Her aunt slowly began to move her spoon again. “That day is still in the news constantly. Maybe you saw it on TV or online?”

She wasn’t getting it.

“Maxwell and I were talking about the crash. The one earlier this year that killed my classmates?”

Her aunt nodded, not looking at her as she sprinkled various jars of dried seasoning into the pot. A warm basil mist swept through the room.

“That night I dreamt about the crash, like I was in it. I could see everything. The kids fighting, the driver laughing. In my dream, he let go of the wheel. On purpose.” Vera stared at the back of her aunt’s silver head. “And he had a statue of the Angel of Tears on the dashboard.”

Her aunt dropped her spoon. “It’s just a dream.”

“They keep happening! I dreamt about this patient I saw at the hospital who almost drowned. I dreamt about Mr. Gonzalez and his wife. They feel like memories, personal memories, things I shouldn’t know. And when I told Mom that I was sleepwalking, she acted like I was inviting in the demon. Like I’m weak or possessed, but I swear I’m not!”

Aunt Tilda sighed, her face growing worried with wrinkles. “You mom spends too much time with people who are afflicted. Sometimes her mind goes to the darkest place. But I’m here. I see you. You’re one of the brightest souls I’ve ever known.” She sat down next to Vera, reeking of steamed broth so strongly, Vera could taste garlic on her tongue. “Sometimes dreams are just dreams. Last night, I dreamt my podiatrist and I were in eighth-grade algebra and I was late for the final. That wasn’t real.”

“But that’s a normal dream.” Vera ran her hands through her hair. “When I dreamt about the gas explosion, I came this close”—she held her fingers close together—“to going down to the basement in my sleep.”

“But you didn’t.” Her aunt patted her arm. “I know what you’re thinking, but your mother’s gifts, she’s always had them, since birth. It didn’t start like this—there were never dreams…”

“I’m not saying that—” Though Vera was thinking it, or more like hoping it. Because if she was gifted, that meant she had a bond with her parents, and she wasn’t in the demon’s power, she wasn’t afflicted, and she wasn’t turning into Maxwell’s mother.

Aunt Tilda sighed, reading her panic. “You are being thrust into a situation you are too young to have to deal with. And you care about this boy, I can see it.” Vera started to object, but her aunt waved her off. “I want to help him too, him and his sister—and we will—but for now I think your fear is manifesting itself in your dreams.”

Vera tilted her head. Fear. Psychology. It was possible. But hearing it from her aunt made her second-guess all she thought she knew in the world. “You sound like a shrink.”

“No, I sound reasonable. I don’t want you scaring yourself any more than you already are. Everyone has dreams.” She stood, smoothed her apron, then returned to her pot. “I assure you, you’re not becoming possessed, and you’re not turning into your mother. You don’t have superpowers.”