He was in the top bunk in the room he was sharing with Bryde. It was still dark.

He rolled over quietly to see if Bryde was sleeping.

The lower bunk was empty, the blankets tossed aside. Ronan grabbed his jeans from where they were tossed at the end of his bunk, his jacket from the plastic unicorn head on the wall, and his boots from beside the door.

He stepped quietly into the dark hallway.

Bryde crouched there over a collapsed form. Matthew. One of Matthew’s hands was palm up, and in it was a little figurine of a hawk. He was obviously dead.

“What did you do?” Ronan snarled.

“Correlation is not causation, Ronan Lynch,” Bryde said. Adam appeared briefly at the end of the hall and, just as quick, was gone.

“What did you do?”

Bryde said, “Wake up.”

Ronan woke with a start.

He was in the top bunk in the room he was sharing with Bryde. It was still dark.

He rolled over quietly to see if Bryde was sleeping.

Bryde was already standing by the bunk, eye to eye with Ronan, somehow less like himself, frighteningly close.

He didn’t smile, but he was all teeth. He said, “Whose dream is this?”

Ronan woke with a start.

He was in the top bunk in the room he was sharing with Bryde. Full white winter daylight streamed in the window. It was quiet, but nonetheless Ronan had that feeling one sometimes has on waking, the feeling of having been woken by a sound. In this case, a scream.

He lay there in bed for a few seconds, listening, waiting, and now it sounded instead like a very intense conversation was happening deeper in the house. He listened to it long enough to feel he was awake, or at the very least, that this dream was going to be different from the previous ones. He got dressed and headed out.

There was no one on the first floor, where school supplies spread across the dining room table, so Ronan descended to the basement.

It took him a moment to absorb the full picture.

There was a painting of a woman in a swirling blue dress completely covering twelve of the stacked boxes. Not dreamt. Done with real paint, some of it still a little dark and damp. The desk tucked beside the boxes held bottles of cheap school paints and paper plates with childish smiley faces drawn on them—Hennessy must have been painting with the children. The cheap school colors didn’t seem like they should combine to the sophisticated work on the boxes, but this wasn’t magic, this was Hennessy. This was what she was good at. What she was great at.

Hennessy stood in front of her cardboard mosaic, one hand pressed up against the roses tattooed round her throat, looking at the ground. There was vomit on the ground in front of her.