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Harmony gives me that look. That same mix of pity and her own grief that she gave me all last year. I think she’s about to come over to hug me, but there is a honk from the street below, and instead she tosses the jacket onto the box, then picks it up and heads out the apartment door.

I debate whether I should follow her or stay behind, but before I can decide, the choice is made for me. I blink, and I am no longer in my apartment; instead, I am standing in a parking lot behind the Salvation Army.

Harmony is there, too, with the cardboard box in her hands. She rings the bell beside the door. A full minute goes by before the door swings open, blocking my view inside.

“I can take that,” a voice says. Two gloves appear from behind the door, but Harmony hands her box over too soon, and it falls onto the pavement between them, spilling open.

“Shit, my bad.” The gloves reach down toward the pavement to pick up the clothing and put it back in the box. They pause, however, on the last piece—the jacket.

“Um, I love this,” the worker says. The jacket disappears from my view for a moment. “Are you sure you want to give it away?”

“It belonged to a friend,” Harmony explains. “He always felt it was lucky, but now it’s ready to be loved by someone new.”

“It looks a little big for me,” the worker says. “But oversize is in these days.”

I don’t know what is familiar—her words or the way she says them—but I move to the other side of the door so I can get a clear view of the worker’s face. Her dark hair is almost to her waist, and her outfit is baggy and shapeless, but I know this woman, just maybe not the version of her standing before me.

“Koko?”

She can’t hear or see me, yet I repeat it. “Koko? Is that you?”

Koko picks up the box, oblivious. “Thanks for donating.” She turns and heads back inside the center.

I’m unsure what to do: follow Koko or stay here with Harmony. But then the blackness comes, and I’m sucked right back.

• • •

When I’m oriented again, I’m halfway down the stairs and present-day Harmony is staring up at me as if she’s just come through the front door.

“Everything all right, chickpea?” She closes the gap between us and presses a cool palm against my forehead. When I don’t answer, she reaches into her bag and pulls out a Tupperware. “Here.” She pulls off the lid. “Have a bite. My famous maple syrup chew-chews. They will bring your blood sugar back up.” She forces something into my mouth. It’s crunchy and seedy and, yes, there is the faintest hint of maple.

“Better?” she asks, closing the tin and sliding it into my purse.

“Yeah.” I snap out of it. “Yes. Thank you. I’m good. I just…need to catch the streetcar. I’ll talk to you later.”

I run down the remaining steps, out the door, and onto the sidewalk in time to see the streetcar continue on down the street.

I have to walk to work, which has me at my desk twenty minutes later than I should be, and Phillip makes his feelings about that known through a series of sighs and disgruntled exhales. By his third one, I’m irritated.

“I’m sorry I was late, Phillip. I had a small personal issue this morning. It won’t happen again.”

I fail to mention that it won’t happen again because it’s my last day. Really, he should be giving me kudos for showing up ready to work at all.

Despite my concession, Phillip sighs again. “I’m just concerned about you, Annalise. You have been different these last few weeks, and frankly, I’m worried you might be slipping.”

My irritation flares. “I was late once, Phillip. My work ethic doesn’t need to be questioned because I missed my streetcar.”

He pulls a file from the pile in front of him and holds it between his hands in a way that I’m not sure if he’s showing it to me or wants me to take it. “We got the results back from the tests we ran.” He hesitates momentarily before opening it and laying a stapled piece of paper in front of me. “It provides a possible explanation for that issue of yours we were investigating.”

It’s a lab report. I know the familiar formatting. I’ve looked at hundreds of these throughout our study. However, my eyes snag on the name at the top—Annalise Harris—and then scan until they find the section marked Final Results Summary. My heart triple skips at the bullet points noted in the big gray box: “THC Marijuana—detected.”

“What is this? Some last-day joke?”

Phillip frowns and shakes his head, his expression saying, You know I don’t make jokes.

I scan all of the information again. My blood type and birthdate are correct. The lab report is legitimate and hasn’t been mixed up with another Annalise Harris.

“There has to be some mistake.” I set down the report and push it away, but that act clears a space for Phillip to put a second report down in front of me. This one also has my name on it, and the drugs included in the toxicology screening have tripled in number compared to the first. My eyes skim this one until they find the results for THC.