The Fold

I had a dream about my Tuesday, and then I lived it.

Not the vague, symbolic kind of dream where you’re flying or your teeth fall out. I mean I dreamed my entire Tuesday, hour by hour, and then I woke up on Tuesday morning and watched it all happen again.

At first, I thought it was déjà vu. Everyone gets that, right? That weird feeling that you’ve been somewhere before, said something before. It passes in a few seconds and you forget about it.

This didn’t pass.

Tuesday, 8:30 AM

I’m in the entryway, running late like always. I grab my left shoe and jam my foot in, using the shoehorn that’s been broken for months. It slips, as it always slips, and hits the edge of the shoe cabinet with a sharp crack.

The sound stops me cold.

I heard that sound before, in my dream. The exact same crack, with the same hollow echo in the narrow hallway.

I stand there with my hand on the doorknob, trying to remember what comes next.

The dream is still fresh. In it, I opened the door, walked down three flights of stairs, and saw Mrs. Gao from 2B dragging her garbage bag. She said good morning. I said good morning back. The bag split open as she lifted it, spilling orange peels across the landing.

I don’t want to open the door.

But I’m already late, so I do.

Mrs. Gao is there. The garbage bag is in her hand.

“Good morning,” she says.

“Good morning,” I hear myself say.

The bag splits. Orange peels tumble out.

I take the stairs two at a time and don’t look back.

10:15 AM

The office is the same as it always is: fluorescent lights, the broken AC unit that rattles, my colleague Zhang’s desk cluttered with papers he’ll never file.

I’m staring at a spreadsheet when Zhang walks over. He’s holding his mug, the Starbucks one with the chipped handle. He’s going to ask me about the monthly report.

I know because I dreamed this too.

He clears his throat. “Hey, Yin…”

“It’s in the third folder,” I say, not looking up. “Shared drive. I already sent you the link.”

Zhang stops. His mo…