But I’m thinking of a blue raven.

Are you?

It’s tall, Jolly, so tall, and the more you think about it, the more it flies. DON’T, they say. DON’T THINK ABOUT A BLUE-JEAN RAVEN.

But that’s all I can do.

That’s the future, isn’t it? I wasn’t hysterical when I said she’s going to get me. I know she is. I’m small, weak, meek. She’s a seven-foot bird with a taste for blood and she plucks us from the dirt like bugs.

I can’t do it. I’m not strong enough to survive this. If she attacks…WHEN she

OH NO

OH MY…NO, NO

I just heard the name “Kennedy” from downstairs. Oh no, Jolly. No, please no. What did Kennedy Lichtenstein EVER DO WRONG TO ANYBODY IN HER LIFE? Oh my God, Jolly. Please no.

That’s the news. Has to be.

Oh no.

I look under the bed. No one there, but there was a man who wanted to watch me die.

I look out the window. Red and blue (jean) lights swirling. Everything is police now. EVERYTHING.

Did Kennedy get hurt? Is that what happened?

I’m afraid to find out. I’m afraid not to find out. I wanna take enough pills so I can’t think about anything ever again.

Hey…

I have pills in my desk, Jolly.

I can knock myself out.

Should I?

Oh God, please say Kennedy is okay. Oh God, I’m too afraid to ask.

I’m thinking of a blue raven. It flies from one end of my mind to the other and I can’t hear it coming until it’s already right up on me and I don’t want to know any more and I don’t want to try any harder and I’m walking to the desk because I don’t deserve this and Melanie and Tammy (and please NOT Kennedy please) DIDN’T DESERVE THIS and the bird is not going away, Jolly, the blue-jean raven is literally not going to go away, not so long as we tell ourselves:

DON’T THINK ABOUT A BLUE RAVEN

“Jesus Christ, Nat,” Quincy Manska says. As Natasha’s mom, she says this a lot. “That’s a heavy story.” She’s been staring at the grass for some time following what Natasha told her. But there’s more in Quincy’s face than simply internalizing the words. It’s clear she has thoughts of her own on the subject. Natasha wonders how clear those thoughts are.

“What do you know about this?” Natasha asks. Because she has to. Because Quincy looks like she’s figuring out an invisible Rubik’s Cube.

“I don’t know for sure,” Quincy says. It’s weird; she usually speaks with total confidence. It’s a trait Natasha’s inherited. “But I know that’s not the right story.”

The two are in the backyard. Dad is inside on the phone, debating with other parents about the man caught in Kit’s house. The police believe the killer is a man. Most Samhattanites think the man under Kit’s bed is the killer. Yet the police are still out front.