By noon the following day, the incident had become a strange yet surreal memory. It was an unusually unsettling experience, one she was only half considering turning into a text for her best friend.

 

 "So, you won't believe what happened to me last night," she started, then went on to relate the creepy details.

 

After speaking with her bestie, Sarah, she calmed down a bit and got ready for work. She tried not to think too much about the mysterious call she had received during the night.

 

She had to be at work by 3 p.m. in the St. Vincent's emergency department. The ED was running on a short-handed, per usual. She had to rush to catch her breath while caring for three patients who needed more than just a nurse's touch. The toddler with seizures was a top priority. The stabbing victim who was choosing to remain silent about what happened, only saying, "I got stabbed, man."  Meanwhile, that old woman in the lobby didn't know where she lived but kept telling the staff about her wedding more than 50 years ago.

 

At 8:15 p.m., the ambulance came in.

 

"Doctor Reyes!" called out a nurse. "We've got incoming trauma from a motor vehicle, multiple passengers. One's DOA and two others are in critical condition."

 

Elena agreed, pulling on gloves. She was already in motion when the gurney came through the doors.

 

The first patient was a young woman in her early twenties who was conscious but covered in blood. She was suffering from internal bleeding and had a fractured pelvis. Elena called for OR preparation, gave the vitals in a rapid-fire manner, and pushed past the second paramedic but then froze.

 

Patient Two was barely clinging to life. The face was mangled. Clavicle broken. Burn marks.

 

But even through the damage, Elena saw it.

 

The woman was herself.

 

Not metaphorically. Not some stranger with coincidental features. No. It was her.

 

The same mole by the jaw. Same faint scar over the left brow from a childhood bicycle crash.

 

"Is this some kind of joke?" she whispered, moving closer.

 

The confusion was apparent on the face of the nurse next to her. "Dr. Reyes?"

 

Elena's lookalike opened one blood-crusted eye and was able to murmur, "I told you not to come."

 

Then flatline.

 

Panic shattered the stillness of the room, commands for paddles, CPR compression rhythms, and a nurse forcefully saying vitals that weren't changing.

 

 But Elena was in free fall, suspended in time and space, staring at the face of herself that was dying under the harsh, unflattering glare of fluorescent lights.

 

They pronounced Jane Doe completely dead two hours later. No identification could be found on the body. It was not questioned how much she looked like Elena. No one noticed the way Elena noticed.

 

The staff bathroom became a safety zone for her. No one could get to her while she was hurling into the toilet, and the light of day was not even allowed in there. She was desperate for it to go away.

 

Her phone vibrated. With unsteady fingers, she took it from her coat pocket.

Number blocked.

 

She could not answer. But a voicemail came through.

 

"I was unsuccessful. I believed that maybe you would hear me this time. But I understand now. It always unfolds this way. We always enter. We always die trying to change it. They are observing us. Avoid looking at the cameras. Don't place your faith in Sarah. I'm so sorry."