What I suspect, though, is that what I encountered here was a rip in the fabric of reality. I was strangled in the same spot, on the same day, at the same moment as a young woman a hundred and fifty years earlier. That caused some crossing of wires in a cosmic sense, and my consciousness—my soul or whatever you care to call it—somehow swapped with that of Catriona Mitchell. Can such a thing be undone? I can’t even contemplate a negative answer. The despair would swallow me whole, and I might find myself taking the most desperate action to get home again. To put myself in those exact
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