I slowly lowered to a seated position on her coffee table. I noticed there was dried Play-Doh all over it and what looked like the remnants of a melted ice-cream sandwich. The Liz I knew would never have let that remain. She cleaned her house with the tenacity of a high school classmate sharing conspiracy memes on Facebook.

“Liz? It’s me, Amy. Can you hear me?” I whispered. My throat felt like it was filled with dead leaves and old branches scratching the back of my throat.

Still, she didn’t move. I leaned forward a little, studying her arms and legs. I hadn’t noticed it before, but they were covered in light scratches, like she had run through a field of rosebushes. Most were bright red and fresh. I shivered as I remembered that she had a hedge of knockout roses near her tiki hut. I imagined her outside, running through the bushes naked, watching as the blood ran from the scratches.

I wanted to bandage them up, put antibiotic cream on them. I didn’t know how Tim couldn’t have noticed any of this. Or maybe he had, and it was just too much of a hassle to address. It was one thing for him to ignore the erratic behavior, but this was an actual injury. Had her children seen them? I shivered as I tried to imagine what they thought of everything.

I extended one finger, lightly running it along a particularly angry-looking mark on her forearm.

Liz’s breathing stopped, and I quickly recoiled, feeling a zap of energy that ran up my finger and into my shoulder. It was like a dull electrical shock, like the time when I touched the prongs on my hair dryer too soon after I unplugged it.

I leaned back as I waited for her to open her eyes, but she didn’t move. I was about to say her name again when her legs suddenly stiffened like they were being pulled by the heels. Her fingers flexed and splayed, shooting out like starfish. Her eyes were still closed, but her neck craned to the side, almost so that her cheek was touching her shoulder. Then she froze again.

As she was stuck in that position, her lips began to move. It sounded like she was whispering, almost as if she was talking in her sleep. I leaned forward, turning my head so I could hear what she said.

It sounded like gibberish from a drunk at the end of the bar who’d had too many and was trying to tell a story but unable to form actual words.

But then, it got louder. And I could make out words, but I didn’t know what they were. Whatever she was saying, it wasn’t in English. Or any other language I recognized.