Congratulations, you’ve just had the most common nighttime hallucination.

You don’t need treatment if you wake yourself up with the sensation that you’re falling. You do need treatment, apparently, if you have insomnia, anxiety, night terrors, and tri-annual visitations from a seemingly omnipotent deity.

The EMDR had put a stop to all that, almost making me believe Grandmother had been a dream.

For the first time ever, I wish she were. Then her warning wouldn’t mean anything. Then I wouldn’t be chasing down one of apparently five billion local Alice Chans. I shove Gus’s snoring snout aside so I can roll over for the millionth time. Tonight even the partial sleep of a hallucination would be welcome, but it doesn’t come.

At two in the morning, I give up on sleeping altogether and reach for my phone on my bedside table, rattling off a few more search word combinations. With a stroke of inspiration, I type a new one into the search bar: Alice Chan Kentucky hypnopompic hallucination.

I hit ENTER, and my heart stops when I see the first result.

Visitations: Premonitions and Other Psychic Phenomena Surrounding Hypnopompia and Hygnagogia by Alice Chan, Professor of Psychology at Northern Kentucky University.

I open the abstract and know right away: I’ve found Grandmother’s Alice.

The first Spirit Week event is the Superlative Parade, the one I’m least excited about, but after last night’s success, I’m jittery with excitement and nerves. The lack of sleep and excess of caffeine surely aren’t helping. When we get to the school, it’s drizzling and thundering. I drop Jack and Coco off at the front doors, then pull around to the back lot, where the Spirit Week Committee is lining up the “floats”—which is, apparently, what you call a pickup truck once you hang a black-and-orange banner on it.

When I spot my assigned float and co-rider, I park as far away from both as I can and wait for Megan, reading and rereading Alice Chan’s abstract over and over again as if I haven’t memorized every word. A minute later, Megan’s black Civic pulls up beside me, and she hops out of her car and into mine, shaking the warm rain out of her hair and hood. “Okay, let’s see it.”

I pass my phone to Megan right away.

“Why does your phone look like it passed through the heavens to fall to Earth?”

“Um, maybe because I was on it for the last forty-eight straight hours, during which I was also making little sandwiches out of spray-can whipped cream and Lay’s potato chips.”

“Ah, brain food.” Megan turns her eyes down and scans the text. “So this is like a light, fluffy, beach read, right?”

I tap the portrait of the severe-looking woman with a bob and a thin-lipped scowl in the top right corner of the screen. “Alice Chan’s the head of the Psychology Department at NKU.”

“And you think she’s Grandmother’s Alice why?”

“Because.” I free the phone from her hands again. “Look here. This is exactly the kind of weird sleep stuff I was going through all those years. Hypnopompic and hypnagogic hallucinations are basically just dreams, but you have them while your body’s technically awake. Maybe that’s what happened to me the other day in the hallway—and at senior night. Anyway, that’s what Dr. Langdon always thought Grandmother was: a nighttime hallucination.”

Megan purses her lips. “But she’s not. She knows way too freaking much to be a product of your subconscious—no offense.”

“Thanks for knowing that. But the point is, Alice Chan isn’t a counselor. She’s a researcher. She says herself these hallucinations are really ‘visitations and psychic phenomena.’ Maybe she knows how to induce them. If she can bring Grandmother back . . .” I trail off, and Megan reaches across the middle console to squeeze my hand. She’s trying to calm me down, but her own features are obviously torqued with worry. I shouldn’t have told her about Grandmother’s warning. I’m freaking out enough for both of us. “Grandmother told me to find this woman for some reason,” I say. “She can help.”

Megan’s thin lips scrunch up as she thinks. “Have you called this illustrious Dr. Chan yet?”

“Not yet. I’m going to, right after my wedding.”

Megan grimaces out the window in the direction of my float. Its banner reads MR. AND MRS. MATT KINCAID, our names surrounded by orange and black hearts. Matt’s standing in the truck bed in his letterman jacket, his sweatshirt hood pulled up from underneath to keep the rain off his neck and face. A girl couldn’t ask for a classier processional.

“Do you think this is the first time in history that the couple voted Most Likely to Get Married weren’t even a couple when they were nominated?” I ask.

“People suck,” she replies.

“That banner sucks.”

“You didn’t even get a first name, let alone a last name.”

“My husband’s name is all I need now,” I say. “Unlike people like you, who are crowned Most Athletic.”

“True,” Megan says.

“Are you ready?”

“I am,” Megan says. “You’re not. I saw the thrift-store wedding dress Rachel and the Spirit Week Committee got for you.”

“Oh God.”

“That’s right. You’d better pray. By the way, what the hell is that sound?”

“I think it’s the carburetor.”

“What’s a carburetor?”

“It’s a thing inside a car that sometimes makes that noise when you’re about to commit your life to the wrong person in the back of a pickup truck.”

“Ooooh, gotcha,” she says. Then, “He still loves you, you know.”

“I love him. But not like that, I don’t think.”

Megan nods. That’s how it should be. Two people who are right for each other should get one another, trust one another. I should’ve known I could tell Matt about Grandmother and he’d actually listen, but I never genuinely felt that, so I never did. We spent every minute together, but still I kept so much of myself from him—everything he wouldn’t understand. It only made it harder for me that he always seemed so perfect, so unshakably sane and normal. When we broke up he must’ve felt totally blindsided, though to me, looking back on it now, it had been coming for ages.

Megan and I get out of the car and jog through the rain toward the floats.