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“If Anton’s here, we should communicate, right?” Shania says. “Do a proper summoning?”

“No,” Dr. Cirillo says. “If Anton is here, he’ll stay, and it gives everyone—including Anton—time to settle in and relax for tomorrow.” He looks at me. “Is that all right, Nicola?”

“It is.”

EIGHT

I fall asleep faster than I ever imagined, especially since my sleep cycles have been dictated by pills for the last eight months. I go off them for a while, only to give up after a week of restless sleep endangers my deadlines.

After Anton died, I’d taken a month off work. That’s hard when I run my own business. It’s also hard when my staff are support workers hired through a co-op, which provides self-employed coders with a pool of people who handle the nontechnical parts of the business. That’s a huge help, but it also means I don’t have a dedicated PA who would understand what I’m going through, explain the situation to clients, and rearrange my deadlines. Nor do I have coders working under me whom I could off-load some of my work on. So a month was all I could take, which then meant I had a month of work to catch up on. Since then, I’ve reduced my workload, knowing that lack of decent sleep means I put in full days but only manage half the work.

Dr. Cirillo had asked us to forgo sleep aids. I was nervous about going cold turkey, so I’d weaned off them last week. Tonight I expected to be staring at the ceiling. Or curled up, hugging a tear-drenched pillow and wishing it was Anton, thinking of all the nightsI’d rolled away from him—the man was a hot-water bottle when he slept—and wishing I’d cuddled close each and every night, no matter how warm it got.

Instead, I go to bed hugging a pillow, and my mind drifts to that semi-dream state where it becomes Anton, radiating imaginary heat, and I snuggle in and fall asleep… only to tumble back twenty-two years, part of my mind still spinning there from reliving that high-school memory at the welcoming séance.

When the dream starts, March break has just ended, and my family had enjoyed a few days in Vancouver, which was easy and safe travel for me. I’d spent the rest of the week studying. I was eyeing two of the country’s top software-engineering programs, which meant I needed to nudge my grades up.

I’d made two good friends at school—Patrice and Heather—but both had gone south with their families for a little sun and sand, so I immersed myself in schoolwork, and by the time Monday comes, I’m dying to talk to anyone under the age of forty.

My bus drops me off at school just before first period, so I don’t get more than a “Hey!” from Patrice, shouted across the crowded hall. Neither of my friends are in my morning classes. We might all be considered geeks, but we’re different strains of the variety. I’m the computer geek, Heather is the art geek, and Patrice is all about drama, mostly the theatrical kind, but sometimes the personal kind, too.

Mom once called Patrice “high-strung.” I gave her shit for that. No one callsboyshigh-strung. They’re volatile or energetic. Mom accepted the criticism and apologized. I got what she meant, though. Patrice gives off an energy, and sometimes it’s raucous and exhilarating and other times, it feels like nervous tension.

Heather is the opposite, focused and even-tempered, always assessing a situation to see how it can be improved. I’d once made the mistake of joking that she had a coder’s personality—analytical and logical. I’d meant it as a compliment, but it stung because Heathergets a lot of feedback that her art is too perfect, too constrained. She longs for a little of Patrice’s drama or my recklessness.

When I find them at lunch, they’re at our usual table, sitting side by side, leaning together in rapt conversation. I slow. While they welcomed me into their friendship last term, I respect that they were best friends long before I came along.

Patrice sees me and perks up, waving me over with an expression that has me quickening my pace. Whatever they’re discussing, it’s something they’re eager to share. Gossip? Good news? Either promises a little excitement in a dull school day.

I slide in across the table and take out my water bottle and enzyme pills.

“Heather was telling me what she did on break,” Patrice says.

“You were in Cuba, right?” I say. “Did you do a lot of sightseeing?”

Heather makes a face. “No. I was hoping to see the art and the architecture, but we weren’t supposed to leave our resort except on guided trips, and when we took one, it was really uncomfortable, like we were rich tourists who needed to be guided past the areas where real people live.” She inhales. “I didn’t like it.”

At the time, I didn’t quite understand her point. I was a sheltered white girl from an upper-middle-class family. But even at that age, Heather would have seen and felt the economic disparity.

“Which is not what we were talking about,” Patrice prompts.

“Yes. So because we barely left the resort, I got to know a couple girls our age. Cousins. From Cambridge.”

“Massachusetts?” Patrice says.

Heather and I exchange a smile, like older siblings rolling their eyes at a younger one.

“It’s Cuba,” I say, and yep, that’s a little rude, but at sixteen, I could be insufferable. Okay, at thirty-eight I can also be insufferable, but as a teen I had an excuse.

“Oh, right,” Patrice says. “Duh.” Her tone suggests she doesn’t understand, but she’s not saying so. I won’t call her on it by explaining that Americans can’t visit Cuba. She can look it up later. The internet makes that a lot easier than it was when we were little and had to pull out an encyclopedia.

“Cambridge in England,” Heather says. “One night, they ask me to slip out and meet them for something fun. I’m thinking skinny-dipping. Maybe meeting up with some of the boys.”

“Forskinny-dipping?” I waggle my brows.

Heather’s cheeks pink, and Patrice’s grin says she already knows what Heather did—and it’s good. I lean forward, ready for the big reveal.Wasit skinny-dipping with boys? I’d totally do that. Hell, ifthatwas on the table, I’d be trying to talk my parents into a Cuban vacation myself.

Let’s just say that at sixteen, my dating experience sorely underserved my curiosity. I wasn’t sure whether I wanted a boyfriend. That seemed like a lot of work. But if I could go to a foreign country and have a safe hookup, I’d be writing my parents a thousand-word essay on why Cuba would be an important cultural experience for me. I am all about culture.