The strike landed square on her skull. She bled into darkness and then a funnel, a tunnel, and a bubble, and inside the bubble were all the faces and places she had loved. There was a deafening babble in the bubble, all those faces talking at once—she wanted to scream, but nothing came out—and suddenly a blinding flash, the bubble burst, everything went blank, and she found herself spinning slowly through emptiness, no land or sky, no color or sound, nothing but her and a seam in the distance.

Was there a speck near the seam? She blinked and it was still there, a tiny bit bigger, and she was being pulled toward it as if in a dream. As she floated closer, it resolved into an endless line of shimmering particles suspended closely together, undulating slowly parallel to the seam. Closer still, the particles took form and feature: infants and babies, girls and women, all shapes and sizes and ages.

All different, but recognizable, versions of herself.

As one, the Jasmins turned and beckoned. She joined the line and began moving in unison with the others, swaying in irresistible rhythm next to the seam. And then the wave moved into the seam and collapsed, sending all her selves hurtling toward a pinhole at the end. She absorbed every one of them and blacked out again.