Riley is shaking my memory-self awake, his panic visible thanks to the strange orange light streaming in through the window. I’m probably about twelve or thirteen here, a few years younger than in my last memory. But we’re in the same house, this time in my bedroom, the walls covered with posters of boy bands and movie stars, the shelves teeming with books, clothes strewn across the floor.

“Lyss!” Riley yells, shaking me even harder.

“Go ’way, Riles,” my younger self tells him, pushing him away. “’S middle of the night.”

I don’t have to look at Smith, who has materialized beside me, to know he’s likely seeing the irony of the situation. But I do turn to him and ask about our memory-jumping. “What’s going on? Why are we—”

I don’t finish before Riley says something that has me whirling back to him.

“There was a gas leak next door—the whole house is on fire!”

It takes a moment for my memory-self to process his words, but then I leap out of bed and run to the window. The real me follows on wooden legs, realizing that the orange light is coming from the flames engulfing our neighbor’s house. The entire two-story building is lit up against the night, the sounds of distant sirens too far away to be of any help.

“Lyss—Theo’s still inside,” Riley says. “They can’t get to him.”

“What?” my younger self breathes. But then she’s—I’m— tearing out of my room, Riley on my heels.

I’m vaguely aware of Smith and Kael running with me as I follow my younger self and Riley down a staircase, through the living room that was the focus of the memory I’m desperate to return to, and outside into the night.

The immense heat of the fire hits me immediately, the smell of smoke burning my nose and causing my eyes to water.

“Riley! Take your sister inside! Now!”

I follow the sound of my mum’s voice and see her and my dad standing beside an elderly couple who have their arms around each other, both of them looking fearfully into the blazing house. All four adults are wearing their pajamas, the elder two with black charcoal smudges covering them.

I’m confused—I don’t know why we’re here, why we’re watching this memory. I may have no recollection of it, but other than the misfortune of my neighbors, I can’t imagine why it’s replaying for us now. I turn toward Smith, about to ask him to refocus his intent and get us back to my original memory, but the look on his face makes me hold my tongue.

“Smith?” I ask tentatively. “Are you … okay?”

He doesn’t look okay. He looks like he’s about to be sick. His face is white, his body visibly quaking.

“Theo!”