Sarah screamed and the sound came out as party horns. She clapped both hands over her mouth; the horns kept blaring from her palms. The children unfroze and rushed her, not running—gliding, feet inches off the floor, backward. They pressed gift boxes into her arms, dozens of them, all wrapped in yellowed newspaper obituaries. Each tag read: TO MOMMY, OPEN ME. The boxes were warm and pulsing. She dropped them. They didn’t fall; they hovered, lids creaking open by themselves. Inside every box was a single candle made of a human finger. The wicks were fingernails. They lit themselves. The children clapped in perfect unison. One little boy with no eyes leaned close and whispered, “Blow them out, or we’ll blow you out.”
