I HEARD her, I think. I heard her, when I was in the Dreaming. Calling through the door. How is that possible? But then I suppose if she was shouting loud enough, I WOULD hear. I mean, I have 10 per cent hearing. She must have been shouting loud. She must have been worried. Mom takes a step back and signs at me. What the hell, Shelby? Are you OK? I … My hands are shaking. A physical stammer. I’m … fine. Then I realise that the knife is still in my hand. I look down at it, the sharp blade reflecting liquid light. Mom looks too. It’s not mine, I say. I found it in – What’s not yours? I stare at her. What? What are you talking about? she says. This, I say. I show her the knife. Your hand? I shake the knife. This. This knife. I don’t see a knife, she says. I just see your hands. Shocked, I look down, but yes, the knife is in my hand, the solid antler handle of it, the wicked gleam of the blade. Are you kidding? I say. She touches my face. I’m really worried about you, Shelby, she says.
