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“So Oliver gave you a message for Alba in 2013? Why did you wait so long to deliver it to her?”

“I was told to deliver it after May 1, 2041.”

“Don’t you find all of this pretty strange?” I ask her.

“Everything is strange,” she assures me. “You are strange.”

“I feel strange,” I agree. I do. I feel completely numb.

“I’ve delivered the message and the lady,” Isadora says. “I’m going, now.”

“The lady? What lady?”

“This one, of course. Goodbye, then,” Isadora says. Her eyes roll back and she crumples sideways onto the sofa cushions, passed out cold. Before I can react, her eyes open again and she struggles to sit up. She sees me and starts screaming.

“Whoa!” I try to interrupt her. She won’t shut up. “Hey! Stop that! Whatthehell—” I’m afraid to approach her. “Why are you yelling?”

“What am I doing here?” Her voice is entirely different: higher, unsteady.

“You came to tell me about June 13, 2098. We’ve been sitting here talking for half an hour. I was wondering if you’d been in an accident? Are you okay, Isadora?”

“I don’t know, I don’t know!? My name is Katie!” She starts to cry. I get up and retrieve a box of tissues from the bedroom. I hand her a tissue, and she blows her nose. I examine her face, and suddenly remember a girl I knew briefly, so many years ago. Isadora is an uncommon name; a Katie could be anyone. When she calms down, she asks, “Who are you?”

“My name is Zach Purcell,” I tell her. She tilts her head, frowns at me. “Katie, is your real name Nadia Kendrick?”

Her face goes still. “Not anymore. Not for a long time. I remember you, you were at the party. You drove me to our cottage.” She is visibly uneasy. “Why am I here? Where are we?”

“I don’t know why you’re here. You rang the bell and I let you in; I wasn’t expecting you. I wasn’t waiting for anyone. Did you come here looking for Alba?”

“Alba?” Nadia smiles, but still seems confused. “Is she here? I haven’t seen Alba since that morning . . .”

“Alba’s not here right now.” I explain that Alba and I are married. I don’t mention Alba’s extra husband. “This is our house.”

She shakes her head. “I was supposed to disappear. I guess I took it a little too far.”

“Where have you been? Is Nick with you?” I feel as though if I can ask the right question, everything will make sense; wrongs will be righted, the fog of unhappiness will lift.

Nadia doesn’t answer immediately. She reaches for the coffee and hesitates; touches the side of the mug, adds a splash of half-and-half, stirs and then brings it to her lips. “Ah, that’s good. It’s been a long time since I’ve had real coffee.” She warms her hands with the mug. “Nick has been with me all this time. We got married a few months after that party. I don’t remember how I got here. I should call him, he must be worried. I don’t usually go anywhere without him. We’ve been living in Detroit, at the Tulip Farm.”

“Alba thought you were on a farm,” I tell her. “We never figured out which farm, though.”

Nadia shakes her head. “The Tulip Farm is a computer programming collective, not flowers. We used to rent space from this absolutely legendary bookstore, and when it went out of business we just stayed on, squatting. The books are still there, but we built some apartments and a communal kitchen. It’s really nice, family friendly; you and Alba should come and visit, bring your kids, if you have kids?”

“No,” I say, “no kids. But thanks, it sounds cool.” I try to sound nonchalant. “Do you have kids?”

“Yeah, two girls, they’re twelve and nine now. Oh!” Nadia blushes, her hands fly to her mouth. “I forgot! Alba can’t—sorry, god, I’m an idiot.”

“That’s all right. I don’t mind.” I do, but there’s no reason to admit it to her.

“I hate to ask, but do you have anything to eat? I feel a little dizzy.”

“Sure, listen, I’ll make some lunch. Do you want to borrow some of Alba’s clothes? We could put yours in the dryer?” I leave Nadia standing in front of Alba’s closet. She isn’t Alba’s size, but I guess she’ll figure out something. Half an hour later Nadia is sitting at our kitchen table looking stylish in a wrap dress and a green cardigan I don’t remember seeing on Alba. I warm up some canned minestrone soup and make grilled cheese sandwiches. I cut one of the sandwiches on the diagonal like my mom always did, plop it on a plate and put it in front of her. She doesn’t immediately pick it up, and I think of her alter ego who didn’t know that cups of coffee are hot. Everything is strange. I dole out soup, give her a bowl and serve myself.

We eat without talking much. When Nadia is finished, I stack the dishes in the sink. She calls Nick to let him know she’s okay. I expect her to use her phone, or to borrow mine, but instead she closes her eyes, then stares out the window at the dull sky. The rain has turned to mist. “Nick!” she says. “It’s me . . . I’m fine, you’ll never guess where I am . . . Yeah, no . . . I’m in Chicago—” (she looks to me for confirmation and I nod) “—with Zach—what was your last name?—oh, yeah, Purcell. He and Alba got married! Oh . . . Um, I don’t know how I got here, I sort of blacked out . . . No, you don’t have to, I’ll come home. No, I’m fine. Totally fine. I’ll call you back once I’m on my way . . . I don’t know, Nick, I didn’t mean to worry you. I love you, too . . . Okay, bye.” Nadia closes her eyes, then opens them and turns to me. “Nick says hi.”

“Tell him ‘hi’ for me.” I can barely remember Nick. I excuse myself to check on Nadia’s clothes. I take them out of the dryer, fold them and bring them back to her. She’s standing in front of our bookshelves, head cocked sideways, reading spines. I hand her the clothes, and she heads to the bathroom to change. I make tea. When she returns, we sit at the kitchen table. The pause has given me a chance to order my thoughts. “You said the Tulip Farm is a programming collective?” I ask her.

“Yes.”