Maren’s pulse rocketed as Lishta turned onto her maple-lined street. Tonight she would go back to the shop and steal the nightmares. It would be scary to go there alone, and very wrong, but then it would be over. Maren couldn’t even look in Lishta’s general direction as the car pulled up to her little ranch-style house. All of its lights were off.

“Shall I come in and make you some dinner?” said Lishta.

“No, it’s fine.” Maren opened her bag and pretended to look for her keys so she didn’t have to make eye contact. “I’ll heat up some frozen mac and cheese. It’s really good,” she added, wincing at the lie that Lishta would surely recognize.

“All right, sweetheart. Good night.”

Lishta didn’t back out of the driveway until Maren had closed the front door and turned on the living room light. As the car’s headlights faded, she slumped against the wall. Her stomach whined with hunger and nerves—the cake hadn’t been enough food, but she worried she’d throw up if she ate anything else.

Pulling out her phone, Maren checked the bus schedule. The last one home came at eleven o’clock. That gave her two and a half hours to steal the nightmares. There was just the problem of her parents coming home and finding her gone. Maren tapped out a text message to her mother:

I’m home. Where are you?

A few seconds later, her mother’s response popped up.

Hospital. Gran-Gran told me she brought you home. Did you eat?

Yeah. What time will you be home?

About an hour.

I have a headache and am going to bed.

OK sweetie, sleep well.

Trying not to let her mother’s lack of concern bother her, Maren went to her room. She lined up some pillows on her bed and pulled her flowery comforter over them. It looked nothing like a sleeping person, and she wondered how anyone pulled it off in movies. With a frustrated huff, she rifled through her bedside table drawer and pulled out a flashlight, which she tucked into the pocket of a black hoodie. The clock read eight thirty-five. She’d miss the bus if she didn’t hurry.

Maren stared at the pillows on her bed, willing them to look more person-like, but it was useless. She opened her window a few inches so she could get back inside later on. Then she clicked the lock button on her doorknob, let herself out into the hall, and closed the locked door behind her.

In the kitchen, Maren pulled out her mother’s grocery notepad and pen. Under a list that said only “Salt,” she wrote:

I’m in bed. Please don’t disturb me. I already took a Tylenol.

Love,

M