Sarah backed into the bathtub. The shower curtain ripped aside by itself. Mike hung there from the rod by red ribbon around his neck, swaying gently, eyes open and normal again. He was crying. “I tried to fight it, babe,” he rasped, voice raw. “They only need one more to finish the pattern forever. Run.” A tiny hand reached out of his mouth and waved bye-bye. The ribbon tightened; Mike’s face turned purple. Behind her, the mirror children started clapping slowly. Sarah grabbed Mike’s pocket knife from his belt, cut him down. He hit the tile hard, gasping. For one second he was really Mike. Then his spine cracked backward like a doll’s, and all five voices poured out of his throat at once: “Thanks for the hug, Mommy. Group photo in five… four…”
