This is impossible. How can my dog be alive? I held her head while the vet put her to sleep under the maple tree two weeks ago.

None of this makes sense. I was on the stairs. Colors blurred and the steps faded away. Now I’m here, in a room kind of like my bedroom, but not exactly. With Rigby in front of me, wagging her tail so hard her entire rear shakes. I collapse to my knees, wrapping my arms around her. She whips her tail and covers my face in slobber as I hold tight.

Rigby’s wet nose pressed into my shoulder, I stare around this bedroom. The desk is new with huge, heavy books neatly stacked next to a super techy looking tablet. The furniture all matches and the poster taped to the closet door isn’t my skateboarding poster, but a math equation. Or maybe a science formula.

“Rigby,” I say, my tears soaking her fur, “how are you alive?”

I bury my face in Rigby’s neck and suck in deep, slow breaths like you’re supposed to do when you’re so scared you might completely freak out. If I were the type to get out-of-control scared. Which I’m not. Or at least, would never admit. I cling to my dog, afraid to let her go. Afraid she’s not really here.

Rigby twists to lick my face, her brown eyes steady on mine.

Then the bedroom floor falls from under me and my dog is not in my arms any more.