A sorrowful smile, a budding tear. “I’m serious. It’s like a recurring nightmare I have to go through every day. A game everyone’s in on but me. Sometimes I get out. Or I think I do. Once for several weeks, even went to the police and got this big investigation started. Was taken to a safe house and put under constant surveillance. But it was all a sham, just part of the same elaborate scheme. And it’s got to where I don’t even know when it all started. Maybe this is my whole life.”

I wondered if Mister, Professor, or Doctor O was on the far side of the mirror, looking in. “It’s the book, isn’t it? Where it starts?”

Her face corkscrewed. “Right, the book.” Words rancid as bile. “You think you found that book by chance?”

Solomon had told me about the book, and there is no way he would have intentionally subjected me to this. Not without a dire reason, and I couldn’t imagine what that would be. “Yeah,” I said. “What’s the alternative, the book found me?”

“If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that there’s nothing coincidental about any of this.” She misinterpreted my sugar high for cynicism. “Don’t believe me?” she said.

“You told me not to believe you.”

She faced me, forcing my gaze from the mirror. How old was she? Twenty-four or thirty-four, I couldn’t tell. “Okay, I’ll prove it.”

Mentalists and magicians propose the impossible with equal bravado. “By all means.”

Her questions came in rapid-fire sequence.

“Are you an orphan?” No.

“Adopted?” No.

“Any near-death experiences?” Clinically, no.

“Been hypnotized?” No.

“Religious upbringing?” Uh.… Sure, along with over a billion others. Try again.

“Methodist?” Ye-ah?

“Youth ministries?” Yeah, but it was more like a social thing. Had a band that played metal tunes and hit on chicks.

“Retreats?” Your point?

“Love Week.” Wait, say that again?

She paused, dipped her pinky in the coffee and sucked it clean. Flecks of teal polish clung to the nail. “Let me guess, campsite near Waycross. Close to the Okefenokee. A week of spiritual reflection and purification.”

My mom had forced me to go to that geek retreat in the eighth and ninth grades. It was her meek version of boot camp. A plea for divine intervention to corral my wayward soul. Hoping the group counselor could fill in for my absent dad. Tame my rebellious spirit with scripture. Soften my heart with fireside songs. Like singing ‘Kumbaya’ would get me to quit smoking weed. Come on, that song was written by a stoner. And s’mores afterwards? Please.

“Good guess,” I said. “I’d love to see the file you guys have on me. Must put the one my doctor has to shame.”