I’m struggling with how real everything around me feels. The organ music is ringing in my ears, the sun is bright overhead, the smell of greasy street food is wafting past my nose. There are kids screaming at their parents, at each other— some laughing, some crying. There’s so much noise, so much color, so much life as people of all ages wander through the alleyways, exploring every corner of the park.

“This is interesting.”

I jump as Smith materializes beside me, his hand still in mine, as if he’s been here with me all along.

“I don’t think it worked,” I tell him. “This isn’t a missing memory. I can remember it without help.”

As the final word leaves my lips, my eyes land on the carousel, and a smile pulls at my mouth. But the action freezes when I look closer only to see my parents, as clear as day. They’re standing just outside the short picket fence encircling the ride, both of them beaming as they wave enthusiastically.

I follow their line of sight and suck in a sharp breath, tugging Smith with me as I automatically move closer, needing a better look. And that’s because I see that it’s me my parents are waving at, no more than five or six years old, bobbing up and down on a painted plastic horse. My little arms are wrapped around its neck and my mouth is open in a laugh, but I’m not looking at my mum and dad—I’m looking at the person riding the horse next to me.

I stumble to a halt, not even sure if I’m breathing.

It’s a boy.

A boy with dark hair.

A boy with blue eyes.

My eyes.

“Riley,” I breathe.

Despite his youth, there’s no mistaking him.

Tears obscure my vision as the undeniable truth hits me. I raise my free hand to shakily wipe them away, only vaguely noticing the fuzzy outline around my arm, which I now see surrounds my whole body. It’s all the warning I have before a gleeful child holding a helium balloon runs straight through me. I bend at the waist as if punched in the stomach, straightening again only when the indescribable pins-and-needles sensation has passed.

“Sorry. I should have told you about that,” Smith says, not sounding at all apologetic. He jerks his head toward the carousel and says, “I take it that’s you?”

I can only nod.

“And you said you already remember this?”

My throat is thick as I answer, “Yes. But … But not all of it.”

“What does that mean?”

I point to the boy. “Him. I don’t remember him.”

Smith asks, “Who is he?”

My voice is barely a whisper as I answer, “My brother. I think he’s my brother.”

Chapter Nineteen

CHAPTER NINETEEN