When she wakes from a deep, empty sleep, Jules is instantly aware of the presence in her bedroom, invisible and rattling. With a mind still fuzzy from a long day at work, she waits patiently for it to come into focus, and, when it does not, she can not bring herself to panic. Instead, she rises from under the white bedding and walks deeper into the darker corners of the room, looking for something amiss. There is a certain sort of hubris that comes with knowing you can heal your own wounds and snap a spine, and it is in full effect as she investigates. She follows it from the bed to the window to the photographs on the wall. It guides her through goosebumps and cold chills through the room, not once stopping to question its motives. Finally, she comes to rest in front of the door to the hallway. Beyond this door, she knows there are no more mysteries. There is nothing except the wood floor that spans the entire ground level and a pile of laundry that she has yet to put away, but still the thing insists she opens the door. She feels it in the tingle of her right hand down into the tips of her fingers. Tired and half convinced she is dreaming, she turns the knob.

The wind is cold on the street corner where she stands. It is late in the evening as evidenced by the shuttered storefronts and neon lights of places that only stay open until they are legally required to close. There is no deep salty breeze, and Jules recognizes the buildings from when she was a teenager, sneaking into bars with her friends and a fake ID. Bringing her eyebrows together in confusion, she looks around for the thing that brought her here, and it responds with an invisible touch to her left cheek. Turning toward it, she sees a woman just down the street, her arms wrapped around herself as she looks around, obviously waiting for something. Jules recognizes her immediately and curls her lip up.

It is too much, too heavy-handed. She dislikes the entity for bringing her here and showing her this. Coming face-to-face with herself like this feels like a punch, and she wonders if she’s fallen asleep in front of the television. Jules watches herself, tired and drawn, lean against a street light, brushing off the attention of strangers who are out with shopping bags and concerned faces. They are downtown looking for toys or boutique-standard sweaters to take home and wrap up. Judging by the way the Jules in this place is standing, she is just looking for a ride home. Biting the thick edge of her tongue, Jules steps forward and follows herself to the curb as a familiar black pickup stops beside her. Her father’s face is as stony and unaffected as ever, even as he has to lean over and help her into the cab of the truck. He waits quietly for her to get her seatbelt on and says nothing even as they pull away.

“He said I’m not allowed to talk to him.” The statement, which is meant as an explanation, shatters the quiet in the truck. To Jules, who has only just arrived in this nightmare, it is immediately clear who and what the half-drunk woman means. She feels her stomach dip low as her father nods at her. A man of very few words, he does not offer her comfort or advice. The mood shifts and it is clear to Jules that they have had this conversation numerous times before. That not being allowed to speak to Jeremiah is something they have been contending with for quite some time. It is altogether infuriating and terrifying. And she knows she is stuck witnessing this vast expanse of inaction, that she is bound to stay with these people until the thing inside her brain releases her from this nightmare. She wishes it would show its face just so she could spit into it. Jules knows that it is useless to fight something she cannot see, but the longer this silence goes on, the more she would like the truck to find its way off a steep embankment.

Her parents’ home is a stately grey adobe affair with a large two car garage that barely fits her father’s truck and the few vestiges of summer that have been stored away for the winter. She follows the miserable pair of people as they exit the truck, making themselves smaller so they will fit through the space. Stepping around bottles of weed killer and an old spare hose, they fall into a line as they climb the steps to the inner door.

Instead of the tiled flooring of her parents’ mud room, however, she is met with the warm light of her own home. Confused, she turns her head to look over her shoulder. There, she is met with nothing. Behind her a gaping void stares back, and she is compelled to turn back to the warm light. Jules is exhausted and would like to climb back into the safe escapist embrace of her bed, but she is pushed along into her living room to a scene much more familiar. Jeremiah is hunched over a pile of unopened presents, prodding the corners for a peek at the contents inside.

“Jeremiah Charles, you better get away from those presents or I will make sure there isn’t a single drop of hot chocolate left in the entire city of San Francisco.”

Both Jeremiah and Jules turn toward the voice, but while Jeremiah laughs and runs away, Jules cannot help but step closer in awe. Once again, she is met with a vision of herself, but this one could not be more different to the one before. She is happy in a way that is immediately apparent. Even in the light of the Christmas tree, she is alive with a joy that Jules has not felt in months. Most shocking, however, is the slight curve of her body, the unmistakable bump of a pregnancy just becoming visible. It is a cruel revelation, and Jules would like to look away from it, but she knows that there is this and nothing else. She watches herself bend to pick up some toys that have scattered across the living room floor and refold a blanket to drape it over the couch. Finally, she sits, letting loose a sigh of relief and exhaustion. That is familiar at least.

“Jules, where is that broiler pan?”

Jules turns whips her head to the side, to the kitchen that is alive with light and movement. It was a man’s voice, happily stuck in the mundanity of whatever it was he had going on in the kitchen.

“The broiler pan? Is that, like, a cooking thing?”

“Smartass.”

Jules looks at herself again, taking in the way she is smiling, and she cannot help but step toward the kitchen. She would like to see the face of the person there, to know who or what is waiting, but she is stopped. Like a hand over her eyes, her vision goes black.

When she can see again, she is back in her bedroom, the white sheets tangled tightly around her legs. Her lungs feel dry and cracked and she attempts to gasp a breath. The weight of the night is heavy on her chest and her body is dehydrated from the way she can't seem to take care of herself these days. For a moment, she would like to know if it was real. If she has suddenly developed the ability to see into the future. But she knows that Jessica does not have that ability.

“It was a dream.”

Just as she settles into the bed again, convinced that her dinner of leftover lo mein and half a beer is just not agreeing with her, she feels a cold brush against her neck and a warm stream of tears down her cheek.