Typed words floated in the air before Tracy. She reached out her hand to touch them, but they disappeared like fog when her fingers drew near. After realizing she couldn’t touch the words, she pulled her hand back, waiting for the letters to reform.
It was a dream. Tracy knew this already. Everything in her sight was slightly out of focus, and everything was unnaturally bright.
The air before her swirled slowly. Fog became letters, letters became words, words became sentences.
She recognized the conversation. It was one she and Hallie had right around the time Hallie had first contacted her. Mesmerized, Tracy read the words as they appeared before her.
Identical twins. That had been Hallie’s statement.
This is amazing . . . Tracy remembered how shocked she had been at the idea of having someone in the world looking just like her. She watched as more words materialized.
What day is your birthday?
An obvious question. They were twins - their birthday was the same. Nevertheless, Tracy had answered. April 12th, 1983.
Mine too. An obvious answer. Why had Hallie found it necessary to reply to that? Why had she found it necessary to ask?
Suddenly, the scene changed. Tracy was in Hallie’s living room, the picture of baby Hallie in her hands. The caption seemed to glow. 5-20-84; one year old. May twentieth, nineteen eighty-four.
A year a month a week and a day after the day Tracy was born.
Everything faded away, and Tracy was enveloped in blackness. Then, the voices started.
First hers. Then, Taylor’s voice came in. Then Zac and Ike’s. And Hallie’s.
“Tracy Dennis.”
“Missy.”
“Missy Sheffield.”
“Hallie Sheffield.”
“Ally Field.”
“Ally.”
“Sheffield.”
“Tracy.”
“Field.”
“Dennis.”
“Hallie.”
“Ally.”
“Field.”
The voices kept chorusing in Tracy’s head as a final image came into view. A mailbox. Only four letters were apparent through the leaves of the sapling that grew along side of the box: ield.
“Ally.”
“Field.”
