The boardwalk had been condemned since before any of us were born, but the dare never died: six kids, one flashlight, the Hall of Mirrors at the dead end of the pier. Salt wind rattled the boarded ticket booth as we squeezed inside. The air went still and warm, like breath. Then our six reflections stepped in beside us, perfectly in time. "Okay," Maya whispered. "Now what?"

"We split up," Jay said. "Cover more ground, find the exit faster." Nobody loved it, but he was already walking. We broke into pairs, the flashlight beam slicing between glass walls. Within seconds I couldn't hear the others anymore, just my own footsteps and my reflection matching them.

I decided to just stand still and call out names. "Maya? Jay?" My own voice came back to me from six directions, but slightly delayed, like the mirrors were repeating it on purpose. Then one voice answered that wasn't an echo. It was mine, and it said, "Over here."

Something told me not to trust my own voice. I clamped both hands over my mouth and backed away from the sound. The fake "me" called louder, then angrier, then started sobbing in my exact voice. I kept moving toward the real draft of cold air and didn't stop until I tasted salt and saw stars. I made it out. I never told the others what I heard.