Not because it is funny. Because it is absurd. Because your own name, your ordinary, overused, deeply familiar name, suddenly sounds like a trick.
“That’s not unusual,” you say too quickly. “A lot of women are named Andrea.”
She nods immediately, almost apologetically. “Yes. Yes, I know.”
You hate the relief that rushes in.
It feels cheap.
You lean back on the bench and tell yourself your pulse is racing because you’re exhausted, because you’ve been on shift too long, because old women with sad stories always know how to pick a name that lands somewhere personal. But that doesn’t explain the feeling growing behind your ribs. That old, strange sensation from the dream. The long hallway. The little girl at the end saying, You didn’t come.
You clear your throat.
“And her last name?”
The woman looks down.
“Her first last name should have been mine,” she says. “But they changed it.”
