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who hid their faces or their voices from me. Home held no secrets.
    I tried to scream what I wanted, but there was only volume and no words. I cried, stretching toward my wound as well as I could manage.
    “I’ll give you something for the pain. It’ll help you sleep,” Dr. Wolff said.
    Something jabbed into my arm before I could make them understand I wanted to stay awake and aware.
    “You’re safe here, Marina. There’s nothing to be afraid of.”
    My whole body stopped, and my last thought before I lost consciousness was: Who’s Marina?
    I’m still trying to answer that question.
    The face in my mirror feels smooth and cold, without the contours my fingers find on my flesh. Stray thoughts and half-pictures fill my head, memories maybe, and I smack the glass, as if it’s my reflection’s fault for keeping secrets.
    And then I scream.
    It isn’t intentional, but I can’t stop it once the pain starts. I dig the fingers of one hand into my scalp, as I puff another breath from my inhaler to kill the sudden headache. Something hot stings my leg, and my calf snaps like an overstretched rubber band. Sharp, shooting fiery pains rage through the muscle even after I’m on the ground.
    I reach for my inhaler again and resign myself to needing the hospital after all. I just don’t know how I’ll get there.
    One . . . two . . . three . . . I count off the dosage as I breathe the medication in.
    During a pause, low and softer than the machine hum in the walls, comes a click-clack —a sound that doesn’t belong in my room, or anywhere else within the Arclight. I turn my head from side to side, but I don’t see anything.
    Click-clack. Click-clack .
    When I stop, it stops.
    Three . . . no, I already did that one . . . four . . .
    Click-clack. Click-clack .
    It’s a real sound, slithering its way through the echo of the security system, and filling the gaps between generator hums. I open my mouth to call for help, but all that comes out is a cloud of white vapor that leaves me hacking.
    I slam my hand down to hit the alarm on my wrist, only to remember too late that I’m not wearing it; it’s still by my bed. Slapping raw skin is almost as painful as the original burn, but I swallow the scream.
    “Thanks, Mr. Pace. Thanks a lot,” I whisper.
    Sanity breaks through and tells me I’m imagining things. I’m exhausted and overloaded with adrenaline, like what Tobin told Anne-Marie. My blood sugar’s crashed, that’s all. . . .
    Then my wall begins to move.
    I see it first from the corner of my eye, just a hint of motion like a flickering candle. The wall’s surface melts to form an outline of something hanging between the wall and ceiling, clutching at it with clawed hands that clack against the surface when it moves.
    There’s a Fade in my room.
    It drops to the floor in a whoosh of flared robes, still wearing the wall’s texture. Boiling smoke churns around its legs as it advances through my space. The pattern on its skin and clothes transitions to match whatever it passes, and unless I catch it just right, the creature’s as invisible as our lessons say. My lamp takes a step, then turns into my bed; back into the wall as it reaches the middle of the room.
    The only sounds are my skipping heart and hitching breath. Fear and life . . . I’m still alive, and it’s still moving.
    Its hands, wrapped in tight cloth, turn dark. Its face is the same, covered so only a pair of burning eyes peek out—silver rimmed in red.
    I want to shout that this can’t be real and drive the monster back to the shadows, but the dull ache in the back of my head says I’m wrong. My shaking hand raises my inhaler from habit, but the Fade takes hold of my wrist before I can reach my mouth.
    “Do you understand?” There’s no volume or voice to the question, but I hear it in my head.
    “L-l-let go.”
    An odd, pervasive chill coats my arms everywhere but the one patch of skin on my wrist that sears like it’s being