“Happy birthday to you,” whisper-sang Maren. She leaned over like she was kissing her sister’s hollow cheek and carefully opened her mouth. “Happy birthday to you.” Hallie’s tongue felt rubbery like a doll’s, and Maren wondered if the dream would dissolve properly, if it might accidentally choke her sister, but as soon as the sachet touched Hallie’s tongue, it began to disintegrate.

“Happy birthday, dear Hallie.”

Footsteps squeaked down the hall, and Maren heard the distinctive jingle of her mom’s keys. She backed away from the bed, sat in the chair, and watched her sister’s face.

“Happy birthday to you,” she finished. Only a few wisps of white and pink remained where the sachet had been, and the tiniest trace of a smile had appeared on Hallie’s lips.

Four

“Mom, she was snooping around and listening to private medical conversations.” Maren slid into the back seat of her mother’s car and tugged her seat belt so tight that it cut into her neck. Even though the accident happened weeks ago, Maren still felt extremely nervous in cars. “There are laws against that. Don’t you even care?”

Her mom sighed. It felt like the only thing she ever did these days, like she had too much bad air inside her now that Hallie was broken and she had to keep letting it out. “It’s not that I don’t care. It’s just that it’s probably not worth getting so upset over.”

“But the fact that she was just in the dream shop this afternoon, plus that?” said Maren. “It seems very strange.”

“It’s a little strange, yes.” Maren’s mother checked her rearview mirror, then each side mirror, then the rearview again, then shifted the car into reverse. “But we can’t exactly call the police to complain about somebody being in the same place as you twice in one day.”

“And spying on me.” Maren tugged her seat belt a little tighter.

Another heavy sigh. “If you see her again, we’ll talk. Okay?”

Maren slumped as they inched toward the parking lot exit. She knew she shouldn’t add to her family’s list of things to worry about. She’d seen the pills her mother took every night before bed. Apparently even Lishta’s best dreams couldn’t fix her levels of anxiety.

“Do you think you might come to the shop sometime this week?” said Maren. “Maybe one day after work, you and me and Gran-Gran could—”

“Is that Amos?” Maren’s mother pointed to the bus stop, where a curly-haired kid sat on the bench, buried in his phone.

“Yes.” Maren slouched lower in her seat.

Instead of turning left toward their house, Maren’s mom pulled up to the bus stop. She lowered the passenger-side window. “Amos!”

Amos jolted upright. “Hi, Mrs. Par—I mean Julia.”