Mara Vale knew the boy was going to die because of the balloon. It made no sense. Even so, it was the only certainty that remained when she opened her eyes that morning, her heart racing and the taste of blood in her mouth. She lay perfectly still for a few seconds, staring at the bedroom ceiling. White. Immaculate. Familiar. London’s gray light slipped through the gap between the curtains and drew a pale line across the wall. The clock read 6:17. Outside, a truck was unloading something with the delicacy of a demolition. Nothing was on fire. No twisted metal. No smoke. No boy. Mara ran her tongue over her teeth. There was no blood. —Great, she muttered. She sat up in bed. In the vision—dream, she corrected herself mentally—there had been a train. Flashing lights. People screaming. A woman in a yellow coat trying to open a door that wouldn’t budge. And the boy. Maybe seven years old. Maybe eight. Holding a balloon. She couldn’t remember its color. Strange. She remembered the sound of glass breaking. The smell of burning metal. Her own hand covered in blood. But not the color of a goddamn balloon. Mara pressed her fingertips to her temples. —It was a dream. Saying it aloud helped less than it should have. She picked up her phone from the nightstand. Three urgent emails. Two messages from her mother. One from her sister. Four from Cloe, sent between 2:11 and 3:46 in the morning. The first said: You are officially the most annoying person in London. The second: Which is impressive, considering the English invented meetings that could have been emails. The third was a blurry photograph of three glasses on a bar. The fourth: If I die today, tell the police it was tequila. Mara exhaled through her nose. Cloe was alive. Naturally. Because nobody had died. Because there had been no accident. Because she was a thirty-one-year-old woman with a law degree, capable of dismantling a forty-page argument before breakfast, not an impressionable teenager trying to assign prophetic meaning to a nightmare. She replied: If you die from tequila, I refuse to give the funeral speech. The reply came almost immediately. Liar. You’d give an excellent speech. You’d probably charge by the hour. Mara smiled. Then she looked at the clock and lost the smile. 6:24. —Shit. At 8:03, she crossed the office reception area with coffee in one hand and a file folder in the other, wearing enough black to look like she was headed to a particularly expensive funeral. —Good morning, Miss Vale. —Good morning, Daniel. The receptionist raised his eyebrows. Mara slowed. —What? —Nothing. —You made a face. —I did not. —You did. Daniel looked at his computer screen, perhaps reconsidering every decision that had led him there. —I just didn’t expect you to know my name. Mara stared at him. —You’ve worked here for two years. —One year and four months. —Then it’s concerning that you think I’d take two years. And she kept walking. Behind her, she heard Daniel laugh. The office occupied several floors of a glass building in Canary Wharf, where highly paid people made decisions that affected people they would never meet. Mara liked it there. She liked the expensive silence of the conference rooms, the immaculate suits, the contracts with enough numbers to make someone lose sleep. More than anything, she liked knowing she was good. Not competent. Good. There was a difference. Competence kept someone employed. Mara intended to be remembered. At 8:17, she entered the conference room and found three men waiting for her. One of them was old enough to be her father and had an expression that made it clear he didn’t appreciate waiting for a younger woman. Mara set the folder on the table. —Gentlemen. —Vale, said Philip Grayson, the partner in charge of the case. —I thought we were starting at eight. She checked the clock. —We were. Grayson watched her. —It’s eight seventeen. —I know. —So? Mara pulled out a chair. —If we’re going to pretend this morning’s problem is seventeen minutes, I can go back to my office and let Sterling & Howe keep forty-two million pounds of our client’s money. Silence. Mara opened the folder. —Or we can talk about the clause they hid in appendix fourteen. Grayson uncrossed his arms. —What clause? Mara allowed herself a small smile. Forty minutes later, nobody was talking about the seventeen minutes anymore. That was what she loved. The moment a room stopped looking at her like someone who needed to prove she belonged there and started looking at her as though allowing her inside might have been a terrible idea. By noon, Mara had already dismantled a rival legal team’s strategy, turned down an invitation to lunch, ignored two calls from her mother, and completely forgotten the dream. Almost. At 2:32 p.m., she saw a balloon through the window. She stopped in the middle of a sentence. Far below, in the plaza between the buildings, a child tugged on his father’s hand while a red balloon danced above his head. Red. Had the balloon in the dream been red too? Mara tried to remember. Nothing. —Mara? She blinked. Lucy, a junior lawyer, stood in front of her desk with a stack of documents. —Were you listening to me? —I was. —What did I say? Mara held her gaze for two seconds. —Repeat it. Lucy smiled. —Then you weren’t listening. —I was processing competing information. —That’s a very elegant way of saying you weren’t listening. Mara looked back at the documents. —Do you want to debate semantics, or do you want me to stop you from filing a brief with the wrong date on page six? The smile vanished. Lucy looked at page six. —Oh. —Exactly. —Thank you. —Don’t thank me. Read it before you file it. Lucy picked up the papers. At the door, she turned around. —Are you okay? —Perfectly. —You look tired. —Lucy. —I’m going. When she was alone, Mara looked out the window again. The boy and the balloon had disappeared. At 8:48 p.m., most of the floor was empty. Mara was still working. Her reflection in the dark glass looked like it belonged to someone else: hair tied up carelessly, makeup already looking tired, white shirt sleeves rolled up to her elbows. Her phone vibrated. Cloe. Mara put it on speaker. —If this is a tequila-related medical emergency, call emergency services. Music exploded from the other end. —You’re still working? —Technically, so are you. —I serve alcohol to sad people. You serve documents to rich people. My job has social value. —Your job is encouraging bad decisions. —And yours is charging for them afterward. Mara smiled without realizing it. —What do you want? —Your charming company. —No. —I haven’t even said where. —Doesn’t matter. —Mara. —Cloe. —It’s Friday. Mara looked at the stack of documents in front of her. —And tomorrow will be Saturday. Revolutionary discovery. —You’re going to die alone, surrounded by paper. The sentence struck something. Metal. Smoke. A woman’s scream. Mara squeezed her eyes shut. —Mara? —I’m here. —You got weird. —You’re drunk. —Moderately inspired. —I’m going home. —Come here first. —No. —One drink. —Cloe. —One. —You can’t count to one. —I can count perfectly. One drink is the first of several. Mara closed her laptop. —Good night. —I hate you. —Statistically unlikely. —Arrogant. —Drunk. —Lonely. Mara hung up. Five seconds later, a message arrived. I LOVE YOU, YOU BITCH. Mara replied with a heart. Deleted it. Typed: Love you too. Sent it. She grabbed her coat. At 10:16 p.m., London was rain reflected on asphalt, red buses, and people walking too fast to admit they were cold. Mara descended the station stairs, looking at her phone. Her mother had sent another message. Are you coming to lunch Sunday? Your father confirmed he isn’t. Mara rolled her eyes. Even though they’d been divorced for almost fifteen years, her parents still managed their separation as if they were negotiating a cease-fire between nuclear powers. She replied: I’ll be there. Her sister’s message was right below it. Can I borrow your black dress tomorrow? Mara typed: Which one? The reply came: The pretty one. Mara: They’re all pretty. Her sister: That’s why nobody likes you. Mara smiled and put her phone away. The train was already at the platform. The doors began to beep. —Wait! She sped up, got inside at the last second, and the doors closed behind her. For a moment, she just stood there catching her breath. Then she looked up. And the world lost its sound. Across the car, a woman was wearing a yellow coat. Mara stopped breathing. The woman sat near the door, looking at her phone, a paper bag between her feet. No. It couldn’t be. Yellow coats existed. People wore yellow coats. London had nearly nine million inhabitants. Mara turned her head. A boy was sitting two rows ahead. Maybe seven years old. Maybe eight. He was holding a red balloon. The string was wrapped twice around his wrist. His mother—or older sister, Mara couldn’t tell—was saying something while searching through her bag. The boy let out a little giggle. The balloon bounced off the ceiling of the car. Once. Twice. Mara felt her stomach drop. No. She looked at the wall above the seats. A perfume ad was torn in exactly the lower-left corner. Part of the model’s face had been ripped away, leaving only one eye and half a smile. Mara knew that ad. She had seen it covered in blood. Her heart slammed so hard it hurt. —No. A woman beside her shot her a quick look. Mara walked to the ad. She touched the torn paper with her fingertips. It was real. The light above her flickered. Once. Twice. Three times. Mara stepped back. In the vision, the lights had done exactly that. The air vanished from her lungs. She looked at the line map. Then at the woman in yellow. At the boy. At the red balloon. The train entered the tunnel. Mara saw her own reflection in the window. Pale. Frightened. Absurd. It was absurd. A dream couldn’t predict details. A tired brain could invent a train. A woman. A boy. But not that. Not in that order. Not exactly the same. Mara walked over to the woman in the yellow coat. —Excuse me. The woman looked up. —Yes? Mara opened her mouth. What was she supposed to say? Hello. I dreamed you were going to die today. —You need to get off at the next station. The woman frowned. —Excuse me? —At the next station. Get off. —Why? Mara looked at the boy. The woman followed her gaze and immediately straightened. —Is there a problem? —No. I mean... not yet. —Then why are you looking at my son? Son. —I need both of you to get off this train. The woman pulled the boy a little closer. —Back away. —I don’t want to hurt your son. I’m trying to stop— The doors opened. Mara turned toward the car. —Everyone, get off! Some passengers got off naturally. Others got on. —Don’t get on! —Mara shouted. A woman stopped. —What? —Take the next one. —Mara? She froze. Cloe was on the platform. Leather jacket, hair tied up carelessly, glittering makeup around her eyes. —What the hell are you doing here? Mara felt her heart stumble. —Cloe. —You said you were going home. —Get out of here. Cloe tilted her head. —What? —Don’t get on. Naturally, Cloe got on. —You drank without me? Mara grabbed her arm. —Cloe, get off. The smile disappeared. —Hey. What happened? —Get off the train. —Mara— —Now. Cloe looked around. —You’re scaring me. —Good. Stay scared on the platform. Mara tried to push her toward the door. A station employee appeared. —Ma’am, is there a problem? —Yes. Get everyone off this train. —Is there an emergency? —Yes. —What kind? Mara looked at the illuminated panel. The doors were still open. Time. She had time. —There’s something wrong with this train. The employee reached for his radio. —Did you see anything suspicious? —I— No. Nothing. She had seen tomorrow yesterday. Try explaining that. —We have to evacuate. —I need you to calm down. Mara almost laughed. The most useless phrase in the English language. —I am calm. Cloe looked at her. —You definitely aren’t. The doors’ warning chime began. Mara felt panic surge. —No. She turned toward the passengers. —Get off! Some people began backing away, more frightened of her than of any invisible threat. Good. It didn’t matter. —You! —She pointed at the man in the suit. —Get off. —Not a chance. —Then be an idiot in another car. —Mara! —Cloe tried to hold on to her. Mara pulled free. —Ma’am, I need you to come with me, the employee said. The doors began to close. Mara saw the woman in the yellow coat stand. —Wait! She shoved her arm between the doors. They slid back. An alarm sounded. —Get your son out of here! Maybe it was the fear on Mara’s face. Maybe it was certainty. Maybe it was simply the desire to get away from that apparently insane woman. But the mother took the boy by the hand. She got off. The red balloon passed through the doors. Mara felt such intense relief that she almost cried. It worked. One person. Two. Other passengers took advantage of the confusion and got off. —Come on. —Cloe pulled Mara. —Both of us. Now. Yes. Of course. Mara moved forward. The employee was blocking part of the passage. Someone stepped in her way. The doors beeped again. —Wait! Cloe was already outside. Mara shoved a man. —Move! The doors closed. Cloe’s face appeared on the other side of the glass. —Mara! Mara pressed her palm against the door. —Open it! The train began to move. —Open the damn door! Cloe ran a few steps along the platform. —MARA! Then she fell behind. The tunnel swallowed the car. Mara remained motionless. Short breaths. A pounding heart. But Cloe was out. The boy was out. The woman was out too. She had changed something. The man in the suit snorted. —Congratulations. Mara looked at him. —What? —You delayed half the line because you had a panic attack. She wanted to answer. She couldn’t. Because something was wrong. Silence. Not complete silence. The train continued making its metallic noise. But there was a void. As if something were missing. Mara looked around. A little over twenty people remained in the car. A young woman was crying quietly. A man was furiously typing on his phone. An older woman held her purse against her chest. Everything was normal. Too normal. Then Mara realized. In the vision, when the train left the station... the lights went out. She raised her eyes. The lights stayed on. One second. Two. Five. Ten. Mara exhaled. Maybe she’d done it. Maybe the vision had been a warning. Maybe getting those people off had changed— The lights went out. The car plunged into darkness. Someone cursed. The emergency lights came on in red. Mara stopped breathing. A metallic noise echoed beneath the floor. It didn’t sound like part of the train. It sounded like something scraping. Growing louder. A child began crying in another car. Mara gripped the back of a seat. —No. The train shook. Once. Violently. People screamed. The man in the suit slammed into a pole. —What’s happening? Mara knew. Not the details. Not the cause. But she knew. It was happening. The same feeling. The same sequence. The same terror. Except something was different. She searched for the woman in yellow. She wasn’t there. Neither was the boy. She had changed something. So why— The train lurched again. A window cracked. People began screaming. Mara turned her head. And that was when she saw him. At the other end of the car. A man. Standing. Motionless. Everyone around him was holding on wherever they could. He wasn’t. He wore a dark overcoat, far too elegant for the hour and the place. Dark hair. A calm posture. One hand in his pocket. The other hanging loose at his side. For some absurd reason, Mara noticed his shoes first. Black. Immaculate. As the world around them began to come apart. She raised her eyes. He was already looking at her. Not at the ceiling. Not at the windows. Not at the screaming people. At her. Mara felt something different from fear. A strange stab of recognition that made no sense. Did she know this man? No. She was certain she didn’t. She would never forget that face. But there was something in the way he watched her. It wasn’t curiosity. Or surprise. Much less fear. It was worse. It was the expression of someone who had found exactly who he was looking for. The train tilted violently. Mara fell to her knees. Screams. Glass. Metal. When she raised her head, he was still there. Still watching. And then she noticed something else. There was sadness on his face. Not much. A man like that probably didn’t allow much to escape. But it was there. Small. Terrible. Familiar. Mara tried to stand. —You— The sound died before becoming a word. A boom tore through the tunnel. The car lifted. For a fraction of a second, Mara saw everything suspended. Glass glittering in the air. A phone slipping from someone’s hand. An open bag. Papers. Blood. The man at the other end of the car. And those eyes. Still on her. Then the world struck Mara all at once. Pain. Darkness. And nothing.