“She’s the weakest witch?!” Germ yells. The sound of moth wings is deafening now. My mom cowers by the front door of the house.

I swallow, and turn my attention to the rubble falling around me, my hands shaking. I have to find my bow. Right now.

I pick up bits of rock and splintered wood and throw them aside. You can find it, sweetie, I think. Just focus, focus, focus. As I do, bugs swirl through the air like a tornado.

Each time I glance over my shoulder, the chariot looms closer and larger, and I feel so scared I think I might vomit. The bow is nowhere to be found.

But just as I’m about to fall back in despair, I spot it: the corner of the top of one of the arrows. I lunge at it and free the bundle from the debris piled on top of it.

Around us, the clouds are moving faster, and for a moment I catch a glimpse of a strange shape in the mist across the grass, before I turn away.

My eyes on the sky, I try to fit the arrow onto the string, but I can’t get my fingers still enough to do it. Suddenly Germ is beside me. She grabs both of my hands, hard and steady, and looks at my face.

“You can do this,” she says.

But Germ is a terrible liar. I can see by her eyes that she’s not sure at all.

Still, I manage to steady my hand enough to fit the arrow.

The witch is descending toward us.

I want to shoot, but I know I need to wait until she’s close enough. As close as the oak tree in Germ’s yard.

She comes. And comes. And comes.

She is so close now, I can see her sad, longing eyes. She grins at me.

And then, when the distance is right, I let the arrow fly.

At first, it looks to be far off the mark; it arcs up as if it’s going to go clean over her head. But then, on its way down, I see it. It is going to hit. It sails downward, picking up speed, and I can’t believe it, but it’s headed right at her, trailing colored beams of shapes behind it.

Germ grabs my arm. The shot hits its mark.

And then sails right through her and out the other side. Without even slowing her down.

The wind whips as the chariot reaches the ground, and the Memory Thief leaps out—cast in the glow of ghosts circling the yard. She floats toward me with her arms outstretched, her feet zipping across the ground.

“Come with me, little one,” she says. “Come forget with me.”

I stumble backward, but not before she reaches my shoulder with her hand—just the tip of her finger. I feel her touch, and with it, a deep frozen chill.