“Yeah,” Maeve says. “Yes. You too.” She leaves him there, and he watches her go, with Anna waiting below them, down on the landing. Maeve pulls the door to her own hallway open.

He’s still there on the stairs—she turns to look—as the steel door swings closed behind her.

Day 5

Day 5

This time, in the dream, Talia and Rudy are with her. They are walking together, hand in hand, through the wooded trail to the studio. There is no snow on the ground. Perhaps it is spring. The spruce and pine seem to grow into the path overhead, branches meshing; the ground at their feet sprayed with forget-me-nots and feathery green yarrow. Talia is talking and Maeve looks down at her, but the words seem far away. She can hear Talia’s voice but can’t make out what she is saying. Rudy pulls at Maeve’s hand, urging her on, faster and faster.

As they near the studio, Maeve stops and presses a finger to her lips. She turns slowly, a full circle, squeezing the children’s hands tighter in hers.

The scent of the bear is all around them. She thinks she can hear its rough breath back in the trees, but Talia will not stop talking: the sounds muddle. At the studio door, the wood frame has been clawed—long striations mark the entry, shavings in curls rest at her feet.

That’s when she notices her hand. Her index finger has been replaced by a long claw, the same claw she found in her luggage. Maeve pats her pocket and finds it empty. The transformation of her hand is ugly but she can’t stop admiring it.

She reaches for the children, but they are no longer there.

There is a breeze and it is warm and pleasant. It must be spring. The door is unlocked and bumps gently against its frame. She reaches for the doorknob, although she knows she should not. She knows it’s in there.

Light streams out through the crack in the doorway. The light beaming off the mirrors inside is so bright. It’s blinding.

The door opens and Maeve goes in.

In the morning, she wakes with a start. The dream is so close. Sunlight—actual sun!—filters through the window and Maeve rolls over and grabs her phone.

Still nothing.

Her battery is at 21 percent. All the on-and-off, on-and-off wearing it down. She holds it a moment longer. The time is 8:06. She turns it off.