My breakfast keeps resetting right in front of me.

When Dad died, I was sleeping off a hangover on the couch.

The sun was in my eyes.

That was my first thought.

I groaned, rolled off the couch to pull the curtains shut. Then I turned off the TV, briefly intrigued by the headline crawling across the bottom of the screen. “CEO’s children die in helicopter collision—”

“Good morning, Brogen.”

Emilia, my step-mom’s maid, stood in the doorway with my usual on a tray: eggs sunny side up, freshly pressed orange juice, and my anti-depressants.

I scarfed down the eggs and downed the juice before I could throw up.

Emilia smiled. “Brogen, your father passed away six hours ago from heart complications.”

Good.

I hadn’t had a relationship with my father since he dumped us for a woman half his age working minimum wage.

Daddy left us for Costco pizza and a semi-detached house.

I motioned for Emilia to pull down my zip.

“That sucks,” I muttered, stepping out of last night’s dress.

Emilia turned away while I changed my pants. “Your father instructed his lawyer to hand over your inheritance immediately.”

“Cool.”

I was more interested in finding my phone. I checked the pocket of my dress, finding nothing but a crumpled fifty-dollar bill.

I turned couch cushions as splintered memories surfaced: overpriced cocktails, flashing lights, and snorting the bad stuff through a rolled-up napkin while sitting on the lap of a girl whose face I couldn’t quite remember, who smelled of butter caramel.

“You are holding your phone.” Emilia commented.

I looked down.

“Oh.”

My phone was in my hand. “Drink your orange juice,” Emilia moved to the door. “Your mother insists on a daily nutritious diet.”

I laughed. “I literally just drank it,” I said. I turned toward the empty glass— which, to my confusion, had been refilled to the brim. Not just that. The eggs I'd nibbled at to avoid throwing up were once again perfectly sunny side up over toasted soldiers, which I remembered leaving in an orange mushy mess. I studied the tray, my stomach flipping over.

“Did you... grab me seconds?” I asked, glancing at the door.

Emilia was gone.

My phone vibrated.

A message popped up. Simon, my know-it-all asshole of a step-bro.

“Hello. If you don't come to this inheritance thing, I'm telling everyone you made moves on that 35 year old man last night."

I remembered Polly Cravies, who I'd been dancing with all night, who kissed me in the girls bathroom and stole my breath.

“What man?”

He messaged back immediately. I could imagine him waiting, lips curled in a sadistic grin.

Simon: “That creepy tech bro sitting on your lap??” He attached a photo, and sure enough, there I was, eyes closed, perched on the lap of some ghoul of a human being, a drink to my mouth.

I caught movement under the couch.

I knelt, finding myself face to face with Emilia.

The maid smiled. Then she crawled out from under the couch, resuming her position in front of me. “Take your medication.”

“I did!” I snapped.

I shoved her out of the room, exhaled, and turned around.

Emilia was three inches from my face.

A screech ripped from my lips, and I stumbled back, falling over myself.

“Mistress Brogen,” she said. “Please eat your breakfast.”

My phone vibrated.

Simon.

“Where ARE you? This is the BEST graduation present EVER.”

“Were you knocked on the head?” I sent back. “Dad is dead and we already graduated. Drink water.”

I rolled my eyes when the dots immediately appeared. He was typing.

“What?!”

“Dad’s deajeks???

“What d do you mean?????? What the fuck this isn't FUNNY.”

“Brogen????”

My phone buzzed in my hands as his texts became more frequent.

Which was crazy, because Simon already knew Dad was dead.

He was already claiming his inheritance.

I held my breath and texted him: “Where are you?”

No response. The texts stopped, and my room felt too empty.

“Brogen.”

Emilia was behind me, her breath tickling my neck.

“I know.” I spat. “I'm going.”

I was halfway out of the door when thundering footsteps caught me off guard. Someone was running up the stairs.

“Brogen!” Annalise, my step-sister, knocked into my chest, wrapping her arms around me. Annalise was slightly more tolerable than her brother.

“I can't find Pepper,” she sniffled into my shoulder.

I figured I'd misheard her. “It’s okay.” I stroked through her hair. “Dad was… well, he was a dad.” I swallowed my irony. “I guess.”

Annalise’s head snapped up. “What? I mean Pepper! Dad’s helping me look for her!”

I stepped back, an ice cold rush creeping down my spine.

Pepper, our tabby cat from childhood. Who died when I was eight. I stumbled away, something inside me igniting my nerve-endings. My phone vibrated again. Another text from Simon:

“Get here RN or we’re taking off!” Attached, a selfie of my brother, Polly, and Annalise on what looked like Dad’s helicopter.

“Annalise.” I swallowed thickly. “Where's Simon?”

“I'm in my ROOM.” A voice yelled from down the hallway. “Obviously.”

Before I could stop myself, I grabbed the juice, and downed it.

Only for the glass to reappear in front of my eyes.

“Brogen, I apologize.”

Emilia was peeking from under the couch again.

Her smile widened, stretching right across her face. “The purpose of this simulation is to preserve the consciousness of the Bolynn children, who tragically died in a helicopter crash. Your mother wishes to provide a safe and comforting environment while we search for suitable host bodies. However…” Emilia blinked.

The lights flickered.

“We seem to be…”

The walls blinked out of existence, and I sunk straight through the carpet.

“Brogen?!”

My brother’s voice rang out, clanging in my skull across empty space. Nothing.

Darkness that was swallowing us up, piece by piece. “Brogen, is that you?

Emilia popped up in front of me, mouth wide, eyes bulging. “We s-seem to h-h-have technical difficulties—”