The phone screen went black. Then it lit up again—but now the camera was on, showing her reflection. Except her reflection didn't mimic her. It smiled wider, leaned closer, and whispered:

"You downloaded yourself, habibti. The version you deleted when you started pretending."

She froze. That was her mother's phrase from childhood: "The little Egyptian chick is in turmoil, she imagines herself with a twisted tongue." Her mother used to say it whenever Layla tried to speak fancy Arabic or pretend she wasn't from their working-class neighborhood.

The progress bar crawled. 10%... 40%... 90%... Then the screen flickered.