Sarah dragged Mike into the hallway. His body moved wrong, like something else was wearing him. The countdown kept coming from his mouth: “Three… two…” She shoved him down the stairs, hard. He tumbled like a broken puppet, neck snapping again with a wet click. At the bottom he stood up smiling, head flopping sideways. “One.” Every light in the house died. Then the flash of a camera blinded her. When her vision cleared, she was sitting at the dining-room table, wrists tied with birthday ribbon. A huge Polaroid was developing on the table in front of her: Sarah, Mike, and the four children all together, arms linked, perfect family portrait. In the photo, Sarah was already dead, eyes wide, mouth sewn shut. The real her felt the thread start stitching.
