“Vera?”

Her mouth was slack, full lips slightly parted. He leaned closer, pulse picking up pace.

She was sleepwalking. She never mentioned this might happen.

Her foot hit the first floor, and Max reached out his arm, his hand lightly tapping her shoulder. “Vera, wake up,” he said softly.

He pulled back. He wasn’t sure if he was supposed wake her. He thought the same thing when his mom was sleepwalking.

Only, she was never sleepwalking.

His gut double knotted.

Vera made a sharp left turn, her body knowing where it wanted to go. Even in sleep.

“Vera,” he whispered again.

Her black waves swung loosely, a tuft sticking up in the back from her pillow. She mumbled softly, the words unintelligible. He followed behind her perfect posture, shoulders back and neck long. Each step stretched lithely in front of her, moving with purpose. Where was she going?

They entered the kitchen. He’d heard stories of sleepwalkers pouring themselves drinks or fixing sandwiches, but the air was sizzling with tension, like this wasn’t about to be a funny anecdote. His muscles tightened.

Then he saw where her body was steering.

No! His hand shot out.

Vera moved toward the basement.

The barnwood door seemed to pulse, the Xs bulging and swelling with warning: Stay out…. Don’t get any closer….

“Vera! Vera, wake up!” he insisted.

She couldn’t hear him. Just like his mother.

“Vera, stop! Wake! Up!” he shouted.

She reached for the brass knob, fingers dripping delicately. Hell was behind that door, little pieces of Hell. She said to never open it, that they were safe as long as the door stayed shut.

He slapped her hand.

He didn’t want to hurt her, but he was not letting her open that door. Not with his sister in the house. Vera paused.

She felt him. Good.

“Come on, Vera, wake up! You’re sleepwalking.”

Her hand rose once more, determined to turn the knob. This time he stepped in front of her, blocking her path. A rush of static electricity (that was the closest he could describe it) emanated from the door, pushing against his back and lifting the hairs from his legs to his head. He could have stuck a balloon to his skull.

He grabbed her shoulders. I’m sorry. I don’t want to hurt you, but…

He shook her, fingers digging into her bare shoulders, her head rocking limply on her neck, soft waves fluttering.

“Vera, wake up! Wake! Up!” he shouted.

Finally, her eyes opened.

Her pupils were huge.

Max sat beside Vera on the couch. A rumpled pink polka-dot sheet was draped over their legs, and her warm body leaned against his shoulder. He liked the way her hair tickled his neck; she smelled of ginger.

“This is gonna sound weird,” she said, breaking the silence.

“I’m not sure things can get any weirder than they already are,” Max replied.

They hadn’t said much since she’d woken up, blinking with pupils dilated to the size of quarters. Within moments, her gaze returned to normal, but still, Max couldn’t help picturing his mother. She looked the same those first few nights.