Sarah dropped the sledgehammer like it burned. The crepe paper unraveled by itself, slithering across the floor toward the coffin like a party streamer with a mind. She bolted up the stairs, shoved the splintering door open, and ran straight into Mike. He caught her gently, the way he used to when she had nightmares. “Shh, babe, it’s okay,” he whispered, rocking her. His skin was freezer-cold. When she pulled back, his smile hadn’t moved, but four small handprints glowed on the back of his neck, fresh bruises shaped like children climbing him like a tree. Behind him, the hallway mirror reflected the two of them, except in the glass Sarah was already holding hands with the four kids in a perfect circle. The real Sarah was still alone.
