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hard by the sun that the bone-dry air wriggled and shook in streaks, as if parts of the sky were melting. The rocks were pale yellow and sharp, and here and there were angry little bushes, low to the ground and lousy with thorns. A single twisted tree grew out of the next slope.
    Helen was alone. And then she wasn’t.
    Under the stunted tree’s crippled limbs three figures appeared. They were so slender and small Helen thought at first they must be little girls, but there was something about the way the muscles in their gaunt forearms wove around their bones like rope that made Helen realize that they were also very old. All three of them had their heads bent, and their faces were completely covered by sheets of long, matted, black hair. They wore tattered white slips, and they were covered in gray-white dust down to their lower legs. From the knees down, their skin grew dark with streaks of dirt and blackening blood from feet worn raw with wandering in this barren wilderness.
    Helen felt clear, bright fear. She backed away from them compulsively, cutting her bare feet on the rocks and scratching her legs on the thorns. The three abominations took a step toward her, and their shoulders began to shake with silent sobs. Drops of blood fell from under the skeins of rank hair and ran down the fronts of their dresses. They whispered names while they cried their gory tears.
    Helen woke up to a slap. There was a prickly numbness in her cheek and the steady note of a dial tone whining in her left ear. Jerry’s face was inches away from hers, wild with worry, and starting to show signs of guilt. He had never hit her before. He had to take a few shaky breaths before he could speak. The bedside clock read 3:16.
    “You were screaming. I had to wake you,” he stammered.
    Helen swallowed painfully, trying to moisten her swollen tongue and closed-off throat. “S’okay. Nightmare,” she whispered as she sat up.
    Her cheeks were wet with either sweat or tears, she didn’t know which. Helen wiped the moisture away and smiled at her dad, trying to calm him down. It didn’t work.
    “What the hell, Lennie? That was not normal,” he said in a strange, high-pitched voice. “You were saying things. Really awful things.”
    “Like what?” she croaked. She was so thirsty.
    “Mostly names, lists of names. And then you started repeating ‘blood for blood,’ and ‘murderers.’ What the hell were you dreaming?”
    Helen thought about the three women, three sisters, she thought, and she knew she couldn’t tell her father about them. She shrugged her shoulders and lied. She managed to convince Jerry that murder was a pretty normal thing to have nightmares about, and swore that she would never watch scary movies by herself again. Finally, she got him to go back to bed.
    The glass on her nightstand was empty and her mouth was so dry it felt tender and sore. She swung her legs out of bed to get water from the bathroom and gasped when her feet touched the hardwood floor. She switched on her lamp to get a better look, but she already knew what she was going to see.
    The soles of her feet were cut deep and peppered with dirt and dust, and her shins were scratched with the hatch-mark pattern of thorns.

Chapter Three
    I n the morning when Helen woke up and looked at her feet, the cuts were gone. She almost believed that she had imagined them—until she saw that her sheets were dirty with dried, brown blood and grit.
    In order to test her sanity, Helen decided to leave her sheets on the bed, go to school, and see if they were still dirty when she came home. If they were clean when she got home, then the whole thing was an illusion and she was only a little crazy. If they were still dirty when she came home, then she was obviously so crazy that she was walking around at night and getting dirt and blood in her bed without remembering it.
    Helen tried to eat a bowl of yogurt and berries for breakfast but that didn’t work out very well, so she