With a clap of thunder in my bowels, I realized I was not only different—I was inferior. I drank my tea and weakly made my way back to bed—Sarah’s bed, which she had generously given up for my use. She bedded down in the front room, on the mattress, with her son.

On the third day, we followed the same routine—I slept through the day and arose at dusk, when she came home from work. I reclined against pillows, and Samuel sat on his mattress and we both watched his mother end her professional day stretching. Only this time, because I was obviously better, Sarah began asking me of my life.

I told her lies.

She knew I lied, I could tell it by her movements, and it became a sort of a game to me, to tell her something terribly untrue and go on to the next question, my imagination taking me into strange realms. I didn’t even care if my stories conflicted with one another.

Sarah stopped asking questions. Samuel turned from me and put his thumb in his mouth. It was this action that made me stop. I stood and stretched, then showered while Sarah finished her exercises. She showered then, while I tried to play with Samuel, but he only looked at me with those liquid brown eyes and made it obvious he would rather amuse himself. So I packed, feeling vague resentment and remorse. She had been so kind to me and I had only lied to her. When Sarah had finished in the bathroom, I was ready to move on.

She saw me to the door, her eyes understanding and forgiving, and said, “When you learn to be true to yourself, Angelina, let me know.” I turned and walked away.

“It was at least six months, maybe closer to a year, before I got all the information about those three deaths in Westwater. When I found out the truth—like that the teeth marks were human—there was no doubt in my mind about Angelina being the one. The police were so freaked out that they concocted the wild-­dog theory on the night that Danny’s body was found. They thought it better that the community believe there was a pack of murderous dogs roaming the streets than a homicidal maniac. When in truth, they’d found a towel tucked neatly around his wounds. Jesus.

“I couldn’t believe it, though. I mean, I knew it was true—if it was anybody, it was Angelina . . . but how could any person do something like that? God.