Her phone was ringing, the caller ID said it was her own number…

 

For a second, Elena thought it was a technological failure. She was just about to touch the red "decline" button, truly annoyed with the world.

 

 It was 1:37 a.m. She had just managed to settle under her comforter and coax her body into the sleep of the exhausted after yet another soul-sucking night shift in the emergency room.

 

But the screen glowed insistently in the dark.

 

Her number.

 

Her name.

 

Calling her.

 

Her pressing "accept" can only be due to either curiosity or, more likely, a reckless abandon induced by exhaustion.

 

"Hello?"

 

First static. Then: "Don't go in tomorrow."

 

Elena propped herself up. The voice on the line belonged to her—inflection, timbre, breath pattern—definitely her own. But harsher. Hysterical. Like it had scratched its way out of a fireplace.

 

"Who are you? Why are you calling at this hour?"

 

"There is no time for questions. Don't go to work. You're still able to leave, not to become involved."

 

Elena laughed, but it sounded forced. "Sure. This is hilarious. A new prank app? Did Sarah tell you to mess with me?"

 

"You don't get it," the voice implored. "I am you. Thirty-seven hours from now, you'll be the one making this call. You'll regret not paying attention to what I said."

Then, the line became silent.

 

Elena looked at the screen for too long. Her image smiled back at her, almost as if in mockery. She flung the phone and then herself onto her bed, sinking into its softness.

 

A cruel mixture of midnight stress, lack of sleep, and two gas station granola bars, her supper on the go, had forced her into a state of semi-consciousness from which she woke in the morning feeling groggy and exhausted.