I sit in the empty waiting room, one leg crossed over the other and foot bouncing, thumbing through a back issue of Better Homes & Gardens. This one must be from the summer because it’s all sunflowers and vegetable gardens and outdoor living spaces. A paper cup filled with steaming coffee sits untouched on the end table beside my chair. It sounded good when the receptionist offered it, but I feel too jittery to drink it. My right hand is wrapped in gauze, my burns doctored and dressed by my mom.
“Mrs. Sullivan?”
I look up. The receptionist is standing in the hallway that I assume leads back to Maryann’s office, his face open and kind. I wonder how much he knows about me.
“Dr. Miller is ready for you,” he says. “If you’ll just follow me . . .” He turns partway, extending his arm in the direction we’ll be heading.
I force a smile and close the magazine, returning it to its original place sandwiched between the other magazines fanned out on the end table. I fold my coat over my forearm and settle my trusty tote bag on my shoulder, pick up my cup of coffee, and stand.
I follow the receptionist down the hallway. There are three doors, two directly opposite one another, and one farther down on the left. He stops in front of the first door on the left. A bronze placard on the face of the closed door proclaims this as the office of Dr. Maryann Miller, M.D.. He opens the door, revealing a space much like I had expected—a desk on one side, backed by a wall of built-in bookshelves, and a seating area on the other, with a couch and an armchair arranged just so around a glass coffee table. A few abstract landscapes decorate the walls, painted in cool, soothing tones of blue, green, and gray. The one expected element that is missing is Maryann.
My companion steps through the doorway, propping the door open with his body. “Go ahead and take a seat,” he says, motioning toward the couch. “Dr. Miller will be right in.”
I force another smile and walk into the room. I make my way over to the couch and sit, holding my bag and coat on my lap with one arm while I reach forward to set the paper cup on the coffee table with the other. The receptionist backs out of the office and quietly shuts the door. A heartbeat later, the world lurches.
Vertigo takes me by surprise, and I plant my hand on the couch cushion beside me, digging my fingers into the soft upholstery. I hug my bag to my chest and stare at the vacant armchair on the opposite side of the coffee table, the only stable point in a world that is spinning and reeling all around me.
In a blink, the dizziness vanishes. I’m left to peer around the room, wondering what changed.
Or maybe it’s nothing. Maybe these “changes” have all been in my head. Just one big, long string of unsettling coincidences exacerbated by the faulty, aging memory of an almost forty-year-old woman. Or a never forty-year-old woman? I’m so much less sure of everything today than I was last night.
I don’t have long to question my sanity before the office door opens, and the doctor enters the room, here to question my sanity for me.
Except, the woman who walks into the office isn’t Maryann Miller. She is petite like Maryann, but there the resemblance ends. She’s younger than me, where Maryann is in her sixties. And this woman has a personal style that could only be called edgy. Her hair is dyed an unnatural orange, the professional bun no match for the shocking color; a far cry from any hairstyle prim and proper Maryann would ever try out. I wonder if this is the owner of the office across the hall.
The stranger shuts the door and crosses the room toward the sitting area. She stops beside the armchair and holds her hand out across the coffee table. A friendly smile curves her lips, and her jade-green eyes sparkle. “My name is Fiona,” she says, her words accented by an Irish lilt.
I set my bag and coat on the couch cushion beside me and slowly stand, stretching my arm out to place my hand in hers. “Jane,” I say, introducing myself.
“Oh, I know very well who you are,” Fiona says. “I’m very pleased to meet you, Jane. Very pleased, indeed.”
Her enthusiasm throws me, and when she releases my hand, I offer her a nervous smile, sinking back down to the couch.
“I know I’m not who you were expecting,” Fiona says, sitting in the armchair and crossing her legs. She leans to one side, resting her forearm on the arm of the chair. “Dr. Miller had to step out, so lucky you—you get me.” She flashes me a bright grin. “And I am so happy to meet you, Jane. Truly.”
I pull the canvas strap of my bag through my fingers, focusing on the fabric’s rough texture, and stare at the cup of coffee on the table in front of me. “You probably say that to everyone who threatens to take their own life,” I mutter.
“But you weren’t really trying to take your life, were you?” Fiona says, more a statement than a question.
My gaze snaps up from the paper cup, and my eyes lock with Fiona’s. I suck in a breath to respond, but the unformed words lodge in my throat.
Fiona holds up a hand, halting my stalled response. “What would you say if I told you I believed you—if I said you were right?”
I sit up straighter, my pulse throbbing in my neck. “Right about what, exactly?”
She narrows her eyes to slits. “Why, the nature of the world, of course.”
I swallow, then clear my throat. “I, um, don’t know what my mom told Dr. Miller exactly, but—”
“No buts about it, Jane,” Fiona says, and one corner of her mouth ticks upward, hinting at a smirk. “You are right. And everyone else is wrong.” That smirk finally makes an appearance, and her eyes glitter with secrets. “Reality isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.”
I lick my lips and slowly shake my head back and forth. “Is this, like, some sort of reverse psychology thing?”
Fiona’s smirk gives way to a secretive smile, and she shakes her head. “Reality is a simulation.”
She straightens in the armchair and holds her hand out in front of her, palm up, her fingers curled into a fist. Ever so slowly, she uncurls her fingers, revealing a delicate crystal figurine of a hummingbird.
The world spins around me, but the vertigo spell is over before I can even close my eyes to shut out the dizzying motion.
The hummingbird is no longer crystal. It’s alive. For a single, stumbling heartbeat, it perches on Fiona’s palm before launching itself into flight. The thrum of its wingbeats vibrates the air as it zips around my head, then lands on my knee.
Now, I am the figurine, carved from crystal and unable to move. Unable to breathe. I stare at the tiny bird resting on my knee. It’s so light, I can barely feel its weight. It looks this way and that, its focus constantly shifting.
Fiona stands, and the hummingbird freezes, its attention locked on her. She strides over to the window and slides the pane open. The bird takes flight, escaping into the crisp morning air.
I stare at the open window for a long moment, then return my focus to my knee. “I—” The word is inaudible, so I clear my throat. “I don’t understand.”
Fiona shuts the window, and I shift my attention to her, watching her slink back to the armchair. She stands beside the chair, leaning her forearm on top of the winged back. “Brace yourself,” she says, then raises her hand and snaps her fingers.
The world drops out from beneath me, and for a brief eternity, I am falling.
But then I blink, and I’m sitting on the sectional in my living room at home, Fiona standing beside the TV.
My mouth hangs open as I peer around the room. Everything is just as it should be. Every detail is exactly perfect. I can even hear Miles and Emma in the kitchen, chattering animatedly about Nutball—don’t ask—the friendly neighborhood squirrel who lives in our oak tree. The intermittent clang of metal against metal tells me my mom is stirring something in a pan on the stove.
“What—”
Fiona snaps her fingers again, and once again, the world falls away.
I blink, and I’m sitting on a beach. The sun beats down from high in the sky, and the humid air is like a blanket cocooning me.
Fiona snaps her fingers again, and the air thins, turning frigid. I’m perched on a ledge atop a snowy peak, more mountains spreading out as far as the eye can see. I think, just maybe, we’re on top of Mount Everest.
Fiona snaps her fingers again, and we’re back in the office.
I grip the couch cushion like my grasp alone might hold me in place. My chest rises and falls with each rapid breath, and my underarms and the back of my shirt are damp with sweat. Nausea twists in my stomach, and I watch Fiona with eyes wide open. I was right. The world isn’t real.
“I’m sure you have about a million questions,” Fiona says, finally stepping around to the front of the armchair to reclaim her seat.
I shake my head and lick my lips. “Just one,” I say, my heart hammering in my throat, choking my voice to a mere wisp of sound. “Am I—are my kids—” I inhale shakily. “Are we real?”
Fiona’s expression twists into something between a frown and a smile, her eyes filling with sympathy, and I fear the worst. She nods, and it takes my terrified mind seconds to interpret what that nod means.
“My babies are real?” I say, the four words riding out on a sob. I cover my mouth with my hand and fight to control the spasms wracking my torso.
“I assure you, Jane, you and your children are as real as I am, and we did not always inhabit this simulated world,” Fiona says, holding up a hand before I can ask about John. “I swear to you, I will answer all of your questions, if that is what you wish, but first, you have a choice to make.”
Her stare is steady, unwavering. “I can make this all go away, and everything will go back to ‘normal’” She raises one hand to form air quotes with her fingers. “For a time, at least. Your mind is unique, and you will eventually begin to see this reality for what it truly is—and what it isn’t--again, but it won’t happen for some time. You will be able to enjoy your life here with your family. I can even arrange for a version of your husband to return to you.”
I suck in a shuddering breath, hope a sun rising inside my chest. “You can do that?”
Fiona nods, but something in her eyes gives me pause.
“But it wouldn’t really be John, would it?” I say, my voice hollow. Something in my gut tells me I lost him before. Before what, exactly, I don’t know. Before, for whatever reason, we abandoned the physical world for this simulated reality.
Fiona presses her lips together and shakes her head.
I take a moment to process that. “So, what’s behind door number two?”
Fiona brightens, sitting up a little straighter. “You come and work for me.”
My brow furrows and my lips part. “Work for you? Doing what, exactly?” I slowly shake my head. “I own a store. I can’t just abandon it.”
Fiona’s lips curve into a reassuring smile. “The shop will be fine, I promise. As you witnessed, I’m able to bend elements of this reality to my will. I can personally guarantee that Sullivan’s Fine Meats will always have enough skilled and competent workers, and it will prosper, even in your absence from the day-to-day operations. It’s the least I can do, considering that what you’ll be doing for me is far more important.”
I raise my eyebrows, silently asking her to explain more.
“You’re special, Jane,” she says, her expression turning serious. “You are the first one to wake up—to recognize the true nature of this false reality—but to choose to stay.”
I narrow my eyes, not sure I understand what she’s saying.
“For those like you—those who can see—the descent into a state akin to madness is inevitable. But you—” She tilts her head to the side, that secretive smile making a reappearance. “You dragged yourself out of the pit. I threw all my usual tests at you, and you spiraled like all the others…but then you stopped. You reined the mania in. You chose this life, despite knowing—truly knowing—it wasn’t real. Your rational mind prevailed, and now you are awake within the dream. That makes you incredibly valuable to me.”
I study her for a long moment. “As flattering as that all is, you still haven’t told me what you want me to do for you.”
The corner of her mouth twitches. “I need your help,” she tells me. “I need you to help me find everyone else who is like you—before they become aware of the simulation, too. This reality may not be real in the strictest sense of the word, but it is necessary. It can be damaged, and the ones who pose the greatest risk are those who can see it for what it is.”
Fiona settles back in the armchair, resting her elbows on the chair arms and steepling her fingers together. “So, what’s it going to be?”