She nodded her head. It was an empty—but definitive—nod.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” I said.

“I thought you already knew. I mean, you were there.”

“But I didn’t know. I mean… I guess I did, sort of, but… I didn’t remember.”

“Yeah. I know.”

I stared at Wynonna, beyond perplexed.

Wynonna shrugged. “I thought you were lying to me. Which… look, I was fine with it. I figured you didn’t wanna talk about it, and I didn’t wanna talk about it either. It wasn’t until later that I realized you didn’t have a fucking clue.”

She paused. Bit her lip.

“So… you remember now?”

“I do now. It’s like rear-ending that truck knocked it back into my head.”

“Huh. Weird.”

She didn’t even know the half of it.

I told her everything—the forgotten memories I could suddenly recall in vivid detail. Making eye contact with Wynonna at the accident. Wishing I was her. And feeling somehow—inexplicably—that she was wishing for a similar thing.

I told her I made this wish at 3:14 a.m.

I told her about the sensation I felt at Saluki Stadium. That we might have swapped—ever so briefly—at the moment of the eclipse.

Wynonna’s eyes grew progressively larger with every detail. I was apparently hitting some notes that resonated with her.

By the time I finished talking, I looked at her. Fishing for some verbal confirmation that I was on the right track.

“Yes!” said Wynonna. The word broke from her lips in a ragged breath. She was smiling and shaking simultaneously. “Fuck. Yes. I remember all of that.”

We talked all night—about the accident, about our memories, about our feelings. We even talked about Roscoe. Mostly I talked about Roscoe, and Wynonna listened. Still, that was a special sort of progress.

Then, at 3:14 a.m., we unceremoniously swapped.

Things were back to normal.

Well, a form of normal. But it was good enough for us.

“Damn,” said Wynezra. “It feels like someone drove a spike in between my eyeballs, right into my brain.”

I nodded empathetically.

“It also feels like I’m swimming naked in rose petals like that girl in American Beauty,” she said. “Jesus, how much morphine do they have you on?”

“Enough to alleviate a spike driven in between your eyeballs, right into your brain?” I suggested.

“I’ll say. Like, I feel the spike, but I also feel like I’m made of magic. Dude. I feel like a unicorn!”

I giggled helplessly. Wynezra on morphine was my new favorite thing.

“I realize I’m on drugs right now,” said Wynezra, “but I’ll do it.”

I blinked. “Do what?”

“Talk to my dad.”

I nearly fell over in my chair. “What? You will?”

“I’m not agreeing to go to fucking Switzerland with him,” she said, hastily. “I’m not agreeing to anything. But I’ll talk to him.”