When I was a kid, the lawn would be drenched in light if anyone stepped outside at night—motion sensors caught it all, even a lone fox sneaking through the grass. But practically none of the outdoor lights work anymore, so I’m alone in another dark corner of Delirium Forest; Saxim, Tomí, and I the only breathing humans for a good mile, at least.

Somehow I only think about the fact that Stökéwood is tucked inside the forest boundary at night, when the grounds feel like the very bottom of some cosmic well. Sound travels differently, or maybe it’s my ears, which pick up weird sounds since there’s less for my eyes to process; someone once told me that if you really listen, you’ll hear that what you thought are crickets in the hedge maze and the rustling, bristly leaves of the chestnut trees are actually spirits whispering.

I reach the edge of the lawn, where I find that precious bar of service, and I drop to the grass, knees curled into my chest, breathing in the earthy air, as I wait for my messages to load. Fewer bubble up than I expected, and my own messages take forever to send.

“Taking a nap?” asks Saxim, coming up behind me. She changed into white silk pajamas. She looks flushed and slightly out of breath, her hair mussed, and she’s holding something behind her back. Probably dried cod.

“Meditating,” I quip, watching the branches before us sway, feeling the wood draw me back into its lush darkness.

“Can I join you?” she asks, and it’s her gentleness that throws me. Seriously at odds with what I hear from most people I know, who banter with the bright, sparkling TFH, oblivious to the work behind it.

When I nod, she shows me what she’s hiding: the pink clam of her old Pocket Best Friend, the one we used to talk to each other every night when we were kids.

“Holy shit,” I whisper, as she settles next to me.

“I found it in my desk.” She flips open the scuffed shell. “It still has some old home videos you sent to me. I can’t believe the video capabilities on this thing.” Her eyes are dark as she hands it to me, booting up. “Your uncle Teddy was very much ahead of the curve.”

“As always,” I say, clicking through its dated apps. I find the video storage—Pocket Best Friend’s Hollywood Movie Studio—and load the very first one, recorded in July 2009.

Saxim sidles up to me as the video buffers, grass crunching beneath our sit bones, and the first image loads: my sallow face at age seven, staring into the camera. My eyes are so spookily wide-spaced, like they’re lost on my face.