A huge yawn rolled through my body. I was already tired, but I reached for the teacup and took a sip of the warm, mildly sweet liquid.

“Good girl,” Laura said. “Now, don’t worry about Agatha in the morning. I’m sure we’ll be downstairs before you’re awake.”

I took another long drink. “If you need help, I can get up early.”

Her smile was kindly approving. “That’s very thoughtful, but no need. We’ll figure out the routine later. Tonight, rest.”

She stood up and started to leave, then turned back around . . . and gently kissed my forehead.

After she left, I finished the tea, turned off the light, and burrowed under the covers. Her kiss still burned on my skin, and I let memories of my old life coalesce around me.

Mom came in to say good night after stopping in for one last peek at my little sisters, who’d been asleep for an hour. Next, she would head downstairs and prep the coffee maker for the morning, then surf the internet on the kitchen computer until Dad’s show (anything about military crime solvers would do) was over. They’d go upstairs together, holding hands. I would hear their whispers and soft footfalls pass my room, a distant echo at the back of my dreams. They were especially animated because they were planning a surprise for us—a road trip to New York City for spring break.

And then, like in every dream, the images began to melt into blackness, and I sensed myself sinking, frigid water drenching me as it poured into the car. I felt a shock of panic—water filling my mouth and nose—

Breathlessly, I opened my eyes into the utter darkness of reality.

We never made it to New York, I reminded myself as I rose into consciousness. We died halfway there.

I always thought of it that way. We died. We. All of us.

By then, I was wide awake, but I didn’t bother to correct myself. I checked my phone—1:15 a.m. I set it down and closed my eyes, waiting to fall back to sleep.

But as I lay in the dark, trying to force the dream into a secret closet in my head, I realized that I could still feel the water in my nose.

Oh, not this. Please not this.

I sat up and switched the lamp on, looking at the pillow in horror.

It was smeared with bright red blood. And so were the sleeves of my fancy new pajamas.

I hadn’t had a nosebleed since leaving Becca’s house—the day I ruined her great-grandmother’s heirloom quilt. My heart beat fast in my chest as I tried to assess the damage and watched another drop of blood hit the pillow, spreading in slow motion through the fine weave of the fabric.