I stare back down at it. Thinking. My pencil taps against the kitchen table. Tap. Tap. Tap. A poem about hiding. I’m not a writer—if it weren’t for the dreams, I wouldn’t be a painter, either. Joshua thinks I’m creative; I should’ve corrected him. Maybe then I wouldn’t be distracted by this. Not only do the words not come, but my mind buzzes with more theories. The woman said it’s almost time. That someone—he—has found me. And I need to remember. What does all this have to do with the car accident? How do the dreams fit in? “You never work in here.” I glance up at Mom, who’s standing by the kitchen table and staring at me with an indiscernible expression on her face. She’s tired; her shoulders sag, and there are lines under her eyes. For some reason, as I look at her, all I can think is that I should have tried harder to be the daughter she once tucked into bed every night. She stops waiting for me to say something.
