I watched, holding my breath. She seemed to be completely breaking down.

“G—go!” she finally said. “Go!”

I froze.

“Go?” I repeated. Was that what she’d been trying to say all this time?

She waved her arm at me. “Go,” she said. She was almost pleading.

“I’ll go,” I said. “I’ll go right now and get your mom.”

Then she let out a bloodcurdling shriek.

“No, no, no!” she yelled. She began thrashing again. “No!”

“Okay!” I said. “I won’t! I’ll stay. I’ll stay. Agatha, what’s wrong? What’s happening?”

She was talking. She was communicating. Was it possible that this fit overtaking her was like a fever breaking—that point where your body throws everything it has into overcoming your illness?

What if she was better after this?

“Ags, it’s okay,” I said. “I’m here. Do you want some water?”

She pressed back against the wall and stared at me. Finally, she nodded.

I passed her the water cup from her nightstand, and she drank it down, then passed it back. Her arm shook.

Laura should be here; she should see this for herself. How would I describe it to her? Or what if it was some kind of serious mental break? What if Agatha was worse after this?

“You’re safe,” I said, holding my hands up like she was robbing me. “You’re safe. Do you understand me?”

She whimpered and shrank back.

“Agatha, it’s me,” I said. “It’s Margot.”

I stepped closer, and she leaned farther away.

“Go,” she said.

“Okay,” I said. I was getting exhausted. “I’ll go.” I started to turn away.

“Margot!” she yelped.

I gasped and turned around.

“Margot,” she said again, like she was practicing. Then she looked at me and shook her head. Her eyes were clearer now, but no less frightened. “Go. Go.”

“You can speak,” I said, stepping closer. “You can speak, do you hear yourself?”

“I . . .” she said. She seemed to lose track of what she was saying, and she shook her head furiously. “I—”

I stepped closer.

“I’m not—”

There were frantic footsteps in the hall outside, and Agatha’s eyes widened.

“You’re not what?” I whispered.

Her mouth moved, she shook her head. She couldn’t find the word.

But I had a guess.

“Sick?” I asked.

She drew in a sharp breath. Her eyes gleamed.

“You’re not sick?”

But Laura came storming into the room. “Margot, what’s going on? Agatha!”

At the sight of her mother, Agatha began to thrash and howl again.

“Margot, help me!” Laura said. “Help me! Grab her legs!”

“She was talking,” I protested. “She was making sense!”

“She’s going to hurt herself. Or us. Grab her legs and sit on them!”