“Hey,” she says, her voice louder. “It’s just us now. You’ll never see her again.”

The baby blinks, working up to a cry, and they stare at each other for a second, old souls reconnected, like there was never any loss before and nothing ever went wrong.

“You’re okay, little one, you’re safe now. There, that’s better.”

In a minute she’ll fetch him formula from the fridge, warm it up, test the temperature of it against the tender flesh of her inner arm. She knows how to do all of this. She’s a natural. Finally everything is exactly as it should be.

PART ONE
THE GUARDER

ALEXANDRA

In the dream I am running and my sister is behind me. The ground is brittle, hard against my summer feet, and as with every dream, I think I’m rushing to save something, to stop it, but it’s not that. It’s so much worse. I can hear Ruth gaining on me—she’s bigger than me—and she grazes the back of my shirt with her fingertips as I strain to run faster. When she finally grabs me, as she always does, she pulls me down into the dust and her sharp fingernails dig into the little-girl flesh of my arms. It’s just a game! I scream, We’re only playing!, and I jolt upright in bed, my feet pedaling at the sheets, my tongue pasted against the soil of my mouth.

I lie panting for a minute. I thought the dreams would lessen, but they’re getting worse. They’re always of her, or the version of her I last saw all those years ago. It’s crazy to be so afraid of her; I don’t even know where she is.

I tiptoe out of bed, careful not to wake up Chase, and stumble to the kitchen to get water, to put out this fire in my head. I’m so thirsty all the time. By the sink, I run cold, clear water and drink from the tap, splashing a little to my forehead.

Chase’s loft is high-ceilinged and open concept, a one-bedroom that’s short on doors and boundaries. Some couples might find that claustrophobic, but I don’t. I find it companionable. I can just see him from where I stand by the sink: He’s a muscular guy, but he breathes so softly, his tanned arm lolling against the crisp, white sheets. I’ve no concept of where he goes when he sleeps, but it’s an opposite dreamscape to mine.