“Here’s an extra blanket,” said Mrs. O’Brien. “Just in case.”

“Thank you,” said Amelia. She took the blanket and placed it at the foot of the bed. She already had her pajamas on. Dr. Cotton was tucked into her backpack in case she needed him.

Mrs. O’Brien stood in the open doorway. She leaned back into the room. “I left him a note. Just get a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow’s another day.”

“Good night,” said Amelia.

“Good night.” Mrs. O’Brien didn’t leave. Her fingers fluttered up and down the doorframe. “I still don’t understand something,” she said. “Why, earlier, did you say ‘So, she’s not my mother’? How could she be your mother? I feel like I’m missing something.”

Amelia shrugged. She did not want to explain her fantasy about Epiphany. “It was nothing, really. I was just thinking out loud. Weird. I’m weird.”

“Life is a sweet, sad mystery,” said Mrs. O’Brien, moving toward the bed. “And you are the least weird person I know.” She kissed the top of Amelia’s head and was gone.

Alone (with Dr. Cotton), under the patchwork quilt, in the moonless dark, the sweet, sad mystery of life seemed impossible to comprehend.

Once, a long time ago, Mrs. O’Brien had told Amelia about her husband. How he had died of cancer when they were newly married. How she’d always wanted children, but never had any. How her husband’s death had bonded her with Amelia’s father.

Amelia had been too young to mourn her mother’s death. She hadn’t experienced the death of a loved one the way her father and Mrs. O’Brien had.

But maybe she was now. In a way. Losing Epiphany felt like a death, as if Amelia’s mother were dying again. There’d been an opening in Amelia’s life and her mother’s spirit had entered, come back for a second chance. And, now, the opening had closed.

Amelia sank into the bed. She tried to get comfortable, to let go, to get to the fuzzy edge of sleep. The mattress, like a giant marshmallow, rose up around her, swallowed her. Suddenly, despite everything, she felt more tired than ever.

Sleep, at home, would have been difficult. But sleep at Mrs. O’Brien’s, in the big bed, was possible. Like sailing off in a soft, safe boat—on to tomorrow, to morning, to the inevitable talk with her father.

26 • A Barrage of Questions

Amelia woke early, emerging from a dream that was nearly beyond her grasp. All she could remember was that Epiphany was in it. “Hannah Barnes,” Amelia whispered. “Her name is Hannah Barnes.”

As the dream slipped away, a question materialized out of the morning air. It came unbidden as Amelia stretched under the covers, and was still nagging at her when she went home.

The question: Was Hannah Barnes following me?

And then another question: Why?

When Amelia came out of her bedroom after putting her backpack and Dr. Cotton away, her father was in the hallway, waiting.