Finally, finally, headlights flashed and an engine rumbled, and Maren almost cried with relief as the bus drew nearer, a glowing beacon of light and stars and normalcy. She stood with her toes hanging off the edge of the curb as it slowed, and she jumped through the doors before they were fully open.

“You getting on?” called the driver to the spindly man.

The man winked at Maren and shook his head. Nerves crawled like invisible spiders over her skin. She chose the seat right behind the driver, took out her book, and didn’t look up until she arrived at her neighborhood stop.

* * *

Maren had never, ever been so happy to see her house. The television glowed in her living room window now, too. Anybody passing by would have thought they were just another normal family. Maren could almost pretend it, too, as she crept around the side of the house.

She got a metal bucket from the toolshed and stood on it to pry open her window. There was no graceful way to climb through the narrow frame, so she slid, headfirst, and landed, headfirst, on the braided rug.

She was back. She was safe. The dark, foggy town was miles away, and so was the spindly man and the Monkey’s Paw and whatever had been click-clacking around the alley. Maren locked her window, ripped off her sweatshirt, and shoved it under the bed. From out in the living room came the sound of televised laughter and cheering. After changing into her pajamas, Maren padded down the hall, wearing the exhausted expression of someone who’d been battling a headache. She hoped she didn’t smell like salty night air or bus fumes or guilt.

But she needn’t have worried. Her parents were fast asleep on the couch, her dad with his feet on the coffee table and her mom with her head on his shoulder. They looked so worn and vulnerable—smaller than usual, somehow. Maren gave them each a kiss on the forehead and went to the kitchen to make herself a sandwich.

Twelve

“Five, six, seven, eight!”

Ms. Marigold’s voice rang through the dance studio, and seventeen dancers launched into the opening steps of their routine. In the second row, second from the left, Maren shuffle-ball-changed and hopped, sweat dripping down the back of her leotard. She flung her arms wide, kicked, and spun, hitting a perfect double pirouette and launching into the next sixteen-count tap sequence.

For the first time in days, she felt good. She felt incredible. Dancing meant she had no brain space to think about comas or nightmares or who might be getting those nightmares. Her brain held only the music, the counts, the steps, and the clack and slap of her shoes on the floor.

“Excellent!” crowed Ms. Marigold as the dancers hit their final poses and the music ended. “Again!”