James opened the door, walked confidently into the room, and stopped short at the sight of himself, lying back in the armchair with his legs crossed, his eyes half-closed and a smile on his face.

James stood. “Please,” he said softly. “Sit.”

“And if I choose not to?”

The now-standing James shook his head. The impatience in his return gaze was disturbingly familiar. “Then you’re only delaying the inevitable. A series of events will occur and this, by far, is the least uncomfortable of them all.”

James didn’t like the idea of Fate. Or Kismet. Or any number of theories that suggested his actions had a predestined outcome, leaving him with only the illusion of choice. Choice mattered. He was certain of that.

And with that, he chose to brush defiantly past his namesake and take the armchair that the other James had been seated in moments ago.

“Interesting,” James offered to no one in particular. He slowly moved to the other chair, sat himself down, and looked up at James. “Why didn’t you pinch me?”