It’s thinner than Teddy, with a strange lope of a walk. I squint in its direction, and then another three shadows join it, whispering into their hands, gaining on me—

“No,” I whisper, eyes ballooning wide. Because I know it’s the little people from White Fox. They’re here, and they’re— “No!”

And then I remember to move my legs.

I run, run away from them, feeling like my legs are child-size, like the hall is lengthening and made of putty, and I turn around, only to see that the shadows are hanging back. What the hell are they? Are they friends with Teddy? Tears spring to my eyes, meaty and juicy and big as mushrooms. Of course they’re all friends.

I reach the end of the hall and push into the last room to breathe, to hide, to be. The door sticks a little, as if it hasn’t been opened in a long time. I lock the door behind me, and relief flushes through me like clean water through molded-over pipes when I realize which room I’m in. It’s dark, but it smells the same. Like old books and velveteen and dried-up sweets.

The princess room.

I haven’t stayed here in years, but when I flick on the light, it looks unchanged, if a bit forgotten. There’s a silver hairbrush on the vanity, plus random little glass figurines and stuff old guys think girls like. And … signed posters from Mama’s movies pinned up to the walls, which I’d entirely forgotten about. Moroccan Séance. The Apricot Express. Gentlemen, Don’t Lie. Parachutes over Brazil.

Not Another Girl of Ice. I run my hand over her profile: She looks unfamiliar in her icy wig.

She was a chameleon.

How could a series of questions capture her essence? A low voice, like Alex Trebek’s, asks inside my head.

It’s impossible, bubbles up one answer.

It’s wrong to try, bubbles up another.

And that’s when I remember that this room contains the Pocket Girlfriend’s inspirations. It sends a shiver of recognition through me, even as the kaleidoscopic bits and bobs around me expand and contract. There must be a Pocket Girlfriend lying around—it would be strange if there wasn’t. Strange! giggles the girl sitting in my mind next to Alex Trebek, who feels a sudden and intense craving to play. They both do.

Just to see what Mama wants to say.

I feel a sudden compulsion to find one of the damn things, with their teeny pink little buttons that click-clack-click under long nails, and their screens of pixels I can dissolve into again.

“She’s so pretty,” I whisper, dragging my hands over the lumpy face of a Pocket Girlfriend doll.

I glance back at the door, smiling as wide as Delirium with a forest of white teeth, wondering how much time I have alone.