I picked my way among the scatterings toward the child. He was much older than his sister: twelve, maybe thirteen. His dingy, stained sheets were pulled down to his waist, the smooth winter-white skin of his back exposed, waiting to be touched, stroked. A lock of light-brown hair fell rakishly across his forehead, his thick eyelashes lay quietly on cheeks just making the transition from childhood chubby to adolescent soft.

I played the music softly for him. No sooner had I started than he relaxed, sinking deeper into his mattress. He had been on the verge of awakening. I ran a finger down his back, ever so softly, tickling, feeling the cool smooth skin. I brushed the hair from his face and traced an eyebrow, a cheekbone. He reminded me of someone. I touched the bridge of his nose, ran my finger across his lips, back again, parting them, feeling his front teeth with the tip of my finger. I increased the music. Who does he remind me of? I opened the lips and looked at the teeth. The front two crossed, just barely, and I took in the curve of the cheek and the fullness of the lips and then I knew. I pulled back, the music changed, and I regained control quickly before I woke him up; before I woke everyone up. He reminded me of Boyd—reminded me so severely of Boyd that I almost knew for sure that if this boy opened his eyes right now, there would be a dark-brown spot over the pupil of one eye.

Silliness, Angelina, I scolded myself, and gentling the boy again with my music, I stepped up on the lower bunk, cringing as it squeaked, and I kissed his neck and smelled his maturing manhood. It was a delicious smell, and I kept my nose in the hollow between shoulder and neck for a long while, not quite daring to taste.

I felt the night wane. I would survive the night without feeding; I would not survive without shelter from the day. Reluctantly I left the boy, deeply pleased that two perfect children slept in my new home.

I closed his door and stepped across the hall. The master bedroom. The parents’ room. I stooped to examine the wallpaper. My blood spot was still there, faded to no more than a little dirty smear, but there it was. I remembered that night as clearly as if it had been this very evening. Had that smear of blood called me back to this house?

Their door was closed. Slowly I opened it and stepped in.