“I’d name him Wolf, and make him match his name, so he could fight them. I’d give him sharp teeth to bite them with and fast legs to run away and a sense of smell to find his way home even if he’s worlds away.” I look up at Germ, self-conscious. I realize I’ve lapsed into my old habit of trying to change what I can’t by making things up.

“Stories,” Germ says simply, looking at me.

“What?”

“They’re your gift. I think you need to a write a story you think can overcome witches.”

I take this in. I try to picture myself storytelling a witch to death, but it seems about as likely as whistling a ghoul into a marshmallow.

“It’s sort of what you already do anyway, Rosie. You try to change the bad things by imagining them differently.”

“And what do you think my weapon would be?” I ask. “Even if you’re right?”

Germ shrugs. “Mom’s got a chain saw in the shed.”

CHAPTER 24

When I sit down that night to write, long after everyone—even Germ—is asleep, I come up blank. I chew my pencil and stare at my paper and think about Doritos and where the Memory Thief might be and everything but an idea. What kind of story could hurt a witch? It has to be simple, but capture everything that matters about the witches, everything I feel. It has to tell the truth but also be made up, because those are the kinds of stories I like best. For some reason, I think about birds—how small and delicate they are, and also how they fly, what a special gift they have that no other creature has. Weirdly, it’s easier to write about witches if I write about birds instead.

I set my pencil to the paper, and start.