“Is Amelia your imaginary friend?” My voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper.

She shook her head. “No, she’s real.”

“Emily, honey.” I reached forward and grabbed her hands again. “No one came over last night. There wasn’t anyone in your room when you were sleeping.”

She pulled her hands from mine and frowned. “There was. She told me to get the board and put it under my bed, and then she left when I did it.”

My voice went up an octave. “That’s not possible.”

Emily rolled her eyes. “It is.”

The standoff continued, each of us looking at the other with suspicion. I knew when she had an idea in her head, there was no way I could convince her otherwise. She was like that even as a baby. If she saw something she wanted, there would be no substitute. It was her way or no way, on principle alone.

I knew lots of kids who had imaginary friends on whom they blamed anything naughty. Summer had melted crayons in Jess’s microwave and blamed it on Susie, who she said was a half-unicorn, half-tiger who wanted to make melted crayon art. After a night of Mr. Clean Magic Erasers, Jess had just bought a new microwave.

I decided to switch tactics. “How old is Amelia?”

She beamed, assuming I had accepted Amelia’s existence. “I don’t know. She never told me, but she told me her favorite snack.”

I smiled, despite the situation. “Sounds like you guys are good friends, then.”

“Yes. She wears funny clothes and talks kind of weird, but she plays with me and it’s really fun.” She glanced over her shoulder at the open doorway. “Can I go watch the movie now?”

I shook my head. “Not yet. That board game is not for children, okay? And I don’t like that you took it. But I am more worried about your Barbies. They are in kind of a scary scene in your house. Did Amelia do that, too?”

She abruptly stood up and ran to her room. I struggled to stand and chase after her, grasping at her pajamas but only grabbing air.

“No, wait—”

She screamed when she got to her room. I arrived a second later to see her pointing at it, red-faced.

“You ruined my house! It’s broken now!” Her hands balled into fists as she looked at me, eyes flashing with rage.

“I’m sorry. I tripped on it.” I fumbled for words. “But I did get scared when I saw what the Barbies were doing.” I knelt down in front of her on one knee. “It scared me, Emily. It looked like Barbie was trying to hurt people.”

She slowly turned toward the crumpled Dreamhouse, the hot-pink plastic piled on top of itself and the dolls’ legs sticking out of the mess.

“She was.”

I leaned forward. “What did you say?”