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style is retro—pink, cushiony vinyl with a ponytailed girl standing in front of an airplane. Her faded dress was blue at one time. Under the zipper, scribbled in black marker, is a child’s handwriting:
Emily’s Dress Shoppe
. Sprawled on the ground beside the case is a half-naked vintage Barbie.
    “Doll clothes,” I whisper.
    Dad squints. “We need things that’ll fit when we’re normal-size, Allie.”
    “They grow and shrink with you. It’s part of the magic.”
    He glances down at his muddy, torn work uniform. “Oh. Right . . .”
    “C’mon.” I catch his hand and weave toward the case, suppressing yelps as the rocky terrain jabs my feet. Dad stops long enough to take off his shoes and help me step into them.
    They’re too big, of course, but the tender gesture reminds me of times when I used to stand on the toes of his shoes so we could dance together. I smile. He smiles back, and I’m his little girl again. Then his expression changes from awe to disappointment, as if he’s coming to terms all over again with what I am, what Mom is, and how long we’ve kept it hidden from him.
    My stomach feels like it’s caving in. Why did we rob him of such a big part of ourselves? Such an integral part of
him
? “Dad, I’m so sorr—”
    “No, Allie. I can’t hear that yet.” His left eyelid starts to twitchand he looks away, his socked feet cautiously feeling around the debris.
    I follow and sniffle, telling myself it’s the dust making my eyes water.
    When we arrive at the doll-clothing case, it’s as tall as a two-story building, and the zipper handle is the length of my leg.
    “How are we supposed to open this thing?” I ask.
    “Better question: How are you supposed to fit into her clothes?” Dad points to the dust-caked Barbie. “You’re barely the size of her head.”
    The doll’s irises are painted as if she’s looking off to one side. Paired with her catty makeup, she appears to be sneering at me. Exasperated, I thrust my hands in my apron pockets. My knuckle nudges the conductor’s pen. Digging deeper, I hit the mushrooms and an idea forms in my mind. “Let’s sit her against the case.”
    Dad shoots me a puzzled glance but doesn’t hesitate. He grabs her shoulders and I take her ankles. A yellowish spider the size of a cocker spaniel scuttles out, grumbling at us for ruining its web. It disappears into the pile of books. Once we have the Barbie seated upright, I settle beside her.
    I hand Dad a mushroom and kick off his shoes so he can put them on again. Next, I take a mushroom for myself and nibble the speckled side. I grit my teeth against the discomfort of sinews extending, bones enlarging, and skin and cartilage expanding. The surroundings shrink as I continue to eat until I’m head to head with the doll.
    Dad follows my lead, nibbling his mushroom until we’re both big enough to unzip the case and wear the 1950s-style Barbie and Ken outfits that slide out.
    I shove aside silver bell-bottom pants and a black-and-white striped swimsuit, uncovering a leotard and matching attached tutu the same watery green as Jeb’s eyes at times when he’s upset. The exact shade they were when he caught me and Morpheus kissing in my room before prom.
    Regret gnaws at my stomach. All these weeks, Jeb’s been thinking I betrayed him. In the last moment we shared at prom, he grabbed the pendant at my neck—a metal clump that had once been my Wonderland key, his heart locket, and his engagement ring—and kissed me. He promised we were far from over. Even after I’d destroyed his trust, he was still planning to fight for me.
    A ticklish sensation brings my attention to my ankle where a spiderweb dangles at the edges of my wing tattoo. I got it months ago to camouflage my netherling birthmark. Here in the shadows, I realize how much the tattoo really does look like a moth, just as Morpheus has always said. I can almost see his lips curl up in smug delight at the acknowledgement.
    That strange