NOVAK: I checked the display. It’s stuck on 12:47, and the recording light flickers on and off. There’s no way to be sure how much of an interval might be missing. I thought you were gone about fifteen minutes, but it might have been longer.
KAPOOR: It would be easier to think if it weren’t for that damn singing.
NOVAK: Where is that coming from, anyway? Is it even singing? I can’t quite make it out.
Carreau hums, as if to match something he hears. The microphone picks up no such music.
SOPHIA [2]: Oh! I like the singing. I heared it before. But then I got lost.
Novak has gone very still.
NOVAK: Sophie? Sweetie?
She limps over to the left-hand Sophia and takes her by the shoulders.
NOVAK: When did you get lost, Sophie?
SOPHIA [2]: I know I’m not supposed to.
NOVAK: Not supposed to what?
SOPHIA [2]: Not supposed to go out when it’s misty. But I wanted to see the beach. And then whoosh!
She waves her hands in front of her eyes.
SOPHIA [2]: Can’t see anything! Aaahh! Sploosh, fall in the water. And then I’m cold.
SOPHIA: But then there’s a shadow. It’s standing up, not on the ground. I not seen a shadow stand up before. So cool.
The adults gape as the two girls trade off seamlessly.
SOPHIA [2]: So I touch it! And then I sleep. And I wake up a differenter place.
SOPHIA: And I look and I look and I look for you but I not find you.
NOVAK: You— The day you got lost. But you came back. Mikhail brought you back.
SOPHIA [2]: Mikhail! The big man. I like him.
SOPHIA: He carry me back.
SOPHIA [2]: Mor-arty come too.
NOVAK: Which one of you . . . Who came back? Did you? Did Mikhail carry you?
She looks at the left-hand Sophia, who looks confused.
SOPHIA [2]: Why you sad, Mama?
KAPOOR: Their clothes.
Novak understands. The girls are wearing matching sneakers, mud-stained, and jeans close enough not to be easily distinguished. Their jackets, too, are identical, but Novak carefully unzips each one and looks at the shirts beneath. One girl wears a black T-shirt with a cartoon dog printed on the chest; the other’s shirt is gray and striped, long-sleeved. One of those sleeves is still slightly rucked up where Novak moved it to examine her bruises.
KAPOOR: Which one was she wearing today?
Novak’s eyes flicker over the girls. She wets her lips.
NOVAK: I—I’m not sure.
HARDCASTLE: Wait. Let’s be clear here. You’re saying that Sophie was copied—swapped—days ago? Back when she went missing?
NOVAK: We don’t know that. You heard them. It’s like they’re sharing memories.
HARDCASTLE: It sure as hell sounded like that was what happened. So which one did we bring over with us? Because that’s the double.
NOVAK: I don’t know, Will. I can’t be sure.
She keeps her back to him and her head down. She zips the girls’ jackets back up, adjusts their collars. Tugs Sophia [2]’s sleeve down more firmly toward her wrist.
Carreau has been humming softly. Kapoor glares at him.
HARDCASTLE: It’s bad enough having to listen to it. Do you have to sing along?
SOPHIA: It’s coming from down.
KAPOOR: She’s right. It’s coming from below us. I’m going to check it out.
HARDCASTLE: No one goes off alone.
KAPOOR: Then come with me.
NOVAK: No. If we go anywhere, we all go together. No more being out of each other’s sight. Period.
Hardcastle nods.
HARDCASTLE: Bring the camera. Our memories aren’t reliable. Maybe it can help.
24
WE WALKED TO Mikhail’s house. We weren’t his only visitors, it turned out. Mrs. Popova’s truck was out front. They know each other, I thought, and then realized how ridiculous that was.
They were arguing inside, but I didn’t understand the language—Russian, I assumed. When the front step creaked beneath me, the voices ceased. Instead of knocking, I cleared my throat. “Mikhail?” I called.
Clomping footsteps, and then the door opened. “You should not be here,” he said. Mrs. Popova stood behind him, face pinched in a displeased expression and sweater wrapped tight around herself.
“You didn’t tell us everything,” I said.
“Yes. Because I want you to leave. Go away and be safe,” Mikhail said, scowling at us.
“Let them in, Misha,” Mrs. Popova said. “They aren’t going to let go of this, and the girl deserves the truth. Don’t you think?”
“Truth is overrated,” Mikhail muttered, but he waved us in. I stopped in the middle of the room and stared down the two adults.
“You knew about her. Both of you. She has one of Mikhail’s carvings. You gave it