The morning I woke up in my senior year again, a number appeared over my childhood friend's head: 86. I had no idea what it measured, or why I could see it, until the school's community-history project put the two of us on a collision course. Lila had been beside me since kindergarten, but this time I remembered what happened when I trusted her with my work, my future, and the story of our friendship. I could change my choices. I couldn't make the past disappear, and I couldn't stop the people around us from believing whichever version of the truth sounded easiest. When the number above Lila finally reached zero, I had to decide whether it meant she had stopped caring—or whether I had finally stopped letting her decide what caring was worth.