LENA
I crack three eggs into the pan and watch them sizzle.
The sound is normal. Everything about this morning is aggressively, painfully normal. The sun through the window. The smell of coffee. The man I married sitting at the table behind me, scrolling through his phone like the world isn't about to end.
Like he didn't murder me.
My hand tightens on the spatula.
"Smells good," Damon says without looking up.
I don't answer right away. I focus on the eggs, pushing them around the pan, making sure they cook evenly. This is what the old Lena would do. The one who tried so hard to be the perfect wife. The one who didn't know her husband was counting down the days until he could get rid of her.
"Thanks," I say. My voice comes out light. Easy. "I thought you might want a real breakfast before work."
He finally looks up. His eyes do that thing they always do, scanning my face like he's searching for cracks in the surface. He's always been good at that. Finding weaknesses. Exploiting them.
But I don't have weaknesses anymore. I have a list and ninety-two days and nothing left to lose.
"You're in a good mood," he says slowly.
I slide the eggs onto two plates and bring them to the table. I sit across from him and smile. It feels strange on my face, like wearing someone else's skin.
"I am," I say. "I've been thinking."
His fork stops halfway to his mouth. "About what?"
"About us. About our future."
The word "future" tastes like ash, but I say it anyway. I need him to believe I still see one with him. I need him relaxed. Unsuspecting.
He sets his fork down. Leans forward. His expression shifts into something softer, more attentive. This is his favorite version of me. The one who needs him. The one who asks for his opinion like it matters.
"I'm glad," he says. "I've been worried about you lately. You've seemed distant."
Distant. That's what he calls it when I stop performing for him.
I take a bite of eggs I don't want. "I know. Work has been stressful. But I want to focus more on what's important. On you."
The lie comes out smooth as glass.
Damon reaches across the table and takes my hand. His thumb rubs circles on my skin, the same gesture that used to make me feel loved. Now it just makes me want to snap his fingers backward.
"That's my girl," he says quietly. "I knew you'd come back to me."
I never left, I want to scream. You threw me out. You watched me die.
Instead, I squeeze his hand back and keep smiling.
He talks for the next twenty minutes. About his job. His boss who doesn't appreciate him. His plans to move up in the company. His ideas for our future, our house, our life. Everything is "our" except the decisions are always his.
I nod in all the right places. I laugh when he makes jokes that aren't funny. I play the role so perfectly that by the time he stands up to leave for work, he's completely convinced.
He kisses my forehead at the door. "I love you," he says.
The words hit me like a slap.
I look up at him. At this man who destroyed me so completely that I had to die to understand what he really was. And I say the three words I need him to believe.
"I love you too."
He leaves.
The second the door closes, I lock it. Then I walk to the sink and grip the edge of the counter so hard my knuckles turn white.
I count to ten. Breathe. Let the mask fall away.
Then I grab my phone.
My hands are steady now. The shaking from this morning is gone, replaced by something colder. Something that knows exactly what needs to happen next.
I scroll through my contacts until I find the name I'm looking for.
Petra Okafor.
We met three years ago at a community clinic. She was coordinating supply deliveries. I was volunteering on weekends. She made me laugh within five minutes and had my back within five more. When the apocalypse hit in my first life, she was one of the few people who stayed loyal until the very end.
Until Damon and Cara made sure she couldn't.
I press call.
It rings once. Twice.
On the third ring, she picks up. "Lena?" Her voice is surprised. We haven't talked in weeks. Damon didn't like her. Said she was a bad influence. Said she filled my head with ideas about independence and career ambition. So I pulled away, because that's what the old Lena did. She made herself smaller to keep the peace.
"I need you," I say. Four words. Clear and sharp. "Today."
There's a pause. I can hear her breathing on the other end. I can picture her face, trying to figure out what's wrong, why I sound different.
"Lena, what's going on?"
"I can't explain over the phone. But I need you to trust me. Can you meet me in an hour?"
Another pause. Longer this time.
Then: "Where?"
Relief floods through me. "The coffee shop on Fifth. The one we used to go to."
"I remember," she says. "I'm already getting my keys."
Something tight in my chest loosens. Some part of me that was terrified she wouldn't come, that this timeline would be different, that I'd be alone in this.
"Thank you," I whisper.
"Always," she says, and hangs up.
I set the phone down on the counter and close my eyes.
One piece of the plan is in motion. Petra will believe me. She'll help me. I know she will, because in my first life, even when they dragged her away from me at the shelter, even when they locked her in a different section to keep her from defending me, she never stopped fighting for me.
This time, I'm going to make sure she survives to see the end.
I open my eyes and reach for my notebook.
But before I can touch it, something happens.
A sensation blooms at the base of my skull. Low. Buzzing. Like static electricity under my skin, except it's not on my skin. It's inside. Deep in my bones. In my brain stem. Crawling up through my nerves like something alive.
I freeze.
The hum gets louder. Stronger. It pulses in rhythm with my heartbeat.
I know this feeling.
It's the ability. The one that came with the bites. The one that lets me sense them before they arrive.
But that's impossible.
Z-Day is ninety-two days away. The infected aren't even infected yet. The virus hasn't been released. It doesn't exist.
So why can I feel it?
The hum intensifies. My vision blurs at the edges. I grab the counter to keep from falling.
And then, as suddenly as it started, it stops.
Silence.
I stand there, gasping, my heart racing like I just ran a marathon.
What the hell was that?
I look down at my hands. They're shaking again. But this time, it's not from fear.
It's from something else. Something new. Something that wasn't there in my first life until after the outbreak began.
I press my palm against my forehead. The skin is hot. Feverish.
The ability is already awake.
Which means something is very, very wrong with my timeline.
My phone buzzes on the counter. I grab it.
A text from a number I don't recognize: You're not the only one who remembers.
I stare at the screen.
My blood turns to ice.
Someone else knows.