Sarah kicked the ribbon away and lunged for the attic window. Her palms hit the glass; it felt like cold jelly. The pane rippled, then sucked her right arm through up to the shoulder. Outside, the cornfields were gone. She was staring into their sunlit kitchen from two weeks ago: past-Sarah laughing while Mike hung the “Home Sweet Home” sign. Past-Sarah looked up, straight at her, and mouthed, “Don’t buy it.” Then the window hardened into real glass and shattered outward. Shards hung in the air like frozen rain. One piece reflected the children crawling across the ceiling toward her, upside-down, mouths open too wide. The ribbon snapped around her wrist like a handcuff and yanked her backward into the dark.
