But when I put my hand on the truck’s door handle, a familiar playful and roguish voice sounds in my ear, and a hand with a butterfly tattoo reaches over my shoulder to push my door closed again. “It’s me, and you’re safe. I’m going to blindfold you now.” A thin strip of black cloth blankets my eyes. I gasp. “Will?! What are you doing?” “Yes, it’s me, Will,” he says quietly and then clears his throat and speaks more firmly—theatrically—and definitely with more baritone. “But also—no, I’m not Will.” My heart is joyfully pounding. It’s singing and running and skipping and I don’t even know
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