Yes.

No. Don't even think about it.

You should do it.

Mmm-mmm. That's not happening.

I draw my hand back from the phone, then forwards, like it's on some kind of evil invisible pendulum, and at last I grasp on and pick it up, dialing in the number so quickly I'm entirely sure I did it wrong until she picks up.

"Mikayla?"

"Yeah."

"Please don't hang up on me."

"Oh right. I am angry at you." she says, voice slurred from sleep deprivation almost equal to my own. Or that might just be morning Mikayla. Maybe morning Mikayla doesn't hate me. (I kind of hate me right now. Head is throbbing.)

"But we're even. You kissed me in public, I accidentally narc'ed you by mentioning offhand that you were going to do pagan shit in the woods with Lilith and Endina for some reason you found off the internet, I'm going to forgive you for that first one and you're going to forgive me for that second one. Sound good?"

"You punched me in the face, Derrick."

Admittedly I almost drop the phone. "Yes, that was a thing that happened. Right before you said some dumb shit that got me tased."

Mikayla grumbles. "You're the worst person and I have no idea what your deal is. I just want you to know that."

"I need something. I'll leave you alone after that."

"What do you want, Derrick?"

Can't tell her. Really. Can't. "I'm, uh, going to the counsellor today... so, what was the pink list?"
"Oh." she laughs. I'm not sure if it's my crummy speaker or not, but it sounds incredibly dry and forced-- one might even say phoned in. "You know the red list?"
"No."
"Well, it's what they give you if you're a danger to other people. The pink list is what they give you if you're a danger to yourself."

"Hey." I begin.

"Yeah?"
"You never tried anything, did you?"

A long silence drags on over the intercom. "Nope." Mikayla says, and the phone clicks off.

Damnit, Mikayla.

I pull up to the school and almost pass out before I get to class. Fortunately, I manage to fall practically right into Olive's arms upon entering the room. She grins at me. "Hey!"

"Thanks?" I say, brushing myself off and flipping my lapels.

"Mikayla's been talking about you all morning." Olive says, cheerfully. "Are you two okay?"

"Oh. Thanks." I say. "It'll be... f-fine."

"What's going on?"
"Stuff? Things? It's not really your business, so, stay outta it." Shit I can barely keep myself together and I really do think the floor looks like a mattress right now. All the desks are pillows. Heck, even delusional fantasies of finding comfort in the world's most uncomfortable, sterile environment aside, I would love to slam my head against a desk. "Alright?"

"Sure," Olive says, stepping aside. "Talk later?"

I'm good, Olive, really, I am. I decide to just pass her and hope she gets the message. Mikayla is sitting next to me, not looking at me and sporting a significantly sized bruise, which she hasn't even bothered to treat. Seriously, you could at least go to the nurse.

"Were you up all night, brimming with guilt?" she asks, wryly.

"Would you forgive me if I said yes?" I reply.

"No."

"What if I told you I saw that dead girlfriend of mine?" I ask. Whoops. There is it. Dropped it like my firstborn--right on the head.

"I'd say you're crazy and subsequently, I'd ask for legitimate evidence of such an event."

"That's your f-f-f-fucking specialty, Mikayla. Frankly I'm offended you don't believe me." I say. Is this the point where one of us flips the other off? Really, it's hard to go through my daily Mikayla-centric fight if I'm hardly awake enough to go through the motions properly.
"I"m not saying you didn't see something. I'm just asking for proof because I don't want to get my hopes up again."
"You get your hopes up over nothing all the time!"

"I am living on fumes, Derrick." This silence is more strained than the last, and she puts a hand to her face. I remember her fear from last night, when she thought she might legitimately get turned in to the authorities. My face softens, slightly.

"Mikayla. Did something happen?"

"Look, have you ever had someone do something nice for you, and you're really grateful, but at the same time, you wish they hadn't, no matter how much it would have hurt you?" She's close to sobbing again. I don't think I'm the only one who didn't get any sleep.

"Yeah." (No. Not really. Kind of.)

"My house is on the foreclosure list because of all of the money my parents spent on life support during my quest and rehab post-quest." she breathes it out all at once. "All I wanted was to get back and it wouldn't have even mattered if my own family suffered because of it. I'm a disgusting person."
"Shit." I say. "That's a lot to take in. Is that why you didn't want-- shit. I mean, I'm sure they could have worked something out, or, there has to be a fund, or--" I stutter, looking for something, but Mikayla's face assures me that she's exhausted every possible option.

"Derrick Renard." says Ms. Shinke. "You're needed in the nurse's office."

Of course I am.

"Sorry." I say.

Mikayla's eyes are dark as coal, supplemented by the ashen shadows beneath them. "I'm sorry for dragging you into this."

"Dragging me into what?" I ask.

She shrugs.

"Renard. That wasn't a suggestion." Ms. Shinke calls.

My head hurts like hell and stress hits me like a brick as I stalk the halls, finally approaching the nurse's office and busting the door down with a hand. All the while, Asiya Reema sits with her arms folded on her desk, smiling as if we were close friends and not ostensibly client and therapist. I settle myself into the chair, preparing for the worst, and try to mimic her public school smile.

"I'm glad you've come back in." says Ms. Reema, smiling. She has an entire bowl of hard candy on her desk, which is new. I happily steal a few, unreasonably confident that I can speak while consuming sweet, sweet Jolly Ranchers, and let the sugar wash all my worries away.

Said worries are washed right back up when she slides me the pink and red slips. I look back up at her, like a cat who has been offered subpar food, and like a cat, I sweep both away.

"I'm not in there for help. I'm in there for answers," I say, which would be intimidating if I didn't have three Jolly Ranchers in my mouth. As her expression changes to something more formal, even dangerous, and the fake smile falls away, guilt closes like a bear trap on my nervous system. Definitely wasn't supposed to say that.

"I'd like answers too, Derrick. For instance, I'd like to know why you seem to have upgraded from punching random students to punching classmates."
"Hell, are all of you in cahoots with Ms. Haven and Mr. Harring? That literally happened last night." I say, massaging my head with my face.

"We're your support system. I like to think that we're all in cahoots here, and that includes you."

I grumble, "I appreciate that you're out there making our lives more miserable than we ourselves can make them, but jeez, calm down a little. That line alone was so saccharine that I think I might have acquired diabetes."

"That's a little insensitive of you, Derrick. Now, regarding help," She moves the papers I brushed away back towards her and lifts them up, tapping them against her desk so that they fall perfectly into line. "I do think I may be able to provide some assistance, but only if you fill these out." She passes them back over to me and I begin going through a long yes/no/does not apply checklist.

Do you find yourself distressed or otherwise out of control of your own emotions more than twice a day?

I stare back up at her. This is on both checklists. I shoot her some hasty answers, deliberately downplaying as much as is possible without making it obvious I'm lying, and as I'm about to turn the papers back so the pink sheet is on top, a map slides out. Several hundred slanted red lines are crossed through the map, along with black lines slanted back the other direction. Together, they circle into what appears to be a vortex, at the eye of which is a singularity of points, with a small cyan circle indicated in the middle. Scrawled in white pen over the saturated grayscale map is MAP OF EXTRA OCCURRENCES AND RELATED PHENOMENA, FEATURING THE REEMA SPIRAL. I look to her, mouth open, and she gives me the dryest possible look. "Is there a problem you're having difficulty answering, Mr. Renard? I would be happy to assist you with wording, or to talk you through something..."
"No, no, I've got it." I'm actually choking on a Jolly Rancher right now, but besides that, things are going great. "Say. I'm really glad I... red up on these. Made me pink a little harder about where my life is going. That said... I think I'd like to go black to class now."

"I don't tolerate puns in this office." Ms. Reema says. "That said, I do appreciate that you're in a better mood."

"Definitely. Did some introspection, searched my soul, et cetera. You know. Now, uh, I'd actually like to ask about... files," I wink suggestively.

Ms. Reema sighs. "What do you want?"
My teeth lock up like yesterday. "Amy's file."

Ms. Reema blinks. "Amy. Amy... Rivers."

"Yes." I say.

She asks, "Have you heard of the multiverse theory?"

"What? This has nothing to do with anything." I snarl.

Ms. Reema pushes her glasses up. "It's a common explanation for the effects of the Extra system. In fact, it's very hard to imagine an Extra system that does not, in some way, harness alternate worlds created by such a theory. Now, Derrick, you know what's strange about multiverse theory?"

"I really don't care." I sigh, reaching for another Jolly rancher.

"Multiverse theory assumes that new universes are created for every choice we make, so that all possibilities exist, if they're not equally likely. Here's the strange thing, though-- choices, made by humans, are somehow capable of creating entire splinter universes. Is this proof of free will? Evidence contrary to it, given that every decision occurs whether or not we will it to happen on 'our' timeline? Regardless, it has some interesting implications... if our choices are so important, is it possible that in some sense of the word, the universe knows we're here?"

I look to her, then to the paper she's scribbling away on.

"So there's some universe where everything works out, isn't there?" I ask, breathlessly.

"Yes," she says. "And the thing is, with our world? There's a lot of overlap. That's what all of these liminal spaces are. Other worlds are coinciding with our own, momentarily, all of them encroaching on this place. What we-- you-- are is a symptom of that, and the loop is closing now. Hundreds of years of abductions are boiling down to this singular location."

"Do you want my help or something?" I ask.

"I want you to help me help you." Ms. Reema says, in the cheery voice of a counselor but with the diction of your average politician. I feel like I've sold out and I haven't even said a word. "Because contrary to popular belief, especially your beliefs--"

"I never said anything! I defended you!" I retaliate.

She pushes the papers back over. In the lowest voice she can manage, she says, "You never saw this. The security cameras never saw this. This paper does not exist. It's going to help you find what you're looking for--"

"What Mikayla's looking for. I don't want to go back. My life was hell." I take the paper. "This doesn't have anything to do with Amy, does it?"

Ms. Reema's eyes well with an intense sadness, as if it were her friend and potential lover (I feel so dirty saying that but please, Amy, let me have it) who she'd never get to see again because of the long, cold hand of death. "I can't give you her file because I don't have it."

My head spins. "Shit. No. You have to be able to give me something."

"I never got a file on her, Derrick."

"But you had to. Even if she was--"

"I'm sorry." she says. "This is all I can do for you right now, but I promise, if there is anything in the world I can do, I'm going to do it. Can you trust me on that?"

No. I really can not trust anyone. "Okay," I mumble.

She smiles again, but this time, it's far more earnest. "Alright. I'm really happy to have your cooperation. I think we're going to be great partners in all this. I'm also going to have to legitimately work through your data now, and wow, judging by these answers, we might be seeing a lot of each other. Do you think you can refrain from punching anyone else until we get you back in the office?"

"Sure?" I shrug. I toss my lapels. "It's not a problem."

She watches with profound amusement. "Alright, Mr. Renard. Have a nice day."

I'd love to tell you I'm having a better one now, but the truth is that I've been in existential panic mode for a good few minutes and the second I leave the room I can hear it crescendoing in my ears. The floor tilts beneath me like yesterday and I feel ill. Instead of running to the bathroom, I stumble down the hall, about to fall over, and tear open the classroom with shaking hands. No file. No answers. No proooooblem.

I can't work with this, I can't work with this, I can't work with this-- at least I got some answers. I know I saw you. I can't believe I let her distract me with bullcrap about multiverse theory. Anger courses through me like saltwater and I almost kick my desk leg over. I don't take notes but I bring up the diagram, so Mikayla can't quite see it, and look at the encroaching lines. The cyan eye stares back up at me.

Other worlds. Other worlds. All of this, set up for us-- who the hell would entrust the fate of any world, let alone an untold multitude of them, in teenagers? What force of will could we possibly have that would require all this? I sink onto the desk, listening to Ms. Shinke talk about biology, although it's mainly stuff on molecules that I could have understood if I paid attention two months ago when we started but I'm hopelessly lost on now. Guess I'm never getting signed out of this class.

Do I want to leave this classroom, anyways?

Not really. It's essentially impossible to tick Ms. Shinke off enough to go to detention (for those of you uninformed with public school, that's a child dungeon) so I might as well sit on my ass in here not learning things as opposed to being a delinquent anywhere else.

My foot begins tapping violently halfway through and I strain to throw it off. No matter how hard I close my eyes, no matter how violently I just want this over, I can't stop myself from practically shaking. It's not so bad. There's a million reasons she wouldn't have that file, right?

Don't punch Mikayla again. Don't ask stupid questions.

"Hey." I say to Mikayla, beneath my breath.

Bad idea, Derrick. Bad idea, Derrick.

"How was the counsellor's?" Mikayla asks. Was that genuine concern? Nice, Mikayla. (There is no legitimate reason for me to be snarky towards the girl whose face I just defiled. I am an idiot.)

"Okay." I say. "Actually, she had something for you." I slip her the paper. "Don't ask me questions about it, just take it, consider us even, and if you get me or her in trouble, I am going to kill you." Yeah, I think I said that quietly enough.

Mikayla nods resolutely. When the bell rings for the last time that day, we walk our separate ways, and I bolt for the car. The agents don't ask many questions, not even bothering to lighten the mood (say something. Come on. Say something) and I sit in the back, my foot drumming against the plush carpeting. The tap tap tap of my foot against the floor mirrors the rapid beat of my own heart, and I keep my eyes on the road, afraid of what I'll see when I look out the window. I was so, so close from getting away from the past, but heck, it'll always catch up with me. Only thing I can depend on.

I enter my room and she's sitting on my bed. I stand entirely still, putting my hands up, and very discreetly closing the door.

"You're not here." I say.

"I'm not?" she asks. "That sucks."

I take in a deep breath, as if steadying myself, and keel forwards and dry retch on the floor. I hear footsteps in the distance and my eyes dart around, expecting Mr. Harring and Ms. Haven (why would they come for you, Derrick?), but no one is coming. There's just that continuous patter of footsteps.

"Who..." I start. My body forces me back over. My entire body is shaking. I can't stop it.

"My parents." she says. "I don't think they can see you. Don't worry about it." She gets up, eyes fixed on an invisible source. "I don't think this is going to hold very long."

"What is," I cry out. "Please just tell me what's going on."

"I don't know either." she says. "I thought all of this was over."

The footsteps increase in intensity and I smell the familiar scent of old paint and human blood. Sirens wail in my ears and I feel the walls close in on me from every direction, the door dwindling back to that unimaginably small hole I could hardly fit my finger through to reach her. I feel the shackles on my arms, something cold as ice around my neck, and she's gone but something else is definitely there.

I don't know where I am. I don't know where I am.

My fingers-- claws-- reach out and grab something, tearing it down with the full force of my anger. I'm just dragging my hands through wall, but it gives like fabric. I let the wall have it again, hearing clinking, even though it's no longer connected to anything. I laugh once, a manic bark leaving my mouth, and I just drag my hand through whatever it is even though it's not moving and I'm nothing but movement, shaking violently, and my breath is so fast I barely get the oxygen in my body before expelling it. My vision is red and I fall on my side, finally exhausted, unable to see past my own nose from the pounding energy sweeping through my body.

"Mom," I call out, on my side. "Dad?"

No one comes. It's the first night all over again.

"Mom."

Stop that. It's pathetic.

"Please."