“I know it isn’t the best plan,” I said, “but do you have a better one?”

“Will Grandma even want to see us?” said Murphy.

“Judging from those letters, definitely,” I said. “Besides, she set up that trust for us, didn’t she? We’re her family, Murphy, and that means something in this world. At least it should. We’ll hole up with her until we figure something out. And we need an adult to protect us from Horace, since for all legal purposes he’s our father now.”

“Fuck that,” said Murphy.

“That’s what I was thinking,” I said.

“A’ight,” said Murphy. “To Grandmother’s house we go.”

I remember the first vision I ever had. It’s maybe my oldest memory.

I was around five years old, sitting on the floor of our old house, nestled in that deep white carpet, playing with a yellow Tonka truck. Vroom-vroom, squealy breaks, that kind of thing. Regular kid stuff. When this cat came slinking across the den floor. Which was a big deal, because Mom was allergic to cats. Like, majorly allergic. Her eyes would swell shut, and her throat would close, and she would go around wheezing and snotting for days. So there was no reason a cat should have been in our house. It was probably a good idea for me to go chase it out.

But then I realized it wasn’t a normal cat. Not even kind of.

See, this cat was rainbow-colored, glowing stripes all up and down its body. It shimmered like fish scales in the sun. The cat pawed its way across the room as I laughed and clapped my hands.

“Mom, look!” I hollered. “Come see!”

I was pointing at it and jumping up and down while the rainbow kitty rubbed and meowed around the room.

“What is it, Lee?” said Mom, running in like the house was on fire.

“Look at the pretty cat!” I yelled, or something equally five-year-old-ish. “Look how pretty!”

“What cat?” said Mom.

“That one,” I said, “right there!” I pointed at the rainbow cat.

But Mom wasn’t so enthusiastic. Instead she had this strange, lip-bitey look on her face.

“Lee, there’s no cat here.”

“Yes, there is,” I said, and I turned back to look at the cat. Only it wasn’t a kitty anymore. It had become a tiger, all rainbow-striped and fierce, at least six feet long. It opened its mouth at me, its fangs glistening white in the fluorescents.

Then it roared.

I fell over backward, screaming, covering my ears, sure I was about to get eaten, sure that this was the end of me already.

Mom ran over and yanked me up into her arms.

“Look, Lee,” she said. “Look! There’s nothing there.”

And there wasn’t, not anymore.

“But I saw it,” I said, all tears and wailing. “I saw it with my own eyes.”

I’ll never forget the look she gave me then, this miserable droop in her face.