Monday. The phone, the clothes, the briefcase . . .

It is a magic closet.

I spend ten seconds dancing around, my limbs a spastic blur divorced from the music’s tempo, but whatever. Something is different, something I can maybe use to my advantage, and it makes me inordinately happy. I can control something in this weird . . . whatever this is.