We wait breathlessly for a distant screech, the sound of the Memory Thief losing one of her precious creatures. But there is nothing, no sound, no anything. Maybe Homer’s right, that the witch is somewhere licking her wounds. I look at Ebb and Germ, and after a few minutes of waiting, we all exchange a giddy smile.

Then Little One tilts her head, staring toward the woods again. She chirps and chirps and chirps at me.

And then she again barrels into the woods.

I see just a flash of her—soaring toward a treetop—and there’s a bright flicker as she catches another memory moth in her mouth, then gently lets it go. She circles back to me, chirping, restless.

“I think she’s telling you something,” Ebb says.

I look at Little One, uncertain. “What?”

“Maybe you don’t have to wait for the Memory Thief to come for you,” Germ offers suddenly. “The moths are all sent by her, right, from wherever she hides?”

I nod, slow to catch on. And then it hits me.

“Little One can follow the moths,” I say, breathless.

“I’ll come with you,” Ebb says, “as far as I possibly can.”

I try to process what he’s saying. It hits me hard. I feel scared, maybe even more scared than I did the night I first got the sight. Because I know what this means.

It means it’s time to find the Memory Thief, and fight.

It’s not easy to pack everything you need to survive a journey to find a witch, especially in a trailer full of sleeping people without waking anyone up. But my mom sleeps soundly as Germ and I move about the main room, stuffing my backpack full of granola bars, water bottles, Gatorade, nuts and peanut butter, Slim Jims, bread, and peanut M&M’s.

I roll up my sleeping bag and connect it to the pack with Germ’s brother’s belt. I’m wearing layers: a sweater, tights, coat, hat, and scarf. I’ve already taken all the money out of my mom’s wallet, and left a piece of paper with the letters IOU in its place, because I saw it in a movie once. I slip Fred the spider into my pocket, ever so slowly. He’s already, in the short time we’ve been home, built a web in the corner of the room with the beginnings of a word.

In the bathroom, I splash warm water on my face to wake myself up. In the steam on the window, I write, You can do this, sweetie.

Germ lays a note for her mom on the kitchen counter, lingers for a moment staring at it, and then stands at the door, silhouetted by the porch light, waiting. It doesn’t register, for the moment, why she’d do such a thing. I am too lost in thoughts of leaving, my throat aching.