“For the last time, I’m not going there!” I whirl around to face the woman who’s been following me. She’s short, with broad shoulders and thick glasses. We were both just at the bookstore; she came up to me and told me she’s a writer. She had a strange, almost plotting look in her eye. She must have taken a weird liking to me because she’s been following me ever since, calling out guesses as to what my name is, who my family and friends are, and where I’m going. She wouldn’t listen when I politely tried to answer her questions when I thought she was a nosy eccentric who’d leave me alone after a while. But now she won’t listen to me no matter what I do. 

“You’re on your way to tell your friend Patrick that your bike got stolen and you need to borrow some money,” she theorizes, heedless of my discomfort or the people we pass. “Are you just friends, though? Were you roommates? Lovers? He keeps the cross his mother hung in her house next to his clock. Religion always seemed too focused on death to him. He doesn’t understand how your parents could name you Thistle.”

“But my name’s not Thistle. Who the hell would name their kid Thistle?”

“Your parents would,” she replies, sliding her glasses up her nose. “Thistle Anne Clarke. They liked the sound of it.” 

“My name is Carmen Gable. I’m going to visit my friend Stephanie and we’re going to do a yoga workout together. I don’t know anyone named Patrick, roommate, lover, or otherwise. Make what stories you like out of that boring truth.” 

Thankfully, the strange lady doesn’t follow me into Stephanie’s building and I’m able to forget her, the week’s struggles, and the looming deadline for a marketing project at work. My limbs are loose and sore by the time I leave. The sun has come out from behind the clouds it has hidden behind for most of the day; it’ll be a lovely sunset. I pull out my phone and roll my eyes at my sister Andrea’s text reminding me to call our mom tonight so we can plan my brother Jose’s surprise birthday party. 

“So I’m thinking that text was your manager calling you in to work tomorrow so you can’t go deposit the money like you hoped you could. But why do you need to deposit it so quickly? Are you putting it in your own account? Do you have one under a false name? Are you a spy? Is that how you know Patrick?”

The lady is back. Her nonsense gets even more wild as she follows me to the bus stop and claims the open seat beside me once we board. She says I don’t mind her talking because even trying to contradict her would blow my cover. I don’t tell her that I’ve learned that it does no good to talk nonsense with people. It’s when she mentions my burgundy bedsheets that I feel a niggle of fear. How does she know about them?

And somehow she knows about Brandybuck, my childhood mutt, that my first kiss was at summer camp when I was twelve, and that my dad died of cancer four years ago. She’s explaining how I wanted to change my name to Jenna when I was six to the audience she’s created out of the other passengers when I stand and step over her to get off the bus, even though my apartment is two stops away. She calls out goodbye to me like we’re old friends. She doesn’t follow me and my life continues normally for the rest of the night. 

A ringing text alert wakes me too early. I don’t use text alerts. I roll over from my back, which is odd because I usually sleep on my belly and squint against the screen’s brightness to read. 

It’s from Patrick, demanding in all caps to know why the hell I didn’t deposit the money yet. Did I want to get myself killed? My heart races when another text from him comes in, saying he’ll be right there. I’ll help you, Jenna, is the message’s last sentence. 

The overhead light comes on, dazzlingly bright. I groan and cover my eyes. When I can properly see, I lower my hands and feel my jaw go slack. The woman from yesterday is on my bedroom threshold, dressed all in black, her hair back in a braid. She tosses the clothes she’s holding onto my burgundy sheets. It’s a similar outfit to hers. 

“You’re going to want to put those on, Jenna.”

“My name’s not Jenna,” I say, though I don’t feel so sure of that.

“It’s your name now. Hurry up. Our story is about to start.” 

Someone starts to pound on my apartment door and a slow grin spreads over the woman’s face as if she’s just gotten on a roller coaster and she knows she’s going to enjoy every second of the ride, even if I won’t.