It seems to me there’s more to it. The way he looked, the coffee he kept drinking, the mess in the house.

I glance at Skylar, but she’s bent over her phone, thumbs flying. Maybe she’s right. Mr. Boyce is sad, that’s all. I’m overreacting the way I always do, imagining things I can’t even put into words.

I watch a butterfly land on a big zinnia in Mom’s garden and fan its wings. A monarch, I think. It looks so fragile, yet it will fly all the way to Mexico, and in the spring, it will fly all the way back here. How is that even possible?

I reach for my phone to take its picture—and remember Mr. Boyce has it.

9

That night, I have terrible dreams. In the worst one, Ms. Sullivan lies in the woods, almost hidden under branches and plastic bags. She’s wearing her sundress, I can see the little flowers. Suddenly her head is the deer’s head and she’s looking at me with one eye. Flies buzz, crows shriek, snakes twist down tree trunks and slither toward me. I try to run, but I can’t. I try to scream, but I can’t. Paul comes out of the dark, snakes coiling around his arms. “Like what you see?” he asks.

I wake up and crawl into bed with Mom. I haven’t done that since first grade. Or was it third grade?

In the morning, Mom smooths my hair out of my face. “Bad dreams?”

“Ms. Sullivan,” I say, “and the dead deer.”

“Dead deer? Where did that come from?”

I almost say I saw it in the woods, but just in time I remember that Mom doesn’t know about the deer or the woods. “I don’t know,” I say. “It was just there.”

Mom doesn’t turn on the TV this morning. I manage to get through breakfast without crying. Neither one of us talks about Ms. Sullivan.

As she gets ready to leave for work, she asks, “Will you be all right today?”

“I think so.”

She gives me a hug and a kiss. “Call me if you need me, even if it’s just to talk. Stay safe. Don’t let Skylar talk you into leaving the neighborhood. The police still haven’t arrested anyone.”

“Don’t worry so much,” I tell her. “I’ll be fine.”

A few minutes after Mom leaves, Skylar comes over. Before she even has a chance to sit down, the landline rings. I check the caller ID and see Mr. Boyce’s name.

“It’s him.”

I try to hand the phone to Skylar but she shakes her head. “I talked to him yesterday.”

“I know, but—” I look at her. “You’re better at it than I am.”

She backs away. “Your turn. He called your house, not mine.”