She bit through her lower lip, spat blood, and screamed until the thread snapped. The children hissed like angry cats. Mike’s body jerked forward, grabbed a fistful of her hair, and slammed her forehead onto the table. Stars exploded. When she blinked them away, the Polaroid had changed: now it showed her screaming, forehead bleeding exactly where it hurt. The photo was updating live. A little girl crawled onto the table, cradling a birthday candle made of an adult thumb. “We just need your breath,” she cooed, holding the wick to Sarah’s lips. “One little blow and the pattern locks forever.” Sarah saw the flame tremble, hungry. She inhaled to scream again—and sucked the fire straight into her lungs.
