Wildfire

Chapter 3

Friday dawned with cruel clarity. Lauren had barely slept, her dreams were full of blank notepads and impossible reflections. The morning sun hit her kitchen counter at the exact angle that had made Casimir appear two days ago - or had it been longer? Time felt strangely elastic since yesterday's session.

Her phone showed five missed calls from her agent, three from her publisher, and one from the NYU Creative Writing department she'd stood up yesterday. The perfect Lauren Morrison wouldn't ghost a speaking engagement. The perfect Lauren Morrison would already be writing her sequel.

But she wasn't feeling particularly perfect this morning.

Coffee seemed dangerous - too many reflective surfaces, too many memories - so she ordered overpriced green juice from the place downstairs. The doorman's knowing smile when he handed her the delivery made her wonder: had she always been this transparent, or was Dr. Winters making her see through her own carefully constructed facade?

"Who decides what should be real?"

The question followed her around the penthouse as she tried to maintain some semblance of routine. Her laptop remained closed, a Schrödinger's cat of possibilities - until she opened it, the sequel both existed and didn't.

Instead, she found herself organizing her notes from yesterday's session, only to realize she hadn't actually taken any. Just like his notepad, the pages were blank. But she remembered every word, every shift of light in his glasses, every calculated pause.

Monday felt like a threat and a promise, wrapped in pristine white and perfect control.

Her green juice caught the morning light, the liquid shifting in ways that reminded her of Casimir's smoke-grey fur. Lauren pushed it away, untouched.

Maybe she should call her agent. Maybe she should write. Maybe-

The surface of her phone rippled like water, though she hadn't touched it.

Lauren blinked hard, but the ripple remained, spreading outward from where Dr. Winters' number sat in her recent calls. She watched, breath caught, as reality itself seemed to hiccup around the edges of anything connected to him.

Monday couldn't come soon enough.

Or maybe it was already too soon.

For a moment, Lauren actually considered calling him. Her fingers hovered over the rippling screen, drawn to the possibility of hearing that measured voice again. But what would she say? 'Hi, Dr. Winters, reality seems to be having technical difficulties, is this covered in our six sessions?'

The thought startled a laugh out of her - a sound so normal it felt out of place in her increasingly abnormal morning.

Her agent's number flashed again. This one she had to answer. There were only so many ways to dodge seven figures.

"Lauren! Finally!" Rachel's voice carried that familiar mix of concern and irritation. "Gallery Books is- are you okay? You sound..."

"Fine," Lauren said quickly. Too quickly? "Just deep in the writing process."

The lie felt different now, as if Dr. Winters had somehow made her more aware of her own performance. She could almost hear his voice: "Is that what you tell your agent? Your publisher? Yourself?"

"Good, because they're talking adaptation rights. Netflix, Amazon, everyone's circling. But they need those chapters, Lauren. They need to know Princess Aurora's story continues."

Lauren watched her green juice continue its impossible shifts in the morning light. "The story continues," she repeated softly. But which story? The one her publisher wanted, or the one currently bending reality around her expensive kitchen?