I should have been studying.

Technically, I could afford an evening off. The effort of maintaining my grades with a mental disability had come close to breaking me, but between single-minded obsession and a stable drug regimen, I'd fallen into a frenetic rhythm, and when I graduated high school a year ahead of my peers, nobody was more surprised than me. I'd maintained those habits through college and now rode a little more than two weeks ahead of my current curriculum, but I didn't want to lose ground. Instead, I kept going back to the contents of the envelope.

I leaned into the cushions of the second-hand sofa shoved against the back wall of a modest living room, or what passed for one in my semi-studio apartment. University policy dictated new students live in campus housing for the first year, but my condition, in a rare moment of helpfulness, argued the case on my behalf and I was permitted to live in row housing four blocks away. It wasn't much, but my needs were few and it cost less than a dorm, so the full-ride scholarship that got me into BAU was more than enough to cover rent.

Two separate textbooks sat open on the worn coffee table, thoroughly ignored, while I turned over the most interesting of Miss Gold's gifts. It resembled an old, iron key, the kind that fit locks you could pick with a screwdriver, but at its end, instead of a crude, metal tab, there was a short tube with a series of grooves and protrusions on its surface, as if someone had carved a maze into the cylinder of a music box.

The second item was almost a disappointment, a business card for Midway Attic, a storage facility just outside of town. On the back someone had written, in an elegant blue script, "D26," and next to it, "In left in right out right." D26 was probably the number of a locker, but I couldn't imagine what the rest might be.

The third was a dime bag filled with herbs that I thought, at first, was weed, but a square of parchment stapled to the bag contained instructions in the same precise, blue script that was on the business card.

"Empty contents into a cup. Bring eight fluid ounces of water to boil. Immediately turn off heat. Wait two minutes and pour over herbs. Brew twelve minutes without stirring or straining. Drink while hot."

It was tea. How could one serving of herbal tea be considered a clue? One last note beneath the instructions made it even more surreal.

"Be still and ingest nothing else for thirty minutes following."

That sounded like the warning labels stuck to the pill bottles sitting on my bathroom sink. If it had a narcotic effect drinking it wasn't an option. Almost anything that messed with my head would send the carefully measured psychoactive drugs in my bloodstream into a tailspin and I'd end up hitchhiking naked, or setting fire to my apartment—or much worse.

My godmother, if I chose to believe her, seemed to think I could do something with the contents of her envelope, but if they were parts of the puzzle, they didn't fit any of the other pieces in my possession. She had said I would need to trust her to proceed. That had to mean more than telling her I believed her story, and it had to be something I could demonstrate, like acting on one or perhaps all of her gifts. I didn't know what I was supposed to do with the key, but the obvious conclusion was that it had something to do with the storage unit. That would have to wait. The office for Midway Attic wasn't open on Sundays and the envelope didn't include a passcode, fob, or keycard to get me inside after hours.

I had a fourth clue, the picture of my mother. I took a snapshot with my phone and searched the Internet for matches, but most were stock images of models that looked nothing like the woman in the photograph. The photo appeared to be genuine to my untrained eyes, or at least I could believe that the person in it probably looked that way twenty-three years ago. Apart from that, nothing. Next, I pulled out my laptop and searched for Miss Gold and Caratacos. My expectations were low and I wasn't disappointed.

By then my meds had passed their peak and I recognized the familiar, early symptoms of decline—nervous energy, higher anxiety triggers, random, wandering thoughts. If I let it go another couple hours, I'd lose my grip on my emotions, and shortly after that, on reality. Longer still, and I'd invite a seizure. I'm told that it can get much worse, but I have no clear memories of those incidents, only stern warnings. Withdrawal could be almost as bad. I'd been unavoidably addicted for years.

I finally admitted to myself that I wouldn't get any studying done, so I closed my books and set them aside, lining up the four objects I'd received that morning on the table instead. The storage unit wasn't an option and the key was an enigma for now. I thought I'd done everything I could with the photo. That left the tea.

I doubted it was a narcotic. The active ingredient in most herbs, like THC or psilocybin, wouldn't retain enough potency after boiling to be a significant threat, at least not in small quantities. Something synthetic might, but you can't take most of the hard stuff orally. Except acid. Phencyclidine might as well be drain cleaner for what it would do in my system. Of course, those were just street drugs, there were any number of pharmaceuticals that were just as bad or worse, and the only way I'd discover them would be to analyze the mixture in a lab or drink the stuff and wait for the fireworks.

The fact that I was even considering it threw up dozens of red flags. If Miss Gold knew me as well as our meeting implied, she'd be aware of my caution, which made the issue of trust very real. I might be able to lie my way past the problem, just tell her I followed the instructions, but she could ask questions I wouldn't be able to answer if I didn't follow through, something about the taste or smell, or a visible reaction while brewing. She didn't seem the type to leave a test open ended. But even if I could get away with it, cheating never sat well with me.

I could think in circles all afternoon, but I wasn't struggling with logic. Despite the profound gaps in Miss Gold's story, I wanted to believe her. It meant I had roots, a history, and the very idea of it gave me a sense of belonging I never knew I was missing. The unexpected desire for more compromised my judgment, and suddenly the question wasn't just whether I could trust the strange woman I'd met only hours ago, but whether I trusted myself.

I spent long minutes sitting and staring at nothing. I had learned to avoid making emotional decisions, which occasionally left me paralyzed, but new voices, thoughts beneath the static, urged me forward. I knew what I wanted to do, I just couldn't convince myself it wasn't a mistake.

Shaking off the stupor, I picked up the bag of herbs, struggled for a moment with the staple, and finally used my teeth to pull it free, stabbing my gums painfully in the process.

It's strange how little things can influence big decisions. I felt a hint of shame in the impulse, and that inanimate spur of metal seemed to be chastising me for stepping out of line. I was in decline, in withdrawal, and more vulnerable to my emotions than usual, so instead of heeding that warning, an irrational wave of resentment burned away the last of my hesitation and I yanked the packet open. An earthy, natural odor with woody undertones and a trace of mint immediately filled the room, along with a vague sense of anticipation and unexplained hunger.

I didn't own a kettle so I did my best with the pot I occasionally used for oatmeal and one of the glass beakers my foster mother purchased as a going-away gift. They had been a thoughtful gesture, but unnecessary since BAU provided all the necessary equipment in its medical lab, so I used them as drinking glasses.

After measuring out the water, I wiped the beaker dry and dumped in the herbs while waiting for the liquid to boil. The part of my brain that retained some sense of discretion suggested I at least pull out my phone and open the medical alert app in case something went wrong. I'd been poisoned before, though never on purpose, and I knew that there weren't many drugs that would incapacitate or kill me before I could get help. Still, it would be foolish to throw out caution.

A few minutes later I sat at the table, watching the hot water turn reddish-gold, then darken to a warm brown as dyes in the herbs diffused and blended together. The strong aroma amplified in the steam, and something about it felt familiar, like a forgotten memory sliding into place.

A final thought occurred to me as common sense futilely dug in its heels. If I was ready to demonstrate my trust for Miss Gold, it meant I believed at least most of what she told me, which meant my family had an enemy. One that was willing to kill.

Shoving that concern aside, I picked up the beaker, watching the soggy herbs settle to the bottom. My mother was assassinated more than two decades ago, and if someone wanted me to join her, they'd had plenty of time to do it. If Miss Gold was part of that conspiracy, she'd have had a better story, something easier to accept, and there would have been no need for additional gifts.

I froze again as walls that contained my fragile psyche began to thin. I still had two hours before I could dose up again, and the unresolved choice in front of me was quickly breaking through my defenses. The beaker grew hot in my hand. Instead of setting it down, I impulsively drained it in three gulps before I could change my mind. The near-boiling water didn't hit me right away, but seconds later I sputtered through a painful coughing fit. Idiot, I berated myself.

My gums stung where the staple wounded me and my throat and chest were on fire but, apart from that, I felt perfectly fine. So far, so good.

The instructions said to sit still for thirty minutes, plenty of time to regret what I'd just done and worry that something evil was working its way through my system. Ten minutes later I was wishing for a glass of cold water but nothing worse than that plagued my body. I resolutely followed the directions despite feeling foolish. What was twenty minutes more?

The lights seemed to dim as I waited, tunnel vision returning like a vignette, occluding the apartment around me. It was nothing new, but anything that might trigger an episode set me on edge. Was there poison in the tea after all? Or something less malicious that interfered with my imbalanced system? I stubbornly swallowed my anxiety and glanced at the clock hanging on my wall. With ten minutes left, it seemed to be slowing down, each tick noticeably longer than the last. I made a mental note to change the batteries. As it approached the five minute mark, darker shapes began moving through the vignette, just out of sight, and my eyes darted to the big red button on my phone, then back to the clock. The second hand was frozen in place.

I tried to stand, but my body wouldn't respond. Shadows closed in, surrounding me in darkness. The chaotic tangle of noisy thought coiled around me and my mind retreated into the void. Then pale motes like dying embers drifted and flickered in the corner of my eye.