Cedar set about preparing a hearty breakfast: three eggs, toast, two hash browns, and half an orange. It wasn’t indulgence—it was survival. She needed every bite to sustain her through the six clients booked back-to-back, knowing she wouldn’t have a single moment to rest. Last year, she’d made the difficult choice to eliminate her breaks; luxuries like that were no longer within reach.

As she peered into the refrigerator, something caught her eye. She could have sworn she only had half an orange left, but there it was—a whole orange, bright and unblemished. Confused, she reached for it, cutting it in half and tucking the other half back for tomorrow.

Then she noticed the carton of eggs, full and pristine. A frown tugged at her lips. Hadn’t she used three eggs yesterday? The math didn’t add up.

She finished her breakfast, cleaned up, and set out for the half-hour drive to work. As always, she greeted the girls at the front desk, including Trevor, who proudly preferred to be referred to as one of “the desk girls.”

“Hey, gurl! Full day today. Again,” Trevor said, eyeing the schedule with exaggerated exasperation. He dipped his chin and gave his head a sassy wobble for emphasis.

“I’ll manage, as always,” Cedar replied with a small smile, though her gaze drifted to Trevor’s outfit. “Wait . . . didn’t you wear that yesterday?”

Trevor gasped, clutching his chest as if physically wounded. “Excuse you! But no. I would never repeat an outfit without at least three days, a dry-cleaning, and a full lunar cycle. Unlike some people.” He raised an eyebrow, giving Cedar a pointed once-over before snapping his fingers dramatically.

“Gotcha,” Cedar said, raising her chin. “I’ll catch you ladies later.” She strolled down the hall into the break room, her backpack slung over one shoulder.

After stuffing it into her locker, she turned to the schedule monitor on the wall. Her mouth fell open.

This is the same schedule from yesterday.

Frowning, she tapped the screen, refreshing it. Nothing changed. She hit the arrow key to shift the calendar forward, but it stubbornly refused to display today as “today.” Cedar’s brows furrowed as she stared at the unchanged list of clients.

The door to the break room creaked open, and Anika, a young, mousy therapist, shuffled in.

“Hey,” Anika said quietly, barely glancing up.

“Hey,” Cedar replied, still distracted by the uncooperative monitor. “Just a heads-up, the schedule’s acting weird. It’s not refreshing.”

Anika shrugged. “Eh, what else is new?”

With a sigh, Cedar moved to the sink, sanitizing them before giving her first massage of the day. At least she knew her first client should already be in the waiting room, even if the glitchy schedule didn’t show them as checked in.

Out the door and down the hall, Cedar turned into the waiting area, already forcing a polite smile—then stopped short, her breath catching in her throat.

“Oh. It’s you,” Cedar blurted out, her heart sinking as she recognized the difficult client she’d massaged the day before. “You’re back.”

The woman’s brow furrowed, her tone sharp. “I haven’t been here in a month.”

Cedar blinked, confused. She stepped back out of the waiting room and glanced down the hallway as if seeking some kind of explanation. Then, slowly, she turned back to the client.

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“You don’t remember me?” Cedar asked carefully. “You weren’t here yesterday?”

The client’s expression hardened. “No, I wasn’t here yesterday!” She turned to another person in the waiting room, raising her voice. “You’d think I’d remember!” She finished with an audible huff, crossing her arms.

Cedar stood frozen in place, her mind racing.

Cedar marched to the front desk, her steps brisk and purposeful. She gripped the countertop, her knuckles whitening. “Can you tell me what today is?” she demanded, her voice tight with urgency.

Ashley glanced up from her computer, her brow furrowing. “It’s the 28th.”

“June, 2259,” Trevor quipped with a smirk.

“No, no, no,” Cedar shook her head vehemently, her frustration bubbling over. “Today’s the 29th. The twenty-ninth!” She jabbed a finger toward the waiting room. “I massaged that woman yesterday! And now she’s back? To see me?”

Ashley’s eyes widened in alarm, but she quickly shook her head as if trying to rid herself of the problem. Ducking her gaze, she leaned over her keyboard and pretended to type, avoiding Cedar.

“Honey,” Trevor interjected, tilting his head as he studied her. “Did you get hit on the head or something? It’s the 28th. Trust me, I’d know because tonight’s the finale of Drag Royale, and I have a watch party planned. I’ve been counting down all month.”

He leaned in conspiratorially, lowering his voice. “Do you know how many appetizers I prepped? Dozens. And the glitter cannon? Not cheap.”

Cedar blinked, thrown off by his enthusiasm. “Trevor, I don’t care about your watch party. I’m telling you—it’s the twenty-ninth.”

Trevor gave her an exaggerated gasp. “You’re telling me I’m wrong about Drag Royale? Girl, please. June 28th is sacred.”

Cedar stepped back from the counter, a wave of dizziness washing over her.

Ashley glanced up from the computer, concern etched on her face. “Are you okay?”

“It was real,” Cedar murmured, more to herself than anyone else. Her voice trembled as the realization took hold. “It was real.”

Ashley frowned. “What was real?”

Trevor, his playful demeanor shifting to mild alarm, leaned forward. “Okay, now you’re scaring us, Cedar, darling. Please don’t make us reassign all your clients today on a dime’s notice because you’re having some kind of existential meltdown.”

“This isn’t real,” Cedar whispered, shaking her head.

“Come again?” Trevor’s perfectly arched eyebrows shot up.

“I’ve done this already. I’m not doing it again,” Cedar snapped, the frustration spilling out as she turned and stormed down the hallway.

“Wait—what?” Trevor called after her, but Cedar wasn’t listening.

She burst into the break room, yanked her locker open, and pulled her backpack out with a decisive motion. Slinging it over her shoulder, she ran back down the hall, ignoring the bewildered looks from the girls at the front desk.

“Cedar! Where do you think you’re going?” Ashley called after her, her voice sharp with panic.

“Fire me,” Cedar shot back over her shoulder, not stopping, not slowing. Her words echoed in the stunned silence she left behind.

But as she stepped outside, the world shifted.

Above her, the sky morphed in waves of color—a brilliant blue fading into a dazzling purple, then bleeding into an ominous, insidious red. The air felt heavy, charged with something unnatural, pressing down on her chest like a weight.

Cedar froze, her breath hitching as the eerie transformation unfolded. What the hell is happening?

She bolted for her car, ducking and covering her head as if expecting acid rain to fall at any moment. Once inside, she slammed the door shut, locking herself in. Her trembling hands fumbled for her phone, and she dialed her parents. No answer.

Damn it, Troy. Her OCD cousin must have turned off her parents’ cell phones again, convinced that the radiation would kill him.

Cedar started the car but sat there, unsure where to go or who to call.

I’m having a meltdown. It’s happening. I feel it starting.

The all-too-familiar wave of dread overtook her. Her heart raced, her breathing quick and shallow.

“This can’t be happening. This can’t be happening,” she muttered, clutching the steering wheel as if it could anchor her to reality.

She forced herself to take a deep inhale, then another. With shaking fingers, she pulled up a search engine and typed: Why is the sky red?

Nothing. Not a single report. The internet, for once, offered no answers.

Breathe, she reminded herself, trying to fall into the rhythm of controlled inhaling—a coping mechanism she’d learned from too many anxiety attacks. Her mind began to settle, but her body was still flooding with adrenaline, her nerves humming with cortisol.

The radio played softly in the background, a familiar song she’d heard a few times. She turned up the volume, desperate for distraction, focusing on the words. But as the lyrics filled the car, they sounded wrong—disjointed, like gibberish, except for a few key phrases that stood out with chilling clarity.

“Doctor… I need a doctor,” she whispered. Then louder: “I need a doctor.”