Dory had been Jenna's anchor since the fourth grade, when Dory had accidentally kicked a soccer ball through the principal's office window and claimed it was an atmospheric pressure anomaly. Jenna had looked at the shattered glass, looked at Dory's scuffed shoe, and laughed until her ribs ached. They had been inseparable ever since.
When Dory arrived at the Victorian house on Friday afternoon, carrying a grocery bag filled with salted pretzels, cheap chocolate, and lemon soda, she stopped at the foot of the porch steps.
Jenna stood in the doorway. Her uniform was crumpled, her hair was unbrushed, and dark, purple hollows hung beneath her bloodshot eyes.
"You look terrible," Dory said, dropping the grocery bag onto the kitchen table.
"Nice to see you too," Jenna muttered.
"I mean it in an aggressively loving way. Have you slept more than twenty minutes this week?"
Jenna didn't answer. She walked to the kettle, filled it with tap water, and turned on the burner. Her eyes flicked toward the microwave clock.
"Why do you keep checking the time?" Dory asked, leaning against the counter. "You've checked your watch three times since I walked in. What are you waiting for?"
"Nothing," Jenna said defensively.
"Jenna, you skipped three days of badminton practice. Coach Miller called your mom. He said if you miss Monday, you're off the tournament roster."
"I don't care about the tournament."
Dory stared at her, genuinely shocked. "You don't care? You spent four years tearing your rotator cuff to pieces for that trophy."
Jenna turned away, her throat tight. "There are other things going on, Dory."
While Jenna was in the pantry searching for tea bags, Dory walked into the living room. The spiral-bound notebook lay open on the coffee table.
Dory leaned over and read the two columns:
WHAT I KNOW. The photograph is real. Elias existed. The house was a research facility. 03:17.
WHAT I THINK. I am not the first Jenna.
Jenna rushed out of the kitchen and snatched the notebook off the table, her face flushed. "You shouldn't read that! That's private!"
"Then tell me what's happening!" Dory demanded, her voice rising. "You're losing your mind in this rotting house, Jenna! You look like you're waiting for someone to execute you!"
"I said I don't know!" Jenna screamed.
The kettle began to shriek on the stove, a high, piercing whistle that filled the room.
Above the whistle, from the ceiling directly overhead, came the sound:
Knock.
Knock.
Knock.
Dory fell silent, her eyes darting upward toward the plaster ceiling.
Through the floorboards, a voice called down, soft, gentle, and unmistakable:
"Dory?"
Dory turned toward Jenna, her face draining of color. "Did you… did you call me?"
"I'm standing right in front of you," Jenna whispered, her breath trembling.
The voice drifted down again, coming from the top of the dark stairwell:
"Dory… come upstairs."
Jenna lunged forward and seized Dory's wrist, pulling her back toward the center of the kitchen. "Don't go. Don't answer it."
Dory's chest rose and fell in rapid, shallow breaths. "Jenna… whatever this is, we'll figure it out. Call your dad. Call the police."
Before Jenna could reply, the voice called down a third time.
Only this time, it was no longer Jenna's voice.
It was Dory's.
The exact pitch, the exact breathless register, coming from the darkness above:
"Jenna? Why won't you come up?"
Dory dropped her car keys onto the floor, the metal clattering loudly against the linoleum. Her face went ghostly pale.
"That wasn't me," Dory whispered. "That wasn't me."