She eased out from beneath the weight of his arm, slipping the duvet away from her body, and lowered her feet to the floor. She stood and looked down at him. He still wore his jacket. It crossed her mind to reach inside the pocket, looking for the phone he’d taken from her earlier, but she couldn’t risk it. Instead, she took quiet steps around the bed, towards the open door, and the darkness beyond. As she reached the threshold, Damien’s phone trilled and jerked him awake. He cried out and shot upright on the bed, his wide eyes darting around the room. Sara froze, watching him over her shoulder.

“You stay there,” he said, his voice hoarse. He reached into his pocket, removed the phone, checked the screen as he straightened. “Fuck,” he said, then cleared his throat as he brought the phone to his ear. “Yeah? What’s happening?”

He listened for a moment, then got to his feet. He pushed past Sara, heading for the stairs. She followed him down, her bare feet padding on the steps.

“Fuck,” he said. “So is he going to . . . ?”

Sara stopped halfway down the stairs, her legs unable to support her as her mind completed the sentence with the worst imaginable words. She slumped onto a step, holding the banister to save her from falling.

“Fuck,” Damien said. “Yeah, I’ll be there in twenty minutes. We’ll figure something out . . . Yeah . . . Not at the house, no. Where?”

He listened as he turned to Sara, but he was unable to meet her eyes.

“All right. Twenty minutes. See you there.”

He hung up, stared at his phone for a moment.

“Fuck,” he said.

“Did he die?” Sara asked.

Damien didn’t answer. Instead, he said, “Don’t even think about leaving this house. The windows are all locked, and I’ll lock this door when I go. Best thing you can do is go back to bed. Get some sleep. It’ll be better in the morning.”

He turned his key in the front door, closed it behind him, locked it. She listened to the car’s engine cough into life, then recede into the distance until the silent darkness of the house swallowed her.

Sara remained on the step for immeasurable time, her shoulder and head resting against the banister. She might have dozed for a while, she must have, because a dream crept into her waking.

In that dream, she saw a small boy, ragged clothes and bare feet, standing in the doorway to the kitchen. But she didn’t see him. Not really. He was no more than a folding of shadows, an impression of a boy, a confluence of light and darkness.

But yet, he was there, in the doorway at the foot of the stairs, looking up at her.

I’m awake, she thought. I’m not dreaming.

Still, he stared.

Sara’s breath froze in her chest.