Jess sat down at her kitchen table, both hands wrapped around a glass of scotch so that it could not escape. To her left, the postcard—curled from being crumpled, then flattened out by the heel of Jess’s palm—laid semi-flat on the tabletop beneath her cell phone.
Looking down at the postcard, Jess tried to make sense of the situation. Why would someone who spent yesterday in my body send me a postcard? Was it my body or just my mind? Or both? The postcard did not detail any specifics of how or why someone spent the day in Jess’s body, only that they did.
She picked up the phone and dialed.
“Hi, Sheila? Jessica. I’m not going to be in to work today. I’m not feeling well.â?
“What do you mean Jessica? You don’t work here any more. You were fired. Yesterday. I already told you, your final check won’t be ready until Friday.â?
“Wait. You saw me yesterday?â?
“Of course I did. Are you ok Jessica?”
“No, not really.â? Jess hung up the phone and emptied her glass of scotch.