Page 3

I glance again at the price tag dangling from my arm before pulling the velvet curtain closed behind me. “That’s nice of you to offer, but I totally don’t mind paying.”

“No, no,” she calls from what sounds like the opposite side of the store. “I insist. That dress fits as if it were made for you. It’s a sign from the universe that you should have it.”

A sign.

A sharp pain shoots below my ribs. It’s been nine months since Larry’s death and over a year since his diagnosis and still the smallest things bring painful reminders.

Uncle Larry lived his life guided by signs.

“Sometimes the path ahead isn’t always clear,” he would say whenever faced with a difficult decision, and on occasion when deciding what to order for dinner. “The universe will always send you a message if you look hard enough.”

And Larry would always look.

Sometimes, he’d find his answer in his horoscope or the tiny leaves that escaped his Tetley tea bag. Sometimes, it was in the abstract shape of a cumulus cloud.

Sometimes, when he couldn’t find the message he was looking for, he’d reach into his wallet and pull out a yellow slip of legal pad paper with the words “this is your sign” scrawled in his own handwriting in blue Bic pen.

“See, Beans.” He’d hold up the paper and laugh. “I’m meant to [insert whatever wild idea he’d come up with that day],” and then he’d go right ahead and do whatever he wanted to do in the first place.

My moment of grief is interrupted by a zip, then a ding, from what I’m certain is the cash register opening and closing. It’s followed by footsteps and the high-pitched squeak of metal rubbing on metal as if she’s sifting through one of her clothing racks. The bell above the door tinkles as if it’s been opened. I hear Koko say, “Okay, thanks,” presumably to the person who walked in. The bell chimes again, and the store grows quiet until Koko asks, “Any plans for the weekend?”

It’s a moment before I realize she’s talking to me. “Uh, yeah…I guess. My new roommate moves in tomorrow. Her bus gets in sometime in the morning so I need to stick around to give her a key.”

“New roommate. That’s kind of exciting. What’s her deal?” Koko’s voice is noticeably louder than a moment ago, placing her on the other side of the curtain.

I shrug even though she can’t actually see me. “I don’t know too much about her other than her name is Mackenzie Smith and she’s a musician from some small town up north. I guess she got a job down here. She plays the tuba, so maybe the Toronto Symphony? We’ve only really emailed, but she seems nice.”

“I’m sure she is.” Koko’s arm juts through the crack of the changing room. “Here, try this on, too.”

A wooden hanger dangles from her fingertips. On it is a black leather biker jacket, cracked but soft as if made from quality leather but aged with years of use.

“What size is this?” I take the hanger from her hands. The jacket looks like it would fit a large man.

“It’s meant to be big,” Koko says, her voice getting farther away with each word. “Oversized is in right now.”

I know the moment I slip it off the hanger, the jacket will be a hard no. It’s too edgy. A step too far from the nerdy wannabe neuroscientist who actually enjoys the shapeless institutional cut of her lab coat. Still, I zip back up the dress I was taking off only a moment ago and slide the jacket on. I open my mouth to tell Koko thanks for the offer but I don’t think it’s going to work, when the world around me suddenly goes dark.

2

My surroundings light up slowly as if giving my eyes time to adjust. Even then, it takes me a moment to recalibrate.

I’m not in Koko’s dressing room.

My body floods with a feeling of panic that cools my blood. The sensation is momentarily halted as it is interrupted by a familiar sound: a high-pitched screech of metal-on-metal paired with a building clack clack clack.

A train is approaching.

I look around. This new realization allows me to orient myself.

I am surrounded by floor-to-ceiling tiles of a pale yellow color. The floor is a smooth, specked terrazzo, save for a bright yellow studded strip set to warn commuters of the dark tracks below.

It’s a subway station.

If the letters etched into the wall are to be believed, it’s Toronto’s Bloor-Yonge subway station.

But how the hell did I get here?

My answer doesn’t come.