"Yeah, Malcolm, where?" The voice is younger, brighter, perkier than Dr Summers. The woman in her chair is still wearing the same sensible pantsuit, but everything else has changed. It doesn't fit right. This woman is smaller, more petite, her vibrantly red curls falling past her shoulders. She pushes her glasses up her nose and smiles at Malcolm.

Neal leans heavily on Malcolm, but he's staring at the woman. "You're dead," he whispers.

Rebecca looks up at him and smiles wistfully. "Do I have to be, though? Anything is possible here, right?"