He moved out of the doorway to let her pass. As she did, he lifted his hand. Wendy thought he was going to place it on her shoulder, but he hesitated and let it drop back to his side. “Stay out of there,” he repeated.

Wendy nodded and crossed her arms over her chest. “I will.” She didn’t blame him for being mad at her.

She wasn’t the only one who’d lost something in those woods.

CHAPTER 8

Memories

Wendy listened at her bedroom door to the sounds of her father’s frustration. She noticed that he only did chores when he was using them to announce his anger, even in the middle of the night. Wendy knew too well what it was like to have someone furiously fold a sock at you, or resentfully wash a dish in your direction.

When things grew quiet and she was pretty sure her father wouldn’t come barging in to say, And another thing! Wendy went into her bathroom. She turned on the bathtub faucet and peeled off her jeans. They had two jagged tears, but it wasn’t a big deal since they were old anyway. She sat on the edge of the tub and scooped up handfuls of water to pour over the cuts in her leg. They weren’t very deep and stung only a little now. She’d gotten far worse scrapes from the edge of the pool during swim practice.

She dipped a facecloth into the water and watched her shadow mirror her movements against the wall. As Wendy let her leg soak, she dabbed at the dried blood caked to the angry bump on her head. She was a mess. The last twenty-four hours had been a mess. Everything was a mess!

As her leg soaked in the warm water, Wendy stretched for the cabinet under the sink and dug out her sewing kit. She did her best to mend the pant leg. To save money, she’d spent many afternoons patching holes and resewing the hems on her parents’ clothes. Her father’s suits weren’t cheap, so it made more sense for her to reattach a button or fix a pleat than to buy a new jacket. Her mother was petite, which meant standard scrub pants were always too long. The bottom hems wore out too fast from dragging on the ground, so Wendy would hem them whenever they got too worn. Wendy inspected her work, giving a tug to see if her stitches held up. They were a little askew, but the jeans were perfectly fine as junk pants if she only wore them around the house.

With a sigh, she tossed them in the hamper.

What was she supposed to do now? How was she supposed to explain any of this—Peter, his shadow—to anyone?