“I don’t know anything!” I insist. Again, I’m too loud. People are watching. Whatever story they’re playing out in their minds, it’s not going to be this one. I lower my voice—I don’t want them to hear more. I don’t want to do this. “I don’t know,” I say. “I really don’t know.”

Why? Why is this happening to me? Why can’t I stand up and leave? Why am I thinking for even a second that it might not be a lie?

Her. This girl. I look at her. Her heart is breaking. She is looking at me and her heart is breaking. I don’t understand. I don’t understand why. Her hand is moving onto mine. She is holding my hand. She is trying to get me through this. She is trying to take me through.

“I know it’s a lot.” Her voice is hurt. Her voice is comfort. “Believe me, I know.”

I can barely get the words out. “It’s not possible.”

“It is,” she says. “I’m the proof.”

Proof. Proof is a fact. None of this is a fact. This is a feeling. All of this is a feeling.

No. It’s thousands of feelings. So many of them yes. So many of them no.

She wants me to believe—what? That she was Justin. That she was Nathan. That girl in school. Other people.

How can I believe that? Who would ever believe that?

It cannot be a fact.

But it’s still a feeling. The yes. It’s there.

How can I let myself feel that? How?

“Look,” she says, “what if we met here again tomorrow at the same time? I won’t be in the same body, but I’ll be the same person. Would that make it easier to understand?”

Like it’s that simple. Like that couldn’t be a trick.

“But couldn’t you just tell someone else to come here?” I point out. If I can be suckered by one person, why not another?

“Yes, but why would I? This isn’t a prank. This isn’t a joke. It’s my life.”

The way she says it—It’s my life.

Not a feeling. Fact.

“You’re insane,” I tell her. If she actually believes what she’s saying, how could she not be?

But she doesn’t seem at all insane when she tells me, “You’re just saying that. You know I’m not. You can sense that much.”

I look at her again. I search for the lie in her eyes. The flaw. And when I don’t see it, I decide, Fine, it’s time for me to ask some questions.

I start by asking her what her name is.

“Today I’m Megan Powell.”

“No,” I say. “I mean your real name.” Because if she’s really jumping from body to body, there has to be a name for the person inside.

I’ve thrown her. She wasn’t expecting this question. I wait for her to back away from what she’s said. I wait for her to laugh and say I’ve got her.

But she doesn’t laugh. She hesitates, but she doesn’t laugh.

“A,” she finally says.

At first I don’t get it. Then I realize—she’s telling me that this is her name.

“Just A?” I ask.

“Just A. I came up with it when I was a little kid. It was a way of keeping myself whole, even as I went from body to body, life to life. I needed something pure. So I went with the letter A.”

I don’t want to believe this.

“What do you think about my name?” I challenge.

“I told you the other night. I think it’s beautiful, even if you once found it hard to spell.”

True. That is true.

But I can’t.

I can’t.

I’m sure there are other questions, but I’m out of them. I’m sure there could be plenty more time, but I’m out of time. I can’t do this. I can’t allow this to be real. I can’t start believing her. Because that will make me an even bigger fool.

I stand up. She stands up, too.

There are still people looking at us. Imagining we’re having a fight. Or imagining we’re a couple. Or imagining this is a first date that’s been a total bust.

Fact: It is none of these things.

Feeling: It is all of these things.

“Rhiannon,” she says. And it’s in there. It’s in the way she says my name. Every now and then, Justin says my name like that. Like it’s the most precious thing in the world.

Forget about everyone else laughing. Now I want to laugh. This can’t be happening. It can’t.

She’s going to tell me more. She’s going to push it further. She’s going to say my name like that again, and I am going to hear music in it I shouldn’t hear.

I hold up my hand. “No more,” I insist. “Not now.” And then it’s there—the answer I don’t want, the benefit against the doubt. “Tomorrow. I’ll give you tomorrow. Because that’s one way to know, isn’t it? If what you say is happening is really happening—I mean, I need more than a day.”

I’m waiting for her to put up a fight. I’m waiting for her to argue it some more. Or maybe this is the part where the camera crew comes out and I discover my humiliation has all been filmed for some cruel TV show.

But no.

None of that happens.

All that happens is that she thanks me. Genuine thanks. Thankful thanks.

“Don’t thank me until I show up,” I warn her. “This is all really confusing.”

“I know,” she says.

It’s my life.

I have to go. But then I turn back one last time to look at her, and I see how she’s on the border between hope and devastation. It’s that visible to me. And even though the alarms are loud and clear in my head, I feel I can’t leave her like this. I want to push her a little closer to hope and a little farther from devastation.