"Kayleigh—wake up," Calder whispered. I opened my eyes to a ceiling I didn't know and a boy I thought I'd only ever see on magazine covers leaning over me like it was normal to do that in the middle of a classroom. "You're on the floor," Mr. Hayes said from the front. His voice carried the kind of mild alarm that meant I had already embarrassed myself. "Kayleigh Dillon, stand up." I stood, because my legs worked, because the room smelled like chalk and cheap perfume, because I had to. My body moved before my brain caught up. My brain kept saying impossible things in loud, stupid flashes: you died. you were thirty-one. you were never going back to this life. "Kayleigh?" Jonas's voice was a stage whisper but full volume in my ear. "You okay? You faint? You fell off a chair? You didn't faint, did you? That's dramatic, Kay." "I—" I swallowed. My voice came out as a croak that did not belong to the woman who had stayed up writing fanposts until two a.m. last night. It belonged to a high school sophomore who had lost her grip on composure. "Sit down," Mr. Hayes said. "This is Harbor High, not an emergency room." I slid into the desk, which was narrower than I remembered desks being. My backpack hit the floor; a carton of milk I had brought from a milk-tea shop rolled and thumped, then leaned