For two seconds, it almost felt like she’d cast a spell, like if she wanted to, she could actually turn the knob and step through the wall. I knew it wasn’t true, but it felt true.

“Okay,” said Jasper. “Now we have our plan. Let’s paint. You want to start on the door, and I’ll try to figure out the vines?”

“Sure!” I said, kneeling down to open the brown paint. And then we didn’t talk anymore for a while, just painted in the hot kitchen. Mosquitoes buzzed around us, and at one point the paint sloshed on the floor and we had to clean it up as best we could. But we didn’t say a word. We didn’t have to. It was perfect. A perfect afternoon. If we dripped now and then, it didn’t matter. If the painting turned out horribly, who cared? Nobody else would ever see it. Nobody else mattered at all. That was the beauty of the Vine Realm, where we were the only people who existed in the whole entire world. Just us, the hot still summer air, the heavy smell of roses, and the occasional dill pickle. All of the sad things were outside. All of the people who had disappeared. All of the things they weren’t saying to me. All of the hard, sharp memories, far away. We were making something new, all our own.

That night at dinner, over fish and peas and potatoes—which is possibly the most boring dinner in the world—my mom looked at me across the table, and asked, “What’s that on your neck, Leah? It looks very . . . green?”

My hand went to my neck, and I rubbed at the mark. Sure enough, I had a big smear of dried paint I hadn’t noticed. I’d been so careful to bring the leftover paint home and put it back where it belonged, with all the other art supplies, and I’d scrubbed my hands carefully, but I hadn’t thought to look at my neck.

“Oh, I was just . . . painting,” I said. Then I scooped up some peas and shoved them into my mouth. To give myself a chance to think of a good story. Only I couldn’t think of one.

“Painting what?” Dad looked up and set down his phone.

I swallowed the peas, and when I opened my mouth, somehow the truth slipped out. “A mural,” I said, and then shoveled in a too-big bite of mashed potatoes. They were the kind that came from a plastic microwave carton and tasted like it, like salt and Saran wrap. I could barely swallow the awful bite, but I kept my eyes on Dad. I watched him carefully.

“A mural, huh? That’s interesting. . . .”