The call came before Edith could finish unpacking. Mom? she asked, certain it was a pocket dial. At the other end was a snuffling and snorting, a static of something besides words scraping across the phone. Edith hung up.

What was that? Val asked. She examined the walls of the Texas apartment, unrolled the Cézanne print across the coffee table. The splotches of red and yellow and green.

Not sure.

What do you think of hanging this here? She held the print up to the blank wall over the TV.

It’s a little college, isn’t it?

It’s not like it’s Klimt.

Put it wherever.

Are you okay?

Edith’s phone rang again.

Mom I think your phone is—­

Your father went into the hospital this morning.

What—­

They don’t know, she said. You need to come here.

Twenty minutes later, she and Valerie were on the road to Virginia. Heart’s Little Queen on the stereo. They didn’t need the GPS. It should take around twenty hours if we minimize stops, Val said. Close your eyes for a bit, okay?

I don’t want to. A duffel she’d packed in Alabama lay on the backseat like a sleeping dog. What’s going to happen, Val?

We’re going to drive to Virginia. You’re going to see your parents. Everything will be fine.

It had been years since she’d seen them. She didn’t know if she was legibly their son anymore. If she’d be forced into conversations she’d hoped to put off indefinitely. Or if it would all be swallowed by her father dying.

Valerie and Tessa had seen her parents plenty in college. They never quite seemed to believe Valerie had once been a boy. Edith wasn’t sure if her friends and parents got along because of an honest connection or because her mother and father always took them to an oyster bar. Neither Tessa nor Val had to deal with them in any real way.

Somewhere before the edge of Texas, she fell asleep. It was raining when she woke, hail pebbling the car. I can take over whenever.

Are you joking? Val chewed a rat-sized wad of gum. Do you know the farthest I’ve driven in a day?

Don’t tell me, it’ll make me worry.

Val cranked the stereo louder. “Raytracer” filled the car.

You know, around a month ago, I was driving across Kansas on Highway 70. People say there’s nothing to look at in Kansas but that’s not true. Val liberated another piece of gum from the package by the gearshift. Anyway, it’s getting late, I’m getting hungry, I pull off at a Subway for a sandwich. And the woman behind the counter, she asks me where I’m going, and I tell her. I ask for more cucumber and not too much oil. It’s not until she tells me about her son who’s studying engineering that I realize: I’ve had this conversation before. Like déjà vu but I can pinpoint it. A date, a time. I almost tell her, but what would the point be?

People like to be remembered.

People like to be memorable. No one wants to remember how many times they’ve made you a sandwich. Valerie plunged through the elemental murk, eyes scanning the rain for movement and light. So I’m eating my sandwich, and I know what’s going to happen next. I’m going to get back on the highway going ninety miles an hour like everyone else. I’m going to get stopped by a cop who’s going to spend too much time scrutinizing my license, ask what I’m doing so far from Massachusetts. He’ll ask if I have anything illegal in the car, and I will think of the Punisher, wrapped up in socks in my bag, and not remember the Kansan policy on switchblades, even though I looked it up last time.

Last time?

All of it happened before. It was like I’d stepped back in the stream of the past.

“Listen: Valerie Pilgrim has come unstuck in time.”

I could see it perfectly—every move, every word. And then I began to worry.

That it wouldn’t happen?

That it would.

And did it?

The wad of gum sat unmoving in her cheek. Lip bit with the expectation of a lie, a dodge. Instead: Yeah. It did.

On the stereo, “Raytracer” again. The storm was softening. Cars with Morse-code hazard lights idled on the roadside. Blurred faces lit by phones. Sealed off from every ill the world could throw, and by so thin a membrane.

Edith wanted to ask if that was why Valerie had come back. She was afraid of either answer. Where were you going?

Friends’ out in Boulder. Barn and them.

You keep in touch with Barn?

Not like I do with you.

They reached Virginia an hour before dawn. Edith scrounged in the back porch planters for the spare key. The two of them tiptoed to the guest room, her mother’s snores audible above.

Edith fell into bed and kicked off her shoes. Valerie stripped—shorts, socks, shirt. She studied her reflection in the tarnished mirror. The jut of her hips, the sateen camisole. I didn’t even drive, Edith said. How are you still standing.

Is your mom going to be unhappy I came?

My mom loves you.

It’s different now, isn’t it?

Edith’s mom didn’t know they were, whatever—dating/lovers/friends who fucked. That wasn’t what Valerie meant.

Valerie and her double. The soft swells of hips and breasts. The press of her rib cage. Edith hadn’t had time to go to the gender clinic in Texas. It was ridiculous, wasn’t it? Wanting. Trying.

She crossed in sock feet and wrapped Val in her arms and did not look her own reflection in the eye. Edith kissed her girlish shoulder. I’m happy you came.

I’d do anything for you, Edie. She kissed the knob of Edith’s wrist. Anything I can.

Edith was too tired to list the things this must exclude. You can’t call me that here.

Obviously, Val said. Meaning, of course I could. Meaning, wouldn’t that make it easier. But it wouldn’t be hard to revert to the old name. Edith looked the same as she always had.

In the morning, Edith found her mother making a stack of peanut butter sandwiches.

I didn’t think you were here, her mother said. No one in your room.

Here I am. Valerie, too.

And Tessa?

Tessa and I broke up, Mom. Val and I are dating now.

Always used to be the three of you. We used to joke you’d end up married to them both.

How’s Dad doing, Mom?

The Warrens are having a birthday party for their son. Up the street.

We’ll probably head to the hospital as soon as—­

They’ve rented a donkey ride. All the children in the neighborhood are invited.

Mother—­

They’re taking care of it. Spread spread spread. There was a second jar of peanut butter, a second loaf. Being there won’t change anything.

Still.

Pick up a knife, she said. Help me.