The notebook is open on the bed.

Little Mei has brought it. She has never shown it to anyone. Not her mother. Not her teachers. Not the girls who whisper in the hallways. But she has brought it here, to this room, to this bed, to this impossible person who knows too much and explains too little.

Lin Mei looks at the pages. The handwriting is familiar. It is her own handwriting, twenty-six years younger. The same slant. The same pressure. The same way of crossing t's that she thought was unique to her but is apparently genetic.

"You wrote this," Little Mei says. It is not a question. "Not me. You. The same words. The same poems. I found them in your bag. I wasn't snooping. I was looking for a pen. But I found them. And they're the same."

Lin Mei closes her eyes. The moment she has been dreading has arrived. The truth, demanding to be told. The lie, demanding to be confessed.

"I can explain," she says.

"Then explain," Little Mei says. Her voice is hard. Her voice is scared. "Explain why you have my poems in your bag. Explain why you know things about me that no one knows. Explain why you look at me like you're looking at a ghost. Explain why you cry when you think I'm not watching. Explain everything."

Lin Mei opens her eyes. She looks at the girl sitting on her bed. The girl with her face. The girl with her poems. The girl with her life, lived badly, lived briefly, lived without ever knowing that it mattered.

"I'm you," Lin Mei says. "I'm you, twenty-six years from now. I died at forty-two. I woke up here. In this body. In this room. In this life that isn't mine. And I don't know why. I don't know how. I don't know if I'm dreaming or dead or crazy. But I know you. I know you because I was you. I know your poems because I wrote them. I know your fears because I lived them."

Little Mei is very still. The notebook is open on the bed between them. The pages are filled with words that both of them have written, in different times, in different bodies, in different lives that are somehow the same.

"That's impossible," Little Mei says.

"I know," Lin Mei says. "But here I am."

"Prove it," Little Mei says. "Prove you're me."

Lin Mei thinks. She searches her memory. She looks for something that only she would know. Something that no one else could possibly know.

"The jar," she says. "The peanut butter jar. Your mother uses it for pickles. She has been using it for six years. The label is half-peeled. The glass is scratched. And inside, on the bottom, there is a crack. A small crack. You noticed it last month. You were afraid it would break and the pickles would spill and your mother would be sad because she can't afford a new jar."

Little Mei's eyes are wide. Her mouth is open. She doesn't speak.

"The poem on page seventeen," Lin Mei continues. "The one about the factory smoke. You wrote it on a Tuesday. It was raining. You were supposed to be studying for a math test. But you couldn't focus because your mother was working a double shift and you were alone in the apartment and the rain made you think of everything you would never have."

"Stop," Little Mei whispers.

"The scar on your knee," Lin Mei says. "You got it when you were eight. You fell off your bicycle. Your mother couldn't afford to take you to the doctor so she cleaned it with boiled water and sewed it herself. She used a needle and thread from her sewing kit. You still have the scar. It's shaped like a crescent moon."

"Stop," Little Mei says again. Louder now. "Please. Stop."

Lin Mei stops. She looks at the girl who is her. The girl who is crying. The girl who is shaking. The girl who has just had her world rewritten.

"I'm sorry," Lin Mei says. "I didn't want to tell you. I thought it would be easier if you didn't know. I thought I could help you without explaining. I thought I could save you and then disappear and you would never have to know that your future died in a car accident on a rainy Tuesday."

Little Mei wipes her face. Her hands are shaking. Her breathing is fast.

"What happens to me?" she asks. "In your life. What happens?"

Lin Mei doesn't want to answer. She doesn't want to tell this girl about the factory and the dormitory and the hospital room. She doesn't want to tell her about the rain and the headlights and the silence that followed.

"You live," she says. It is a lie. It is also the only gift she has left to give. "You live. You survive. You become someone. Not the someone you wanted to be. But someone. And then. And then you get a second chance."

"A second chance," Little Mei repeats. "Is that what this is?"

"I don't know," Lin Mei says. "I don't know what this is. I don't know why I'm here. I don't know if I'm saving you or saving myself or if there's any difference between the two."

Little Mei looks at the notebook. She touches the pages. Her fingers trace the words that she wrote and the words that Lin Mei wrote and the words that are somehow both.

"If you're me," she says, "then you know what I want to ask."

"I know," Lin Mei says.

"Then answer."

Lin Mei takes a breath. She looks at the ceiling. It is white. Too white. The kind of white that costs money.

"Does it get better?" Little Mei asks. "Does it ever get better?"

Lin Mei thinks about the factory. She thinks about the dormitory. She thinks about the rain. She thinks about the moment before the car hit, when she had just enough time to think: so this is how it ends.

"Yes," she says. It is a lie. It is also the only truth that matters. "It gets better. Not the way you think. Not the way you want. But better. You learn things. You become things. You find moments that are so beautiful they make everything else worth it."

"What kind of moments?" Little Mei asks.

"This kind," Lin Mei says. She reaches out. She takes Little Mei's hand. "This moment. Right now. This impossible, ridiculous, unbelievable moment where two versions of the same person sit on a bed and hold hands and try to figure out what comes next. This is the kind of moment that makes everything worth it."

Little Mei looks at their hands. Same shape. Same scars. Twenty-six years between them.

"I believe you," Little Mei says. "I don't understand. I don't know if I ever will. But I believe you."

"That's enough," Lin Mei says. "Belief is enough. For now."

They sit in silence. The notebook is open between them. The city breathes outside. The world turns.

"What do we do now?" Little Mei asks.

"Now," Lin Mei says, "we figure out how to save you. Together."

"And then?"

"And then," Lin Mei says, "we figure out how to save me."