Gretchen McNeil - 3:59

So much for feeling better in the morning.

“Did you hear me?” Her mom cracked the bedroom door. There was a pause where her mom must have registered that Josie was still, in fact, in bed, then Josie felt a whoosh of air as her mom threw the door open. “You’re not even awake yet?”

Silence. Was she going to ask what was wrong? Josie wasn’t sure if she was hoping for it or dreading it.

“Are you feeling okay?”

“No,” Josie croaked.

There was the sound of footsteps across the hardwood floor, stopping short of Josie’s bed. “I’m sorry.” Her mom paused. “You should stay home.”

“Okay.” Maybe she could just stay in bed forever and never go back to Bowie Prep? That seemed like the best-case scenario.

“I’ll call and check in on you from the lab. Try to get some rest.”

Yeah. Rest.

3:59 P.M.

She can’t sleep.

She sits up in bed, pushes her sleep mask to her forehead, and squints against the light. She never has insomnia. Always sleeps like the dead. But she’s been tossing and turning for hours. Time to give up.

She throws the blue floral comforter back and swings her legs over the bed. The carpet is soft and lush as she walks across the room to the bookcase. She wiggles her toes in it as she tries to decide on a book.

She chooses a volume of Keats. A gift from her mom. She’s never read it but it seems like it would fit her romantic mood. She reaches for the necklace that hangs just beneath her throat and fingers the delicately woven gold hearts. Nick and Jo. Intertwined forev—

The word forever freezes on her tongue. She stares at the antique mirror in the corner of her room. It perfectly reflects her bed.

But instead of an empty bed and rumpled comforter, sound asleep in her bed is a girl.

She glances back at her bed. It’s empty. But when she returns to the mirror, she can clearly see the image of someone asleep in the bed. Her bed. She takes a step closer to the mirror just as the girl rolls over. She can see the face clearly now. It’s not just a girl.

It’s her. Identical.

But that’s impossible.

She’s across the room in a second, her face inches from the mirror. That room, that girl. They look so real. Like the glass from the mirror has evaporated away to nothing. She reaches out her hand expecting to feel the cold, smooth surface of the mirror, but instead the space feels dense, thick, and spongy like gelatin. Her fingertips permeate the gooey nothingness beyond the frame of the mirror, warping the reflection of the girl asleep.

Is it really a reflection? What’s happening?

The sleeping girl sits up.

Josie’s eyes flew open. She sat straight up in bed and stared at the mirror. For a split second, so fast she wasn’t sure it was real or just a lingering image from her dream, Josie thought she saw someone in the mirror.

A girl. Her .

Before Josie’s brain could even register what she saw, the image was gone and the mirror was just a mirror, reflecting the chaotic mess of Josie’s room.

Josie squeezed her eyes shut, trying to recall what she’d just seen. A girl who looked so much like her, standing in the mirror with her hand outstretched as if she were going to reach through the mirror into Josie’s room.

Just like in her dream. Holy shit. Josie jumped out of bed. Late afternoon light streamed through the slats in her closed blinds. Her heart thundered in her chest and she was breathing heavily. Fear-induced adrenaline raced through her veins, leaving her dizzy and disoriented.

She’d been having another dream. A dream about her, but not her. Just like all her dreams recently.

Except this time when she opened her eyes, she knew she was awake. Wide awake. She knew she saw someone in that mirror. Someone who looked exactly like her. A twin. A doppelgänger.

Josie looked at her alarm and caught her breath.

4:00.

That time was familiar. What time was it when she dreamed that Nick had given her the necklace? She vividly remembered the red digital readout on her alarm clock: four in the morning. Which meant she’d had the dream at exactly 3:59.

She tried to think back to the first dream she’d had, the one where she’d been driving a Beemer and had outrun the train at the crossing. It had been the middle of the night and she didn’t think much about what time she’d woken up, but could it have been the same? Could it have happened at 3:59?

Josie’s heart fluttered in her chest. She was having weird dreams, always at the same time. Was she going crazy? Was it just a coincidence?

There is no such thing as coincidence , she said to herself. There must be a logical explanation. This is a pattern, so it must have a reason.

“Calm down,” she said out loud. “Just calm down and you’ll figure it out.”

The words had the desired effect. Josie’s breathing began to normalize. Her pulse slowed; panic and fear ebbed from her mind.

3:59. One minute to four. What was the connection? She just had to think. What was she usually doing at that time? Homework in the library. Hanging out with Madison. Driving to work . . .

Josie groaned. On Monday, she’d gotten stuck behind that train. At 3:59. It was the exact moment her life started to spin out of control. Her brain must have locked on to that time, like it was the last moment of happiness she was ever going to have.

Josie flopped back down onto her pillow and yanked the comforter up over her head. Even her subconscious was sabotaging her. Still, the fantasies of a Nick who still loved her and who gave a necklace to her instead of to Madison were alluring. Josie snuggled into the covers. Maybe she’d just live in those dreams and forget real life altogether.

It couldn’t be worse.

3:59 A.M.

She can feel the dry grass beneath the blanket, practically each individual strand as the weight of her body presses them flat against the ground. Some are thicker than others. Weeds, most likely. Maybe a dandelion or two. But cushy nonetheless, like a pillow from Mother Nature.

She stretches her arms over her head and arches her back. She loves the warmth of the late afternoon sun, and the tickling breeze from the east. She feels so content, so alive, so blissfully happy.

She hears a crunching of grass, and rolls onto her side, propping her head up with her hand. Silhouetted against the afternoon sun, Nick strides across the field.

“Thanks for coming,” she says.

“Of course,” he says with a tight smile. He sits down on the blanket and eyes the picnic basket and thermos of lemonade. “You didn’t have to do all this, Jo.”

“I know.” She sits up and opens the picnic basket, removing sandwiches and potato salad. “But I wanted to.”

She pours lemonade and hands Nick a glass. He doesn’t drink it.

“Is everything okay?” she asks.

He nods slowly but doesn’t look at her. “How’s your mom?”

“Fine,” she says after a suitable pause.

“Do you . . .” His voice trails off. “Do you ever wonder what happened?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” It’s true and yet it’s not.

He still doesn’t look at her, but his voice is soft. “I’m sorry.”

“I know.”

He puts the untouched lemonade down on the blanket, leaning it against the basket. “Look, there’s something I need to say to you.”

She catches her breath. “Yes?”

“Jo.” He pauses and swallows hard. “I—”