“Tatum and I were just talking about the Game,” I say. My voice sounds overloud. In my head, I could flatten them with it.

Several of the girls look at one another. Not Sophie, though. She’s too good for that.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says coolly. Then she peels away from the counter and sits on Tatum’s bed, placing a hand gently on the IV coil flowing liquid down into Tatum’s blood.

My mouth goes dry.

“Poor Tatum,” she says, cooing. “You’re crying.”

“I’m fine,” Tatum says mechanically.

Sophie shakes her head. “Aw, honey. You can’t lie to me. I’m your best friend, remember? Tatum’s a terrible liar,” she adds, to me. “It doesn’t stop her from trying, though. She’s, like, pathological.”

She turns back to Tatum. “But we love you, anyway, no matter what.” She leans forward to stage whisper to her. “Even if you’re a slut.”

“Get away from her.” I have to ball my fists to keep them from flying at Sophie’s throat.

Sophie turns to stare at me. “You’re the one who shouldn’t be here.”

“Tatum, please.” I turn back to her, beg her to listen, to look at me. “I can help you. If you’ll tell me the truth…”

“I asked her to leave. I told her I had nothing to say.” Tatum’s hands fumble across the sheets toward Sophie, who leans over to touch her face, releasing her grip on the IV. A shiver travels through Tatum’s whole body, as if Sophie’s touch carries a current.

Even before she begins to scream, I know I’ve lost her.

“Help!” Tatum throws her voice as high as it can go. “Help! Help!”

“Tatum…” I try, one last time, to reach her. But even as I start for the bed, Sophie steps in front of me. For a long moment, her eyes hold me there. And it’s in that moment that I know who this girl is—what she is. She’s their Kaycee.

She smiles. She draws a breath. For a second, she looks as if she might apologize. “Help! Help!” She’s only inches from my face. I can smell coffee on her breath.

Like dolls animated by the sound of her voice, the other girls begin to echo her. “Help! Help! Help!”

I burst through the door. I trip, running down the hall. I push through a swarm of descending nurses, careen off the reception desk and hurtle toward escape.

—

Help.

The word keeps echoing in my head, even when the clinic is far behind me.

The sun is huge, red, terrible: like a mouth opening to swallow the horizon.

A long-haul trucker blowing toward me leans on his horn before I realize I’ve drifted into his lane. I jerk the wheel and slam on the brakes as his horn blast rolls into silence.

I pull over for a bit, just to let my heartbeat catch up.

Help, help, help.

From the bottom of my bag, my phone lets out a few insistent beeps. I’ve missed another call. I thumb over to voicemail with shaking fingers.