I sat up in bed. Sheets of electric-blue hair cascaded down either side of my face.

Oh shit.

I reached up to touch my face. Neither my face nor my hands felt familiar.

I swallowed and glanced down.

I was wearing a loose-fitting Van Halen tank top. My gaze, however, shot straight down the valley of two soft mountains attached to my chest.

What the fuck, what the fuck, what the absolute fuck?

My head snapped upright. I rotated my gaze until I was looking at my reflection in a sliding-mirror-door closet.

I was Wynonna fucking Jones.

I didn’t realize how far I was leaning over the edge of the bed until it was too late. There was a sharp chime beside me. I jumped and screamed—easily the girliest sound that ever came out of Wynonna’s mouth—and lost my balance. My limbs flailed, but my legs were tangled in knotted-up sheets. I toppled over the edge of the bed, making a futile grab for the nightstand, which I nearly brought down with me. Instead, I merely knocked off the bedside table lamp. The lamp, however, had different plans. Gravity whipped the lamp cord taut, cleaning the surface of the nightstand in one fatal sweep. Bedside paraphernalia rained down like the biblical plagues of Egypt.

The good news was that I broke my fall with Wynonna’s face. The bad news was that I was wearing it.

I heard it again—a sharp chime.

I opened my eyes.

There was a phone, like, three inches from my face—Wynonna’s phone—and a text message from a number that the phone didn’t recognize, but I did. It was my number.

I was still hanging halfway off the bed, legs knotted in sheets, like a mermaid on a clothesline hanging out to dry. My upper body, meanwhile, was spooled onto the floor like dog shit. I attempted to writhe my legs free, but mostly I just pulled the sheets down with me.

I sat upright, back wedged into the nook of the bed and the nightstand, and read the text:

Erza, pick up the ponhe, or I saewr to god, I’ll kill you! I know yo’ure there!!

That was actually putting it generous because some of the letters were upside down. Some of the letters weren’t even real letters! The longer I stared at it—tried to make sense of what I was looking at—the worse it became. The letters became fuzzy. Blurred out of focus.

I squeezed my eyes shut, holding the inevitable headache at bay. Opened them again.

Erza, pcik up the pnhoe, or I sewar to god, I’ll klil you! I konw yr’uoe three!!

What the shit? Was Wynonna on drugs?

The screen went black. I swiped to open it.

It went directly to her lock screen.

Shitballs. How the cock was I supposed to know her—

Ding! Another text.

the cdoe is 1234.