Casey and I walk back to Zeus rez, our pace not quite as fast as Casey's speech, which is moving about a mile a minute.

"Why did you rush us out of there? I didn't even get to finish my bagel! This is a crucial time for bonding and having fun before we start classes—ugh, classes! But what was I saying? Oh yeah, we didn't even get to stick around to meet Chris' best friend! Speaking of Chris, he seems like a nice guy. Actually, what am I saying, you already know him. So how do you two know each other?"

I haven't been able to stop thinking about Chris since I met him. Or, since back at the bistro, seeing as we've met before. I mean, wait, we haven't met before. I don't know him. So why do I feel like I do?

"Casey, why did you say Chris and I met during frosh week?"

"Because you both knew each other's names already."

So I'm not imagining. Chris did say my name without anyone mentioning it first. Or maybe Rachel or Brian mentioned it to let him know I was coming to meet them. Or maybe Casey said my name earlier at the table and forgot.

But that doesn't explain how I knew his name.

"I didn't meet Chris during frosh week."

"Oh. Then where?"

I sneak a look at Casey. "I'm not sure."

"What do you mean you're not sure?"

Zeus rez looms before us, large and white and welcoming. "I honestly can't remember."

Casey's eyebrows knit together. "You know him but don't know how you know him?"

"Yeah." I cringe. Even I'm wondering how it makes any sense.

I hold open the door to the lobby and we breeze past the worn-out couches flanked by junk-filled vending machines. Casey heads for the stairwell, knowing all too well that the exercise helps me stay in shape for swimming.

Casey holds open the door to the stairs and we start climbing. "You don't even know if you met him once or multiple times?"

My mind is drawing a blank. "I have no idea."

Finally we reach the fourth floor. We stop outside our room a few doors down and Casey unlocks the door, revealing two twin beds, two dressers, a desk and a closet. I dump my bag on my bed, which Casey must have tidied because the sheets are pulled neatly over the sides.

Casey shuts the door and folds her arms. "So you know Chris but you have no idea who he is or how you met him?"

"Exactly."

Casey's eyebrows travel up her forehead. "Seriously? So when you said, 'Chris,' his name just...popped into your head?"

I take a deep breath. "Yeah."

"Uh, that makes no sense."

I collapse onto my bed and close my eyes. "Tell me about it." Goosebumps trail up my arms like water across a towel after I've gone swimming. Chris' face pops into my head. The red-brown hair, the brown eyes that feel so familiar...

I push to a sitting position. "Okay, let's go about this logically."

Casey points to her watch. "Would you look at that, only ten seconds before you jumped into detective mode. That's got to be some kind of record for you."

"Haha, very funny." I can't help but smile—Casey has a way of lightening up even the most serious of situations.

I start pacing and Casey claims my spot on the bed. "Okay, so I didn't meet Chris during frosh week."

"You sure? Maybe at a frosh event or a party?"

I roll my eyes. "You know I would have remembered that."

Casey nods. "Okay. Uh, maybe you met him this summer—at the community pool or on vacation with your family? Or maybe out with your little cousins?"

I think back to my outings with Bella and Tyler, at the arcade and the amusement park. "No, that doesn't ring a bell."

"Summer jobs?"

I cycle through memories of fellow camp counsellors. "I don't think so..."

"And he's not from high school, or we'd both remember him."

"That's true."

"Elementary school?"

I look at her. "Well, you'd probably remember him then too."

Casey bites her lip. "Well, we became best friends in grade three."

Her voice sounds oddly restricted, and I know why. My stomach clenches.

"Hey, I got an idea!" Casey sits back on her heels, sounding overly enthusiastic. "Maybe you met briefly, like he took your order at a restaurant or something like that."

I know what she's trying to do. "Casey."

"Or maybe you passed him on the street once? It's not like we live in a big city."

"Casey."

She stops talking.

I feel my smile shake. "You are truly an amazing friend." My throat starts to constrict. "I—"

Casey's voice drops and she takes my hand. "Hey. It's okay. We don't have to talk about it."

But the thing is, we kind of do. I lean back against my pillows and Casey makes room for me, letting my legs stretch across her lap.

In grade three Casey switched to our elementary school, where I had been since SK. I think back to where I was before that, because that's really what this is about.

But I don't want to. That year at the children's centre was the worst year of my life. Okay, I was only three and I can't remember it that well but, frankly, I don't want to. I squeeze my pillow to my stomach. Why would I? First I lost Dad, and then Mom...my throat tightens.

Most people who lose their parents can at least say the words out loud, but not me. It was easy to become best friends with Casey, who, despite having just switched to our school, smoothly changed the topic when someone asked me about my parents and I froze in front of the whole class. Since then, she's been one of the only people who never pressures me to talk about them.

I can't even talk about them with my mom's sister, Aunt Lindsey, the only person in the world who can come close to feeling the pain as much as I do. Sometimes I want so desperately to feel close to them that I try to ask her questions about them, what they were like, but it's always a battle against the wall that builds up inside my throat. Thankfully Aunt Lindsey gets it and is always willing to drop whatever she's doing to put her arm around me, lean her head against mine and tell me about whichever memory she thinks I might like to hear about that day—or a time that she yearns to revisit. It always feels good to sit back and listen as she brings them back to life with her stories.

But the moment anyone expects me to talk about it, about them, I feel a stinging in my throat and at the back of my eyes. "My parents died when I was little"—the words sound so simple, but they're also so tragically factual that I can't say them out loud without feeling like I'm going to fall apart. I can hear how sad it sounds to other people, and it is sad—I didn't get to know them, but I love them. Saying it out loud makes the heartbreak feel more real. Makes it feel worse. And I don't know how to make it better.

When Casey's voice reaches my ears, it's heavy with emotion.

"Jessie? We don't have to..."

I clear my throat, relieved to hear it's relatively steady. "I'm just thinking now, if I had met Chris before grade three—or even before high school—I don't think I would have been able to recognize him like I did today. He wouldn't look the same."

"Hmm. Good point." Casey pats my leg reassuringly. "Then I guess we're stuck? Not!" Her voice shifts in a near-perfect imitation of mine. "There's got to be a logical explanation."

I laugh and tuck my pillow behind me. "Hey, it's true!" I lean back and close my eyes, because Casey is right that I won't relax until I figure this out.

I think back to Chris, rubbing my temples. Think, Jessie, think. You've got this. I sigh. I don't got this.

I go over the facts again. I recognized the back of Chris' head before I even saw his face. I knew his figure, his shape. I even knew his name. And when he looked at me...

"I feel like..." I swing my legs over the side of the bed. "It's weird. I feel like I know Chris as more than an acquaintance. Like we're close." I push on my quads.

Casey stretches, propping herself up on one elbow. "I don't know. But at this rate, I won't have any brain power left to use for school tomorrow."

I can't help but laugh. "I know how you feel."

I push off the bed and rummage through my drawer for a dry shirt, but it's empty; my clothes are too busy keeping the floor warm. Giving up, I stop in front of the small mirror Casey hung over our dresser and run a brush through my damp hair. A faraway look crosses Aunt Lindsey's face every time she tells me that my father dubbed it "spun gold."

I've got your light brown hair, Dad. Sunshine brings out shadows of the golden blond I've seen in pictures of my mom. And your blond hair too, Mom. I put down the brush and stare at my hair, a permanent reminder of both my parents.

I'd trade the colour for a chance to grow up with them any day.

"Aha!" Casey springs off the bed. "Isn't it obvious? Brian's the one who invited Chris to eat with us. Maybe he has his number. Why don't we just text him and ask?"

The word "stalker" comes to mind. And yet..."That's a good idea." I drop onto my bed and grab my phone. Brian replies quickly to my text, saying he doesn't have Chris' number and that Chris already went back to his dorm. We text Rachel, who doesn't have Chris' number either; turns out she's more interested in his friend, who apparently just arrived at the Bull's Horn. "You guys should have stayed longer!" she texts. "I really like this guy!"

Casey is reading over my shoulder. "I'm happy for her, but we're no closer to figuring out how you and Chris know each other."

I turn off my phone and toss it into my bag. I haven't even started school and already I'm facing one of the most perplexing puzzles I've ever come across.