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She very chalantly leans forward and sniffs the top of my head.

"Ew." I duck away, almost fumbling the gloves. "Can you not?"

She laughs.

"What were you saying? Something about Mage?"

"Oh, right." She settles back against the shelf. "Do you know a Jace Holloway? Apparently he just got drafted."

Everything in my arms shifts as they nearly give out. Luckily, I manage to catch the tower of boxes and kits before they crash to the floor.

"In the… MLB?" I manage.

Dylan's eyes narrow. "No… the war. Yes, in the MLB. By the Golden City Gators."

At this point, I'm not sure how I'm still physically holding onto reality, let alone the items in my hands. My arms are weak, my knees even more so, and it's a damn miracle that I'm still standing in this closet that's suddenly closing in.

"You okay?" Dylan asks. She squints at me as she leans closer—cautious, like she thinks I might faint or hurl or do a combination of the two.

Which I might.

"Campbell's goin' to your head?"

I blink away the thought. "I'm fine. I just—" I bend over and set everything carefully on the floor. When I stand back up, I reach for her phone. "Can I see that for a second?"

Dylan shrugs and hands it to me. "Sure."

I tap her screen to brighten it as she continues talking.

"I don't even know why it popped up on my feed," she admits. "Probably because I was talking to my brother the other day about how they're trying to do away with Dollar Dog Nights—so stupid. Anyway, you know how your phone hears you talk about something one time and all of a sudden…"

She keeps going, but I don't hear any more of her ramble.

Because my eyes lock on the photo in front of me—a Golden City Gators post about their newest second baseman.

Jace Holloway. CMU. Mage Hollow.

My heart pumps faster as I stare at him.

Him.

It's not a new photo but also not one I recognize—an action shot of him swinging a bat in his college uniform. He looks so different from what I remember—older, stronger. More serious than the guy I knew. But he also looks so… familiar.

A million thoughts race through my mind:

What happened?

How did he do it?

How does he feel?

But each one is followed closely behind by the realization that I don't get those answers.

Not anymore.

A dinging from beside me calls me back to the present, and Dylan dips her hand into the front pocket of her scrubs.

"Ah shit," she groans, pulling out her work phone. "That's me. The guy who came in earlier with chest pains has been a little trigger happy with the call button."