Mira dropped the remote. It clattered on the hardwood.
Mira sat on her sofa, the remote on the coffee table before her like a sleeping animal. She’d tried the volume buttons—nothing. The number pad lit up faintly, phosphorescent green. 4-7-3. Her grandmother’s warning. Do not press sequence 4-7-3.
Mira’s hand trembled. On the remote, the button labeled was now illuminated. Spectrum Remote B023
Mira smiled—a real smile, the kind her grandmother had always said meant trouble.
A beat.
And somewhere, in the static between one world and the next, her grandmother laughed and said, That’s my girl.
The remote vibrated. A new message crawled across the lens: Mira dropped the remote
But the label stopped her.