Chapter 3

The premonition was always there, lurking at the edge of my thoughts. It felt like a dress rehearsal for a play I desperately wanted to rewrite.

In that vivid, terrifying "memory," Mom was in the kitchen, a strange, unsettling calm about her. It was after a fight, a big one, about me wanting to apply to the out-of-state school.

She' d seemed to concede, a rare event.

"I made your favorite, honey," she' d said, her voice too sweet. Peanut butter cookies.

My stomach churned at the real memory intertwined with the premonition. I was allergic to peanuts. Severely. Mom knew this. She' d been there during my first reaction as a child, the frantic hospital visit, the EpiPen prescription.

In the premonition, I saw myself hesitate. "Mom, these have peanuts."

"Oh, don't be silly, Sarah. I used the special almond butter, just for you. See?" She' d pointed to a different jar on the counter, a deliberate misdirection.

Her eyes, though. They held a gleam, a chilling satisfaction.

A wave of dread washed over premonition-Sarah. She knew, somehow, Mom was lying. But the fight had been so exhausting. The desire for peace, for a moment of Mom' s approval, was a powerful lure.

"Are you sure, Mom?"

"Of course, I'm sure. Now eat. You're too thin." Her voice was firm, an order disguised as care.

And premonition-Sarah, weary and beaten down, had picked up a cookie. The "deal" was peace, the price was trust. A trust she knew was misplaced.

She' d eaten it.

The familiar itch started in her throat almost immediately. The tightness in her chest.

Mom watched, her expression unreadable.

"Mom," premonition-Sarah had gasped, her voice hoarse. "Peanuts..."

"Nonsense," Mom said, turning back to the sink, humming softly. "You're just being dramatic."

The premonition showed me the agony. The desperate fight for breath, the world narrowing to a pinpoint. The terrifying realization that Mom wasn't going to help. She was just watching.

Then, darkness. A strange, floating sensation.

As if from a distance, premonition-Sarah' s consciousness saw her own lifeless body on the kitchen floor.

Mom was on the phone, her voice calm. "David? Yes, something's happened to Sarah. I think it was an allergic reaction. I just found her."

No panic. No grief. Just... information.

Then, Dad' s arrival in the premonition. The sound of his car skidding to a halt. His footsteps pounding into the house.

"Sarah! Oh my God, Sarah!" His voice, raw with anguish.

He knelt beside premonition-Sarah, his face a mask of horror and disbelief. He knew about the allergy. He knew Mom knew.

He looked up at Mom, who was standing by the counter, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue, a picture of bewildered sorrow.

"What did you do?" Dad' s voice was a low growl, unrecognizable.

"David, I... I don't know! She just collapsed!" Mom' s performance of grief began.

But Dad wasn't buying it. Not this time. The premonition showed his dawning, sickening realization. The casual placement of the real peanut butter jar, now prominent on the counter.

The pieces clicked into place in his premonition-mind with horrifying clarity.

He looked from the jar, to Mom' s feigned tears, to my still form.

A strangled sob escaped him. The sound was pure, unadulterated agony.

Mom started to protest, to weave her web of lies, but Dad' s grief was too immense, too powerful. It was a force she couldn't manipulate.

The premonition ended there, usually, leaving me shaking and cold in my bed. But sometimes, it went further.